I stand outside the shop and take a few deep breaths. Maybe Liz Green could shed some light on what happened to her daughter, her daughter who is just a few weeks older than mine. I try not to think about Daisy. I like to think she would have been safe if I had stayed here, but even that makes me feel guilty. Guilty that I was never a target.

I walk into the shop and browse the snacks, picking up several bags of chocolates and crisps to eat in the hotel room, enough for several weeks, theoretically. I tell myself I can give some to the kids when they come at the weekend, but I know they won’t last that long. I grab several cans of premixed gin and tonic; I don’t want Chris to be able to keep tabs on how much I drink in my room from the hotel minibar bill. They replenish it every day when the cleaners fix the room. I must try to stay away from it. I always have a bottle of something hidden at home, too, for the same reason. He worries about my anxieties and the way I deal with them, which makes me keep secrets from him. If I’m being honest, I’m not sure Chris even knows me at all – all he gets is what I give him, and I certainly don’t give him much. I don’t do it out of spite, I do it out of necessity, to survive. I can’t be without him and if he knew the real me he would run and never look back.

I approach the counter and see a woman with thick glasses and short dark hair. Her nametag says Liz so I know she’s the mother of the missing girl, but without that I wouldn’t recognise her, although there is something familiar about her. I try not to judge her for being at work while her daughter is missing; I know she probably has no choice. Knowing where Liz lives has already influenced what I think of her. I hate that that’s true, but it is. I am already imagining what kind of mother she is purely based on where she lives. Seeing her in person has only confirmed my prejudice. Liz looks hard, much older than she should, and as she removes my items from the basket and scans them I can see she’s a heavy smoker; her fingers are a deep yellow and there are grooves all around her lips from years of sucking on cigarettes. I know my prejudices come from hearing my own mother speak about the people who lived in this neighbourhood. My mother had a lot of hypocritical opinions for someone who lived the life that she did.