An hour later I’d paced my apartment a thousand times, and there was still no news. I’d lost count of how many times I’d checked my cell, how often I’d willed, ordered and begged it to ring, or for the screen to light up with a text message, but it remained silent and dark, useless. If it hadn’t represented a lifeline to Jack, I’d have snapped it in half and stamped on the broken remains until they were dust beneath my feet.

As I reached for my phone again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything since the last time I’d looked, a sharp knock made me jump. I raced across the room, almost upending the coffee table in my haste, and yanked the front door open. It was Stevens and Heron, the bags under their eyes making them seem as tired, drawn and washed-out as I felt.

“Have you found him?” I said, my heart thumping hard. “Have you found Jack?”

“Can we come in?” Heron said gently.

No, I wanted to shout. No, you can’t come in because I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I’m terrified. Please don’t tell me. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.

I stepped aside. Once I’d closed the door behind them and, ever so politely, offered them a seat (which they accepted) and a glass of water (which they declined), I couldn’t help asking again, my voice resembling a frightened child’s who’d woken up from a nightmare. “Have you found him?”

They looked at each other, jaws clenched. No doubt Heron had already decided who’d do the talking: her as the seasoned detective, or rookie Stevens. Either way, whoever was set to deliver the bad news, I wanted them to hesitate or have a long, drawn-out argument about something with each other, anything to delay the message I knew was coming. I took a step back, trying to put more distance between us as I pulled at the neck of my shirt, which seemed to be strangling me.

“No, we haven’t found him,” Heron said.