And it wasn’t just a dream. The blocks inside are pulling out, one at a time: I remember that day. The note was real, but did Dad write it?

My head is fuzzy, but becoming clearer. Is it like Stella wondered, days ago? As a child, I was left-handed. No matter that I was forced later to be right-handed, and Slated as such. These other memories were hidden and twisted tight, but are starting to unravel – and me with them.

I thought it was watching Nico kill my father that finally caused my personality to fracture, but maybe that was just the final nail. Maybe it all started with Dad, with that note: with knowing that once he found out I wasn’t really his daughter, he didn’t want me any more.

Or was that just what Nico and Dr Craig wanted me to think?

Whichever is true, one thing I am sure of now: Stella had nothing to do with them. Her exposed secret might have set things off, but she’d never have given me up. She’d never have done anything but cling to me, desperate and tight.

Light is failing, and I run back to town for the bus. It is pulling away when I get to the square, and I wave: the driver pulls in and I clamber on.

Finley is there, on the same seat he’s been on before with Madison. Guilt grabs at me when I realise that I was so absorbed with my own stuff, I never noticed I haven’t seen him on the bus the last few days. No matter how it feels to me now, what I’m going through is ancient history. Finley’s pain is immediate.

I sit across from him in the aisle and try to catch his eye, but his are lowered. I think he doesn’t even know I’m there, but then after a moment he glances over. ‘Heh, Extra Shorty,’ he says.

‘Heh,’ I say back. I want to ask how he is, is he all right, but that is stupid, isn’t it? Of course he isn’t. I try to say it with my eyes, instead. After a few beats, he nods, looks down again.

Does he know who Stella’s mother is, that she must be responsible for Madison vanishing? What good would it do if he did? Maybe if Stella could see his pain, she’d do something about Madison. Maybe she’d get Astrid to bring her back.

Or maybe he’d kick up enough of a fuss for it to get back to Astrid, and then he’d disappear, too.

But I can’t leave this, and when it comes to me I can’t believe it took so long. MIA: we have to put Madison on Missing in Action. As unlikely as it seems, maybe she can be found.

I stare at him, nudge his foot with mine. ‘Finley? We need to talk,’ I breathe the words quietly. He looks up with a quick look of hope, one that fades fast when I give a small shake of my head. If only I knew where she was.

‘Tomorrow – get the 7 am bus,’ he breathes back.

I nod.

That night, I get to work on a drawing of Madison. Why didn’t I take a photo of her with my camera when I had the chance?

To get her on MIA I have to get in touch with Aiden. Or do I? He told me how to contact someone who knows him here: leave a coded note on the community board, then wait until they get in touch.

That was for emergencies: does this qualify?

Yes.

Getting Madison right turns out to be easy. It’s the look of mischief in her eyes that marks her out: is that what Astrid really objected to?

I’m nearly done when there is a faint knock on my door, and I slip the drawing under the bed. Stella looks in, hesitant, but I nod and she comes across the room.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she says.

‘Me, too. But can we not talk about stuff tonight?’ I say. ‘I just can’t deal with it right now.’

‘Of course,’ she says, and relief crosses her face. ‘I’ve got an idea: let’s have some fun.’

‘How?’

She smiles. Holds up a key. ‘Like this!’ She goes across to the other locked wardrobe, turns the key. Looks back at me. ‘Come on.’

I get up and walk across the room. She opens the doors; inside the wardrobe are shelves, and on them are brightly wrapped packages.

I look at her, not understanding.

‘They’re for you: your birthday presents.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. There is one for every year we weren’t together: because I never gave up, Lucy. Not once. Every 3rd of November, another joined them.’ She touches my cheek. ‘I always knew, somehow, you’d come back to me.’ She blinks hard. ‘Here: help me carry them.’ And she fills my arms with packages small and large, then brings the last few herself. We spread them out on the bed.

‘Go on,’ she says.

‘I can unwrap them?’

‘Of course. They’re for you, aren’t they? Though some of them might not be much good to you now. Start at the beginning,’ she says, and hands me one with ‘11’ all over the paper. ‘Where’s your camera? I want birthday photos!’

I smile, shake my head. ‘How could you explain them if they were found?’

Her smile falters. ‘Of course. You’re right; it’s too risky.’

‘No, it’s a good thought. Next year, maybe? But my birthday isn’t in November.’

She goes very still. ‘What did you say?’

‘My birthday is in September now! As Riley, on my fake ID, I turned eighteen on the 17th of September.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ She smiles, tension falling away. ‘Have you been using your camera?’

‘Not really. Sorry. I’ll take it tomorrow.’

We start on the presents, and soon I’m covered in wrapping paper, and presents for an eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen-year-old me: clothes, many too small now; art supplies. A gorgeous leather portfolio case.

‘Last one?’ she says and holds out a parcel, the one for my seventeenth birthday.

I pull the paper off carefully. Inside is a gorgeous pale green jumper, of a fine soft yarn. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

‘Really? Do you really like it?’

For an answer I get up and pull it on over my PJs, hug it close. ‘It’s perfect.’

