I really hope that keeping such a big secret from him hasn’t made Matt lose trust in me. For the hundredth time I wish I’d never told him. Either that, or I wish I’d told him a long time ago.

I think about my latest discovery – that I believe I may have found my missing daughter. The appearance of Bella Morris is worth a million therapy sessions. But I can’t tell Matt about Bella. I can’t confide in him about my worries. Not yet. And it’s not because I don’t want to. I hate keeping secrets from him – there’s nothing I’d like more than to share my doubts, to get his support and his opinion. But the problem is, I’m scared of what that opinion will be. Of what he might say. I couldn’t bear it if he told me I was overreacting or being paranoid, or that I was simply mistaken. So I’ll keep quiet for now. I at least need the illusion of his support.

‘Okay,’ I say instead. ‘I’ll go and see someone.’

‘You will?’ His eyes brighten. He looks surprised and so pleased.

‘If you think it’s a good idea, then of course I’ll go.’

He strokes my cheek with his fingertips. ‘I really think it will help.’

I know that it won’t. But if it makes Matt happy, I’ll do it.

9

Then

Luckily there’s a parking space right outside the front door to their ground-floor flat. Catriona eases her Fiesta into the small gap and turns off the engine. The thought of going inside makes her stomach turn. But she can’t stay out here all day. Not with her little passenger asleep in the back seat. She squares her shoulders, unclips her seatbelt and steps out onto the slick pavement. At last the rain seems to be easing, even if the sky is still leaden, the late-afternoon air heavy with moisture.

Catriona opens the front door to her flat, its white plastic handle peeling and scratched. A wave of nausea sweeps through her body as she steps inside. Despite it all looking exactly the same – cream walls, laminate floor, the little hall table piled up with unopened mail and a half-finished mug of tea – the air smells different, the atmosphere dark and oppressive. She can’t think like this. Nothing is wrong, she tells herself. Nothing is wrong. She strides straight through to the back bedroom, closes the sunshine-yellow curtains with a swoosh, and pulls back the covers on the toddler bed. Rushing back outside into the drizzle, she opens the back door of her car and peers in at the sleeping child. The similarity is remarkable. Or is that simply wishful thinking?