And that, right there, was the moment I knew I didn’t want to go home. Not now that I’d been given this story to write; because you don’t get that many chances to next level yourself in this life. It’s all brick walls and work and struggle and work and struggle and then, out of nowhere, comes a trapdoor moment. A chance to get to the other side of that wall. This story is one of those moments.

‘I’m worried about you,’ came Camilla’s voice.

But before I could reassure her, the bathroom door creaked open and someone moved into the cubicle next to mine. So I whispered, ‘I have to go but I’ll call you soon’, with my hand shielding the mouthpiece, hung up and flushed the loo for authenticity.

And then I headed back to my desk. Which is where I am right now, staring once again at my blinking cursor at the end of my fourth paragraph, thinking, How do I make this better?

There’s something missing at the moment and I don’t know what it is.

I pull up a browser window and go to Sabine’s Vimeo page, staring down at the clips I’ve already seen. I could talk about her being an artist in her own right, talk about her work… I move to Instagram. She has almost four thousand followers now – that’s two thousand more than when she was alive a week ago. My stomach twists: so few of those people actually know her. She’s just another victim, just another hashtag, just another way to pass a mundane fifteen minutes before they head back to the safety of their cubicle or suburbia. Sabine will be forgotten within the week.

‘How are you doing there?’ comes Stan’s voice over my shoulder. I close the browser window and glare at him.

‘Going well,’ I say. Deadpan.

He smirks and ponces away in his tight navy trousers and my stomach starts pumping out acid as I stare back at Sabine’s Instagram page, at her follower count…

And then, I know. I know how to make this different.

Right now Sabine Roux is just another dead girl, the latest sacrifice for the media’s altar. I need to make her into a real person, with hopes and dreams and life choices and, shock of all horrors, flaws. If she’s a real person people will care about the night she died. Because, if she’s a real person, it could happen to them too.

But I don’t know where to look for more information. I could contact one of many people now claiming her as a friend on social media, but I have limited time and it’s impossible to know where to start. Who she was really close to. What I need to do is to talk to her mother. But how can I find her?