‘Perhaps we all deserve to be punished,’ Carly says quietly. I must have spoken my thoughts aloud.

I slam the fridge shut. Slam the door on my memories but the lid springs open when I am faced with fridge magnets of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Pluto with his lolling tongue. We never did make it to Disneyland. Archie is longing to go but even if we could afford it, I’ll never take him.

‘Did you find anything else?’ My gaze is drawn to the worktops. ‘A four-day letter?’

‘No but ours only came today. She must have left pretty soon after we did because she doesn’t seem to have made any food since we were last here.’

‘But she must have got one. It doesn’t make sense.’ I scan the room again. Nothing makes sense.

‘Maybe he tried but the letterbox downstairs is taped up and he can’t get upstairs without being buzzed in.’

‘He?’ It’s not just my paranoia, she’s thinking the same as me.

‘She. They. Whoever,’ Carly says unconvincingly.

‘Don’t you think it’s odd she didn’t let us know she was going?’

‘She doesn’t usually.’

‘Shall I call Mum?’

The question surprises me as it pops out of my mouth and my surprise is mirrored on Carly’s face. We don’t really see or speak to Mum although Marie still does. A trauma is like a magnet. It has the ability to pull a family together or repel them apart. Our parents are divorced. I don’t think any of us speak to Dad since he left Mum. They blame each other, blame themselves, blame us. Blame is a game we pass between us like a parcel and the one left holding it has to peel off another layer of the lie. Nobody wants to be left holding the truth.

Although I hadn’t wanted to speak to Mum straight after Graham had rung me, this time is different. This time instead of imparting news I need answers. I hold my mobile out to Carly – there’s no way I’m taking my gloves off in this filthy kitchen – and she swipes through my contacts and presses Mum’s number. Neither of us are expecting her to answer, but she does, her voice tinny over the speaker.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she says sharply. She hasn’t even said hello.

‘You don’t,’ I cut in quickly. She’ll be expecting this to be one of my usual anniversary phone calls when I call her crying, sometimes drunk – the only time of year I allow myself to be out of control – asking her why she allowed us to be taken. I’d never, never let anyone take Archie. It’s part of the job as a mother, isn’t it? To protect. I don’t meet Carly’s eye. She doesn’t know about my phone calls. I don’t know if she makes them herself. ‘I’m calling about Marie. Do you know where she is?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know the name of her current agent?’