‘I’m sorry, Leah.’ Marie rests her head on my lap. I begin to stroke her hair, as I would Archie’s. The feeling calms me.

The silence settles around us, we are all lost in our individual thoughts. Twenty years is a huge milestone and the lead-up to the anniversary has been worse than usual. I’ve changed my mobile number countless times but journalists still call at all hours. Notes are pushed through the letterbox because I refuse to answer the door when I’m not expecting anyone. Business cards – Call me scrawled on the back – are left under my windscreen wipers. It’s awful, I know, and I’m ashamed to admit it, even to myself, but I long for something to happen that will deflect the attention away from us until next week slides by. A collapse of the government, a celebrity death. I know it’s horrible but still, it’s been a slow news month and the papers have pages to fill. How deep will they dig?

‘What did you mean, Marie?’ I ask again.

‘I don’t know really. Just a different angle.’ She pushes herself to standing and stamps her feet. ‘Pins and needles. Anyway, sorry I’ve upset you, Leah. Both of you. I just wanted—’

‘The cash?’ Carly says wryly.

‘It wasn’t only about money. I spoke to our publisher recently and book sales have picked up this year, interest is high again. Our royalty statements should be pretty healthy this time. I just wanted… closure, I suppose. Forgiveness.’

‘What do you need forgiving for?’

She shrugs. I study the emotions that pass over her face, she’s always been so hard to read.

‘Marie?’

She begins to cry. ‘It’s always been my fault.’ She furiously swipes her eyes with her sleeve.

‘It hasn’t!’ I stand to face her. ‘Look at me.’ I rest my fingertips on her cheeks. The dampness of her tears seeps through my cotton gloves. I had never heard her openly blame herself. I knew she carried it still – that was apparent from the whisky on her breath, the shiny red tinge to her skin – but I thought that was trauma. Shock. Not guilt.

‘It was down to me.’ She takes a long, juddering breath.

‘I can’t bear it if you blame yourself.’ I can feel my own tears building. ‘I hate that this whole thing has driven us apart. I need you, Marie.’ I rest my forehead against hers. ‘Sometimes I feel I’ve lost you,’ I whisper.

‘You’ll never lose me,’ she says. ‘But it was me that threw Bruno’s ball over the fence. If it wasn’t for that—’

‘Enough. This is precisely why we shouldn’t do the interview,’ Carly says. ‘We each think we’re at fault and maybe it’s time to let it go. All of it.’

Carly’s right. We all blame ourselves. Twenty years on and we all still blame ourselves. Marie for throwing the ball over the fence, me for not shutting the gate properly and Carly for taking us with her to look for Bruno. We’ve heard a million times that it wasn’t our fault. Our parents repeated it endlessly when we first came home, as did the police officers, the therapists we’ve tried and discarded over the years – but hearing something is different to feeling it. Guilt is corrosive. It eats away from the inside out. We paint on smiles and it looks like we’re coping but we’re not, not really. I don’t think we ever will. Two years, twenty years, it still feels the same. I know we weren’t the first children to be snatched and we won’t be the last, but the why – I can never get my head around the why. How different our lives would have been if we had never been taken. But I can’t allow myself to think that way. If I had a different life I might not have George and Archie.