“Some of Sorrel’s clothes were found under Igor’s bed—a few of them, in a tidy little pile.”

She holds the windowsill, afraid her legs will give way. “Which ones?” Her mouth is dry, her head clamoring with the kind of questions no mother should have to ask. Was it the little red anorak? Her skirt? Her underwear? Were they muddy or torn? Bloodstained?

“Not the ones she was wearing when she vanished,” Eric replies quickly. “That’s all they told me. They’re still questioning him. I’ll phone back soon when I know more.” Beneath her in the house, the front door opens and shuts. From the window she sees the children file out: Blake, Poppy, who turns to look up at her, Izzy, Charley, then Martin. Grace follows, watching from the steps as they file into the car.

Poppy must have been persuaded to go to school by Izzy, who doubtless thought she needed the distraction, as if you can be distracted when your mind is full of grief and shouting with fear. Will she cope with today? She must call the teacher, tell her she’ll come immediately if Poppy wants to come home. She sees Martin nod at Grace before he gets into the car. He looks different seen from above; his shoulders are rounded, his abdomen protrudes. She turns her head down toward the garden to where the pine trees cluster behind the barns. She’s never looked at them properly before. Now she sees that they make a dark smudge in the landscape, like a mistake someone made then tried very hard to rub out.

Grace

Grace waits on the steps as the children settle themselves in the car. Blake gets out again, runs into the house, and reemerges with his backpack. Above them, she glimpses Eve’s face hovering at her window, pale as a ghost. Does Eve know that she knows? Once the car has gone, she hurries into the house and up the stairs.

“Igor’s at the police station,” Eve tells her as soon as she enters her bedroom. “He had Sorrel’s clothes under his bed.” Her face looks frozen with fear. “There are two policewomen guarding his house right now.”

“Shit.” Grace sits next to her on the bed. She glimpsed Igor when she arrived last night; she could have called out to him, asked what he was doing. Would that have made a difference? Forestalled a plan?

In the silence, they hear footsteps rapidly crunching down the gravel drive. Eve springs up and looks outside. “One of the policewomen is leaving,” she whispers.

Grace joins her at the window. The Scottish policewoman is striding down the drive, talking into her cell phone, a frown distorting her features.

“I want to look in his house,” Eve says. “In case there’s something the police have overlooked, something else important.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Outside the raw wind catches them and they bend against it; neither has thought to put on a coat. They become soaked by fine drizzle in moments. Their feet tap over the wet stone of the veranda. A few months ago they had all gathered here, there had been meadowsweet and buttercups on the table, the children leaping around a bonfire. Eve and Martin had been flirting even then.