‘You could pick up the newspapers while you’re out and a Mars bar… two Mars bars. I’ve already eaten my lunch and it’s only ten thirty.’

I’m jittery while I’m out. Constantly looking over my shoulder, worried I’m being followed. I take a few extra minutes to ring the nursery and make sure Archie is okay, before I ring Carly and double-check she’s picking him up although she hasn’t once let me down.

In the newsagent’s I pick up a couple of papers and flick through them, making sure there’s no mention of me. There isn’t this time but I know in three days there will be.

Three days.

‘There’s no stories on you girls yet this year,’ the elderly man behind the counter tells me as I’m paying. ‘I remember when it happened I didn’t believe it. I thought, this is a safe place. Who’d come to our small town and do something like that? Now it’s everywhere, terrorism, knife crime. I sell the newspapers but most days I wish I could bloody burn them. I said to our Joan—’

‘I’ve got to go.’ I scoop up my purchases and hurry from the shop.

Back in the office I tuck the bank card back in my drawer and take the papers into the staffroom. The stench hits me before I enter the room.

Grease.

Salt and vinegar.

The thought of fish and chips makes my stomach roil, I can’t even walk past a chippy. I’m furious. We have a ‘no hot food’ policy at work. I grip the papers in my hand, ready to toss them onto the table but on the formica top is the remnants of somebody’s lunch. The white paper bag stained with oil, with a few crispy batter bits still inside. The bag is resting on creased sheets of yellowing newspaper, the way chips used to be wrapped. I don’t want to touch it but I can’t leave it there where it will breed bacteria, attract flies. I’m about to scrunch up the newspaper, when I see it.

The photo.

Carly, Marie and I the day we left the police station after being missing for days. Our parents’ faces taut and worried as they tried to shield us from the photographers. THE SINCLAIR SISTERS FOUND. I feel I might faint. The heady smell of the chips and the onslaught of memories making me dizzy, I force myself to take a closer look. It’s dated almost twenty years ago. Under the first sheet is another story. First kidnapper found dead, the second still at large.

Who has done this?

I scrunch the whole lot together and dump them in the bin.

Who has done this?

I run out of the kitchen, and bump into something hard and solid.

Someone.

I take in the tool box in his hand. My eyes rise to find the PHOTOCOPY REPAIR badge on his boiler suit. And finally his face.

His face.

He’s found me. Come for me. I knew that he would but shock still torrents through me.