36. Now

I sit with my head between my knees, listening to the far-off thuds, until my father comes in.

‘Do you think maybe someone's overindulged at the tea party?' he asks, meaning I've had too much fruitcake, meaning I'm being silly. Which, really, when you think about it, is quite insulting, isn't it?

I screw my eyes shut. I don't want to fight my father. I need everyone to help me.

‘Frances, stop making a scene,' he says.

And immediately I'm seventeen again, sitting on the terrace, trying to draw a rose in my sketchbook and producing a gnarled worm bristling with talons, and my father is saying, ‘Cover up,' and I realise my shawl is on the ground and the shameful red lines high on my arms are showing.

But I'm not seventeen.

I'm a grown woman and suddenly I can see how cruel that was of him. How could he have looked at the cuts on his daughter's arms and said that?

‘I'm not making a scene. I'm terrified.'

‘I don't believe there's any cause for that. But whatever the case, you are a Beaufort-Bradley.' He doesn't have to say the next bit: you will stand up straight and weather the storm. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I want to push him off. I want to tell him that he is the storm.

But it isn't fair. This isn't his fault. He's old-fashioned. In his own way, he's trying to help me, just as he was when I was seventeen. We are strong like this.

He sits next to me and I can feel the shift in him. He puts his hand on mine and closes his eyes. ‘Dear Lord,' he murmurs, ‘please forgive us our sins, and bring our child home safely.'

Forgive us our sins? Is he reminding God that Jenna's a bastard?

Dear God,I say in my head, please forgive my father.

But I let myself lean into him.

He's choosing to be kind. He isn't saying: This isn't about you, Frances. Your daughter may be missing but she'll be found, you'll be fine, and whose life will all this talk of Georgia have destroyed?

But the thing is, it won't destroy Tristan. Because he was the victim. He could have died.

I can only just hear the beats of the helicopter now if I really concentrate. Or maybe I'm imagining them.

The gravel in the drive crunches and headlights flash in the warped old windows. Father opens the door and stands out in the porch. I smooth my dress and go to stand behind him as the police officers, a woman and a man, climb out of their black car. They stand for a moment, taking in the farmhouse and saying something to one another, before making their way over.

I feel like my legs are going to liquefy so I retreat and sit down again.

‘Good evening, Sir, Ma'am,' says Father, holding out a hand, which the man shakes. He's in his twenties and his buzz cut looks fresh. ‘We're sorry to bother you so late,' says Father. ‘I'm sure our girl will turn up soon but?—'

The woman pushes past him. She's about my age, slim with straight dark hair tucked behind her ears. I wonder if she's part Chinese, knowing I'll never find a way to ask. She looks at me, unsmiling. ‘Frances Beaufort-Bradley? Jenna's mother?'

I smooth my dress and stand again.

‘DI Bevan. This is PC Croft.' She juts her chin at her partner. ‘I'm sorry to hear your daughter is missing. I need two rooms next to each other. Please ask your family to gather in one room, while I conduct interviews in the other.' She turns to Father. ‘Black coffee for me. Croft will have a tea. Two sugars. And a sandwich.'

Father colours at his collar but smiles over it. ‘Of course.'

I show them into Tristan's kitchen. My mother is still sitting at the table, playing with her beads, looking into her lap. Ash sits next to her, his head on his arms. I suggest we use this room and the study down the hall.

DI Bevan nods at the set-up. ‘The coastguard is searching the area around the school and along the lane in the helicopter.'

Father huffs and I know he's objecting to the fuss.

Bevan glances at him and continues. ‘They'll expand their search area after a thorough pass as it's been a while since the last sighting.'

I look away, feeling just how long I waited to call them.

‘I should probably go,' says Theo, standing up.

‘No, you shouldn't,' says Bevan. ‘This is everyone?'

‘My husband is on his way,' I reply.

‘Am I right in thinking this isn't the only house on the farm?'

I point out the window. ‘My parents live in the barn the other side of the grain store.'

She fixes me again with her dark eyes. ‘This is a small constabulary. You live in a remote location. Your property is large. Jenna was last seen on a country road. None of this is ideal. One unit is going to the school now to join the helicopter. We'll get the head to help organise a ground search, but the fields and the woods will be tricky as it gets dark. I need your statements and to complete a search of the farm before requesting more resource.' She raises her eyebrows and looks around the room.

It's clear that the size of the farm is of annoyance to her. How long will it take for two officers to search it thoroughly?

‘She isn't here,' I say. ‘My niece and nephew searched the whole place.'

‘We looked everywhere,' says Ava.

‘Including your grandparents' barn?'

Ava and Ash swap looks and shake their heads. When was the last time they went in there? Invitations are rare.

Bevan steps closer to Ava. ‘You – you and your brother – you're the ones who saw her last, is that right?'

Ava tucks her hair behind her ear, looking at Ash.

Behind her, my father hands a cafetière to Mother as if it's infected. ‘You're taking this very seriously,' he says, ‘for a girl who has gone gallivanting off to Glastonbury.'

I want to slap him.

‘Yes, Glastonbury,' says my mother, staring at the cafetière.

Bevan blinks. ‘Glastonbury security will be contacted. I'm going to the study. Croft, photo please. Frances, come with me.'

‘Are we, like, prisoners?' says Ash.

Bevan pauses at the door. ‘If you'd like to appear helpful, it would be best for you to remain in this room.'

Tristan walks over with his hand outstretched. ‘Tristan.'

Bevan looks at his hand for a moment before shaking it briefly. I realise there's little chance she doesn't already know who he is.

He smiles. ‘We'll do everything we can to help,' he says.

‘Perfect,' says Bevan.

Father clears his throat. ‘Within reason. I realise time is of the essence, but if you plan to interview us, we'll have to wait for our lawyer.'

I feel as though I'm being picked up by the crest of a wave, the sea floor dropping away from me.