The rain grew more persistent, plastering strands of wet hair against her cheek, splashing in her eyes, but she was still a distance from the number she was looking for. It was strange: she should have been scared, but her breathing was level, her hands didn’t shake and her thoughts were ordered. In fact, it now seemed the obvious thing to approach this head-on, and she struggled to think why she hadn’t done it sooner—for everyone’s sake. She’d been naive to think she could keep working and also look for her daughter, or rely on anyone to help.

When she’d discovered that Theo had left for New York, she’d known that things were dire. George explained it was for family reasons, but she felt she knew the truth: her book, and their days at Partridge, were numbered. Theo had been open and optimistic, full of ideas and enthusiasm, but he hadn’t managed to hide his concerns from her, and now he’d gone running back to Walter.

A hundred yards further on, Alice found number seventy-nine: another slate-gray terrace house with boarded-up windows, splintered doorframes and no sign of life. She sheltered under the narrow doorjamb, listening out for voices, the steady beat of rain counting down the seconds. Then there it was—a child’s cry. At least she thought it was, as everything fell quiet again.

Now she had to summon up the courage to knock.

She had imagined this moment so many times: the joy of finding Eadie, or a confrontation, or both. As a girl, she’d divided her books into categories: bravest heroines, best adventures, most romantic love stories. She had collated memories of other people’s lives, albeit fictional ones, that she’d drawn on to help her through tricky situations. She’d wanted to emulate her bravest heroine now, but it suddenly seemed so pointless. The books, the stories, the characters—they weren’t real, none of it was. She wasn’t the same person she’d been a year ago, and her life might feel as illusory as any fiction she’d read, and her mother’s actions and the truth about William’s birth as impossible as any story, but this was real. She was here now, and Eadie might be too.

Alice was supposed to be at the book group, but she’d sent a note to Ursula asking her to go instead and take the promised books. She’d also left a message for Penny: a detailed account of everything, and list of contacts in case she didn’t return, not to protect her so much as to ensure they would continue to look for Eadie.

She raised a clenched fist to the door, but it hovered in midair inches from the green flaking paint and the tarnished brass handle.