We’re interrupted by a hammering on the front door. Bella and I stare at each other. Oh God—it must be Greg.

But when Dad comes back into the room, he’s trailed not by a furious Greg Lewis, but by Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, Nic’s parents.

Mrs. Wallace is crying and Mr. Wallace rushes straight up to Bella. “Is she here? Is she with you?”

Bella looks startled. “Nic? No—I haven’t seen her today.”

“But last night—she was with you last night?”

Bella shakes her head. “What? No, I haven’t seen her all week. What’s going on?”

Mr. Wallace sinks into a chair. “She left a message yesterday to say she was sleeping over here. So we didn’t think…but then she didn’t come home. And she’s not answering her phone. No one knows where she is.”

Dad crouches next to him. “Steve? I think you need to call the police.”

Dad’s thinking about that other girl, the one who was murdered, I know he is. It was only a couple of months ago and they never did find who did it. But…that was miles away. It would never happen here, not to someone we know.

I bite my lip to stop words I’d regret from pouring out. Nicole is the worst of Bella’s friends. I don’t believe she’s really missing, not properly. She’s forever pretending to be with Bella when really she’s off with some boy or at a party she doesn’t want her parents to know about. She’s probably gone off to see Jack—she was all over him at their New Year’s party. She’ll turn up, basking in the attention. She isn’t worthy of Bella’s concern. She isn’t worthy of Bella’s friendship. Wouldn’t it be better if she really had disappeared forever?

I wake with a start. What was it—what did I hear? The night silence is thick. I can hear my breath, quick and harsh. I strain my ears and hear it eventually—voices from downstairs, rising and falling. I get up, stuff my feet in slippers, and pull on my bathrobe. Bella’s door is open. I can see her sleeping in her bed, a tangle of blond hair, a bundle under the quilt. It eases my thumping heart—it wasn’t her sneaking in or out that woke me. I creep down the stairs and the voices get louder. I recognize Dad’s voice, but not the other male voice. They’re in the kitchen, the door ajar. I hesitate outside, wavering between advance and retreat. In the end, I do neither; I tuck myself away in the shadows behind the door instead to listen.

“Jesus, Steve, I’m so sorry.”