I’m still looking at him when I hear: ‘Mesdames et messieurs’. I look up and behind me a man with his hair scraped back in a ponytail, wearing a pale linen pair of pants and a shirt smeared with dirt around the cuffs, makes his way through the carriage. He’s shaking a paper cup and telling some story at the top of his lungs. Everyone looks away. I reach into my pocket and when he gets to me I drop a euro into his cup. He smiles and moves on. It’s only as I watch him move to the other side of the carriage that I glance down at his black trainers: a pair of black and white Balenciagas. It’s barely 8.30 am and already I’ve been hustled. But now the train is slowing down; we’re coming to a stop.

The brakes screech. I look out the window: cream tiled walls, a crowd of commuters and five plastic chairs all occupied. I glance up at the wall, it reads Hôtel de Ville.

People stand up and others sit down, someone presses the lever on the door and a crowd floods out onto the platform. There’s usually wi-fi in stations so I reach for my phone to check for messages. There’s one.

Camilla: SOS!

I type back: What’s going on?

Typing bubbles.

Accidentally super-swiped guy on 14th floor! WTF DO I DO?

The doors close and we start to move again and before I can type back the wi-fi is gone and I’m just standing smiling down at my phone. I miss Camilla. I miss meeting for drinks after work and hearing about how her boss had done this or that. I miss the mid-date check-ins where she’d text to tell me what the guy was really like. She still does all that but it’s not the same now that I’m not in London.

I drop my phone into my bag and look back at the man with the newspaper. Is that dandruff on his collar? He’s fiddling around now, getting ready to leave. We’re almost at Saint-Paul, the last stop before mine: Bastille. He closes his paper, grabs his briefcase and stands up. As the train slows down and he moves to stand in line to leave, I glance down at the front page of his newspaper.

It’s folded in half, but I can see the whole top half of the page, the headline and the photograph.

My breath catches in my throat.

Another girl is missing.

She’s young. Pretty.

Just like every other missing girl.

But this time it’s different.

Because this time I know her.

Sabine.