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There were still police officers in the Beckets’ kitchen, ready to monitor and trace phone calls. Mary Cutter was with them now, Sam’s colleague sent over by Alvarez to help support Joshua’s mom, but for the time being Cutter was feeling redundant and useless.

Grace was alone, huddled on the couch in the den, the phone beside her.

Joshua’s favourite little blue stuffed bear was clutched in her right hand, close to her face, up against her nose, her son’s scent on it, so that if she shut her eyes . . .

She’d been rocking herself, back and forth, back and forth.

Just enough self-control left to stop that when people came in to check on her, to offer her cups of tea, shoulders to cry on, a listening ear, something to eat.

‘No, thank you,’ she’d say, then ask them to shut the door.

As soon as they’d gone, she started rocking again.

Not that it comforted her, yet she felt compelled to do it.

The storm seemed to be making it even worse, magnifying her fears with each successive thunder roll, her baby out there in that, with a man whose appearance had been utterly ordinary, but who had turned out to be worse than a blackmailer or even a kidnapper, who was almost certainly a killer, a beast . . .

Claudia had called a while ago, but Grace had asked Saul to speak to her.

She just couldn’t do that herself.

Not that she blamed Claudia for what had happened.

She mustn’t do that, must not . . .

She just couldn’t speak to her or anyone else, neither Claudia nor Mary Cutter nor Cathy, who would probably call from California in the morning and, who Grace was determined would remain in blissful ignorance until it was over.

Until Sam came home with Joshua.