Page 113 of Stolen

Fifteen minutes later, the café door opens, spilling a wedge of golden light into the gravel car park. I assume they’ll get into the only other vehicle parked in the lot, an old Volvo estate, but they walk past it, onto the main road, and I realise with a flicker of alarm they’re walking home. I don’t know why I assumed they’d driven here and parked before taking a walk along the beach. How can I follow them now?

After a few moments’ hesitation, I get out of my car and head after them on foot. I don’t want to get too close, but there are no streetlights along this section of the coast road and I can’t risk losing them. I do my best to hug the shadows, terrified the sound of my breathing will give me away.

I’m soaked to the skin within minutes, my feet sloshing around in my thin plimsolls. I can hear Lottie up ahead, stamping and splashing in the puddles, clearly enjoying the inclement weather.

There’s a dangerous moment when I nearly run into them as I round a corner, where they’ve stopped to wait for the dog to complete his business. I shrink back into the hedge, my heart thumping, but the rain and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore below covers any noise I make.

Less than fifty metres later, they stop in front of a smallstone cottage beside the road. The woman unlocks the front door and turns on the porch light. Lottie sits down on the thick stone step and starts to pull off her wellingtons. She stops, midway, and stares intently into the darkness, and for a second I think she’s seen me.

The woman calls her name. She jumps and finishes taking off her boots, before running inside.

I edge closer to the cottage, watching from the other side of the road as a light goes on in the kitchen, and the woman puts on the kettle. I stay there even after she draws the curtains, blocking my view.

I can’t believe I’ve found her. I can’t trust the reality of this moment, because it’s too incredible to be true. My daughter. In a café in Devon, four thousand miles from where I let her go. Lottie, splashing through puddles in her wellington boots. Lottiealive.

There’s so much I want to know. Has she been here the whole time? Does she believe this woman is her mother?

Does she remember me?

I spot something pink lying in the dirt by the side of the road and pick it up between thumb and forefinger. It’s a stuffed toy: the Squishmallow she lost.

My pulse racing, I cross the road and put the pink toy on the front step. It’s wet, but clean; a few hours in a warm kitchen and it’ll be good as new.

As I step back from the threshold, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye.

It’s her. She’s pulled back a corner of the curtain and is kneeling on a kitchen chair, looking directly at me.

Not daring to breathe, I lift my finger to my lips:ssssh.

For a long moment, she is motionless. Then, slowly, she presses her finger to her lips, too.

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