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he was shaking.
    “Hello, Andrea Trowbridge speaking.”
    “Mrs Trowbridge,” he said, mind buzzing at hearing again the deep Devon accent of his father's elderly neighbor. An accent he'd worked so hard to lose. “Andrea ... it's Daniel here. Daniel Clutton. Well, Craig Robertson now, I suppose. As you know.”
    The sound of his birth name felt strange on his tongue. As if it wasn't really him at all. Not anymore. She didn't ask anything about why he'd left and why he hadn't come back. Thank goodness. And Craig found he couldn't bring himself to say the words they both knew he wanted to. Even though that was the whole reason for his call. So, stupidly, they talked about the farm, the latest exploits of the villagers he used to know, and whether or not the Neighborhood Watch was worth it. She even fell into the role of the almost-aunt she'd once been and asked him about London. And his life. He told her about the one or two acting jobs he'd had and the recent modeling assignments. She laughed when she heard that, the warm burr of the sound making Craig smile too.
    He didn't tell her about the men or about himself—at least not in that way. It was only when the conversation had slowed and he was beginning, even against his better judgment, to relax that she caught him off-guard.
    “So then, you got my note,” she said.
    He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Yes.”
    “I didn't know what to do for the best,” she said, the words tumbling into his ear as if in a bid to escape. “I'm sorry it was so short, but I couldn't decide what to say. Not after so long. I'm sorry too that I haven't contacted you before, especially after your letter. Things were difficult then and I wasn't really sure what to write. And then ... but never mind that. Your father's never disappeared before, Daniel—I mean Craig. At least not like this, and he's always come back. I do understand how awkward things got between the two of you—I'm sorry you went away, you know. And that you never got to do your A Levels. You were always such a bright boy, it seems such a shame. I'm glad you're doing all right though—I knew you would. Sensible head on you, that's what I always said. But your father—this time he's been gone for longer. I've called the police, but they don't seem able to do much. And I didn't want to just leave it ... so I thought of you. I've probably assumed to far, but....”
    At last she took a breath, a long one as if she might be about to cry, and Craig knew he had to say something to stop her.
    “It's okay, Andrea,” he said, though he had no real idea if it was or not. “You've done the right thing. It's fine.”
    She began to cry in earnest then.
    When he finally ended the call, he'd agreed to go to see her—something inside him couldn't say the words “go home"—on the following Monday. Two days’ time. But what the hell was he going to do when he got there?
    * * * *
    “If it wasn't for work,” Maddy said, “I'd come with you. You know that. We both would.”
    Craig grimaced at her and took a swig of beer. “Thanks. That's kind of you but you really don't want to get involved. Trust me on that one. You're better off in the office.”
    All three of them—Craig, Maddy, and Julie—were sitting in the kitchen just chilling. Their normal Sunday-night routine, even though only two of them could justify it by having normal jobs. Maddy worked in the Advice Service at the University of Westminster and Julie in PR at the British Museum. A part of him envied their regularity of employment, though he knew he'd be hopeless at either job. Mind you, he always enjoyed the office stories they brought back, though Maddy swore blind he had an unfair share of the glamour. He wished. Right now she was on the red wine, Julie on the white, and he was sticking, as usual, to the London Pride. He thought that suited him now. In more ways than one.
    “Are you sure?” Maddy put down her glass and frowned at him. “If you really feel you