She pulls my glasses off. ‘Perfect with your green eyes. I made it, knitting late at night.’

‘Thank you.’ I put the glasses back on. ‘But the match to my eyes has to stay secret.’

‘Of course.’ She gathers up the wrapping paper, stuffs it in a bag. ‘I’ll burn it,’ she says, matter-of-factly.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘All this being secret about me is hard for you, isn’t it?’

‘Anything to have you back.’ Something crosses her face, she starts to say something, but I interrupt.

‘No talking about stuff tonight, remember?’

‘Okay. Another night. Now get some sleep.’

She helps me hide the presents away in the wardrobe; I keep out the drawing supplies, a few clothes that should fit. She heads for the door, then turns back. ‘I will say one thing, though. You were right. I shouldn’t have interfered with your apprenticeship trials. I’ll make sure they don’t bias where they put you, all right?’

And with that, she is gone.

Well. I stare at the door she just disappeared through. Did she mean it? Time will tell.

I retrieve my nearly complete drawing of Madison, put the final touches on it, and tuck it into my coat pocket.

Restless, sleep feels far away despite the late hour. I unlock the other wardrobe and pull the albums out. Each one starts with a birthday, and I look at the birthday photos again: presents, cake, smiles. Except the first album, of course. Really, your first birthday should be the day you are born, shouldn’t it? You should have a cake with a big ‘0’ on it. Instead the first album starts with photos of me grinning and reaching for toys; crawling across the floor. Very embarrassingly having a bath.

I put them away, and with lights off and eyes closed I hug the soft green wool close, still wearing it over my pyjamas. After the agony of that dream of Dad and his note, and the memories that came from it, at least now I’m feeling warm, feeling wanted. Maybe Stella is enough. One parent who loves me, who would never give me up.

All those presents she searched out every year: they were all stuff I know I’d have loved; still love, now. She wrapped them up with care and locked them in a wardrobe, all for a daughter she might never see again. It’s so unbearably sad, even though I’m here now.

It’s even harder to bear being the one so missed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

* * *

The morning comes early. Finley is on the 7 am bus as planned; I nod to him, but sit down, silent, in the front.

When we get off I walk without comment to the back door of Cora’s Cafe. Finley follows, catches up as I reach the door. I knock; it’s locked this time, but soon opens.

Cora sees it is us and a quick look of hope crosses her face. ‘Get yourselves in,’ she says, and we step through the door. She checks the back lane before shutting and locking it behind us.

‘Is there news?’ She looks between us, then as Finley’s eyes turn to me, she does also.

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry; no news. But there may be something we can do. Have you ever heard of MIA: Missing in Action?’ They shake their heads no. ‘This is very secret. There is a website run by MIA where missing people are posted; there is a network of people who try to find them, or what happened to them.’

‘What happened to Madison is unlikely to be good,’ Cora says.

Finley winces, shakes his head. ‘Better to know,’ he says. ‘How do we do it?’

‘We need a photograph of Madison, a recent one. Failing that I’ve drawn her.’ I pull out the drawing I did last night.

‘That’s good, but I’ve got photos,’ Cora says, pushes her chair back and goes into an adjoining room.

Finley reaches out a hand, traces Madison’s face on the paper with a finger.

‘I wish—’ And he stops.

‘What?’

He shakes his head. ‘I wish I told her how I really feel.’

‘I think she knew,’ I say, though not sure as I say it that she did. They’d just started out, hadn’t they? Did she know what is so obvious now? He loved her. Loves her, I correct to myself.

Cora returns with some photos and we pick one out to use. Seeing the longing in his eyes she gives another to Finley. ‘Keep the drawing too if you want,’ I say, and he tucks it in his bag.

‘What happens next?’ Cora asks.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ I say.

Promises to tell no one follow, and as we leave, I wonder why I’m doing this. Not getting Madison on MIA, but letting them in on it. It’s a risk, a huge risk, but the only way to give them hope.

This is what Aiden does, what he is about. Join us, he’d said. Looks like I have.

I’m still hopelessly early for school, and go for a walk by way of the community notice board Aiden described. It is just where he said it would be, tucked on a side street by a hall. No one is in sight, and I tack the note up: Seeking chess partner, please contact Anita c/o hall.

All I can do now, is wait.

I take some photos on the way to school: of Keswick as the sun creeps up. The sun seems to go from hidden to clearing a mountain all at once, and first touches of light transform dark shadows to dazzling clear morning.

Parents are depositing children at the school gates as I walk up, a teacher on the other side watchful as each goes into the grounds.

A woman is coming the other way with two boys, carrying a baby. One of the boys trips over and starts to howl. She shifts the baby in her arms, tries to bend over to help him up.

‘Can I help?’ I smile, coax the boy up, and he and his brother go through the gate.

‘Thank you,’ the mother says. ‘Are you new at the school?’

‘I’m trialling to be an apprentice teacher.’

‘You might be this one’s teacher one day, then.’ She smiles and looks at the baby, a soft look on her face. He? She? I can’t tell; even wrapped up, it is tiny, wearing the smallest hat I’ve ever seen over a pink face, and sound asleep.