By the time we arrive at Bastille, my mind is numb. Through the whirr of blood pumping through my brain I hear the doors beep – a foghorn – everyone spills out onto the platform and I’m absorbed into a swamp of commuters. I join the stampede towards the stairs that lead outside and tell myself, I must be wrong, I must be wrong, I must be wrong.

Because it can’t be her, can it?

A woman in black stilettos moves slowly up the stairs, tottering as she holds onto the bannister for safety. I push past her and take my place in the slow-moving line. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I need to check. I reach for my phone and pull up Safari, but there’s no reception yet. My hairline is damp with sweat and my pulse racing as I reach for my little white billet and push it into the slot, moving through the turnstiles, rushing towards the exit and up the stairs.

I’m met with a light mist of drizzle on my cheeks as I head out into the open and once again pull up Safari. I breathe in petrol fumes and shield my phone screen from the rain with my body as I tap through to Le Parisien. People push past me, muttering annoyance beneath their breath, as I scroll through the latest stories.

And then, there she is.

Staring back at me.

The same photograph I just saw in the newspaper.

Sabine.

The world swirls around me as I try to read the article. It’s in French but I glean the basics: woman’s disappearance… last heard from on Friday night… didn’t arrive… failed to respond to phone calls… reported missing…

How can this be happening?

People are bumping into me, telling me to move out of the way. And so I reach for my umbrella, put it up, and in some sort of trance, I move towards the crosswalk. I’m shivering from cold or shock, but I cross the road with everyone else, and put one foot in front of the other until twelve minutes later I’m standing outside the office, stabbing the keypad with the code.

Bzzzz.

I push open the door and move inside. Time slows as I head towards the elevator and press the up button, then wait for the familiar sound of the lift tumbling down towards me.

There it is.

That blessed, familiar mechanical crunch.

The elevator arrives and I step inside.

My heart is slower now, as though it’s scared to beat. And I’m telling myself shitty things like, She’s only missing not dead. Noah said she wanted more than anything to be an artist, maybe she’s doing it for attention, some sort of messed-up PR stunt…

And just as quickly as I think these things, I feel awful for going there.

Because this is how it happens. This is how victims get blamed.