“Happy.” It takes Eve a second to process the word. “Yes. Of course she was.”

“Is she being bullied at school?”

“Everyone loves her, her family, her friends, the teachers. Everyone.”

Brenda looks up. “Children can sometimes run away if their parents quarrel; were you two okay?”

“Fine.” They never argue in front of the children; they hardly speak.

“A happy marriage then?”

“Yes.” It was happy, for years, happy enough.

“And what about you?” The voice becomes warmer, more sympathetic. “Looking after kids can be stressful—”

“No; it’s losing them that’s stressful, more stressful than you could possibly imagine—” Eve stands up. “Sorry, I have to go.”

They don’t try to stop her; perhaps Brenda realizes she’s asked enough questions, at least for now. Outside flashlights are bobbing in the wood; it looks like a party, a Halloween party where kids muck around with lights in woods and scare themselves for fun. The helicopter has moved away; she can hear it hovering over other gardens toward the village. She finds Eric searching under the trees, one by one. His face is muddy, he looks spent. The tall trunks surround them like a hostile army, he had been right all along. She had joked about jungles but he’d known better. He warned her about danger and she’d taken no notice. She kicks aside heaps of leaves, hauls away fallen branches, blinded by tears and gasping for breath. She’s made so many mistakes. Is Sorrel’s abduction, if that’s what it is, the price her child’s paid for the sake of freedom? How irrelevant that seems, how stupid she’s been. Eric was right to put safety first; it seems so obvious now but it’s too late. He can do what he wants, raze the trees to the ground if he thinks it would help, though there’s little point. It won’t make any difference. The wood, thronged with men and dogs, feels as empty as any desert.

Grace

Two policewomen walk through the rooms, searching the entire house again. They check cupboards, under beds, and behind chests of drawers. The younger Indian woman looks delicate beside her middle-aged colleague, a stout redhead whose rolling accent sounds as though she’s in a play, pretending to be Scottish. Thankfully they both move quietly and carefully, in order not to scare a hidden child.

Grace leaves the policewomen and branches off on her own, climbing narrow stairs to the next floor. She has never been so deep in this house, so high. The rooms here are smaller, uncarpeted, and cold. Martin raved about this house, its size and warmth; he clearly got as far as Eve’s room but no farther. She hurries down the corridor, her feet thudding on the floor, treading down fury.

“Sorrel? Are you here, sweetheart?”

There are curled flies on the floors of the rooms that open off the passageway, cobwebs at the windows; the lights are dim. The dusty air stings her throat. None of the children would come up here. Charley would hate the dead flies. Blake would be frightened by the gloom. She could have that wrong, though. These things might not matter in a group; they might seek out the half-light, the undisturbed air; her children might be different in a gang. There are cigarette butts in a corner of the last room along the corridor, the floor darkened by scorch marks, a lighter on the mantelpiece. A heap of little stones under the bed, flinty ones. She picks one up, muddy, red-stained on one side, and stares around, seeking an explanation. Perhaps these items belong to past inhabitants or guests long gone. It’s unpleasant up here, gloomy, the air feels stale, no one has been here for a long time. She leaves the rooms and hurries downstairs, meeting Melly in the hall. She looks tired and anxious.