‘I’ll be almost a grown-up but I’ll still cuddle you,’ he says.

Loneliness engulfs me at the thought of my baby growing, slipping away. Archie will be starting school next September and this only seems a step away from him leaving home. I pad downstairs. The lounge is too quiet and so I settle myself in the kitchen with a coffee, the soft hum of the fridge company of sorts. I’m edgy. It’s natural I will be, but I know there’s more to my inner turmoil than anniversary anxiety.

Marie.

Again, I try her mobile. Again, I leave a message.

Where is she? Something is wrong.

I call Tash, wanting to talk everything through with someone impartial. Carly’s as emotional as I am at the moment.

Tash doesn’t answer.

I have to try and find Marie.

Carrying my coffee, I make my way into George’s office. His computer glows as I shift the mouse, Google already loaded. I open a new tab and search for theatres. For the next couple of hours I ring around, asking if they have a production running for the next six weeks. If they know of an actress who has broken her ankle. If they’ve heard of Marie.

Drawing a blank, I try drama companies next and although I reach a few people who know Marie, who have worked with her in the past, none of them know where she is right now.

Despite the police believing she’s gone on tour, I’m not convinced. There is somewhere I could go for answers. The thought leaves a dragging feeling in my stomach but tomorrow, however anxious it makes me, I have to try.

It’s late. My eyes are stinging. I close the webpage and then decide to shut the computer down altogether. It’s gone eleven and George won’t be working any more tonight. One by one I close the tabs, until I stumble across something that shakes me to my core.

George.

Why has he been searching for this?

A lump rises in my throat. I reach out and touch the screen lightly with two fingers as though I am touching his face.

As though I am asking why he has betrayed me.

Chapter Twenty-One

George

Now

George’s conscience pricks at him. He can’t sleep. Leah was already in bed when he crept through the door at eleven thirty, silent and ashamed. Next to him she breathes slowly and evenly. It’s not her usual sleep pattern; there are no whimpers, no tossing and turning, and he wonders if she’s faking it.

He wonders if everyone is faking something.

This morning, after he had dropped Leah at work following the burning shame of sitting in front of police officers who knew her history, he had gone home and googled. Read the results with a heavy heart. He was so engrossed in the things he had found out, he was running late for his next meeting so on a whim he decided to skip it and instead had called in to Francesca’s clinic. Had sat in her waiting area to catch her between appointments. She was surprised to see him.