‘Mina!’ I call, peering into her bedroom. Empty. Shit. I was expecting her to be sitting on the floor, playing with her doll, but she’s not there. I shove open the bathroom door – also empty, the faint drainy smell that occasionally oozes from the bathtub making me swallow hard.

‘Mina!’ I shout as I barge my way into the spare bedroom, and then into my bedroom, hoping I would see her curled up on my bed with her thumb in her mouth, but she isn’t there. My chest heaving, panic leaves an acidic taste in my mouth as I race across the landing, looking out into the trees, down to the grass below, to the pond, desperate for a glimpse of her small, dark head but she isn’t there. I sprint downstairs, my legs like jelly, trying desperately to remember if I put the chain back across the door, knowing that I didn’t, I wouldn’t, it’s the middle of the day. Oh please, please, don’t let Mina have gone out the front door. I skid to a halt on the cold tiles in the hallway, Mina’s tiny feet visible as she sits snuggled on the sofa, her blanket under one arm, her thumb in her mouth. Oh, thank God. She is glued to the TV, a wash of primary colours tumbling across the screen and once again I feel a pang of guilt at being such a shit mother for letting her watch telly for hours every day.

I scoop her up from the sofa, ignoring her protests as I hold her close, burying my face in her hair so she can’t see my tears. I thought I had lost her. I thought Agnes had taken her for her own. I shake off the thought, the image of Mina following a shadowy figure out of the house, towards the woods, so dark and vivid in my mind that I hold her even tighter, so tight that she begins to wriggle and squirm in my arms.