“I’m going with you.” Gemma sat up and reached for a towel.

“Gemma, that’s not necessary-”

“You need Cullen and Bell for other things. And I want to come.”

He moved out of her way as she pulled the plug and got out of the tub. Her face was flushed pink from the heat, and set in the stubborn expression he knew well.

“Gemma,” he said slowly, “it’s not your fault you haven’t found the little girl that’s missing.”

She put her foot up on the edge of the tub and gave great attention to drying her toes. “I know that,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

He watched her in silence, knowing there was nothing he could say that would convince her, any more than he would be able to convince himself if it had happened on his watch.

She had been all right until the light started to fade.

The woman who had brought her to the house had come twice during the day, locking the door when she left each time. The first time, that morning, she’d brought Harriet breakfast on a tray – a bowl of instant oatmeal and some dried fruit. She hadn’t spoken at first, and it was only when Harriet saw she meant to put the tray down and leave that she’d got up the courage to speak.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked, still huddled under her blanket. “Where’s my dad?”

“Your father wants you to stay here for a few days,” the woman said, turning back from the door.

“My dad wouldn’t leave me in this place.”

“No? Maybe your father has a little surprise planned for you.”

“Let me talk to him,” Harriet begged.

“He’s not here right now. But you’d better do what he wants.” The woman reached for the doorknob again.

“My mum.” Harriet stood up, the blanket still wrapped round her shoulders. “My mum will be worried about me. She’ll find me.”

“I don’t think so.” The woman smiled, and Harriet felt cold in the pit of her stomach.

“Wait, please,” said Harriet in desperation. “I have to use the toilet.”

“Use the pail.” The woman gestured towards the old tin pail Harriet had noticed against one wall.

“But I-” It was too late. The door swung shut behind the woman, and Harriet heard the locks click into place.

She’d cried then, big gulping snotty sobs that made her chest hurt and her throat ache. When the sobs began to subside, she realized there was nowhere to wipe her streaming eyes and nose except the tattered cover around her shoulders. Still hiccupping, she sniffed as hard as she could, then fastidiously blotted her nose with the edge of the blanket.

After a while, she gave in to hunger. The oatmeal had congealed into a cold and slimy mass, but she ate it anyway, then nibbled at what she thought were dried apricots.

Eventually, she used the pail, as well, because she had no choice, then pushed it into the very farthest corner of the room.

With her stomach filled, a terrible sleepiness came over her again. She fell upon the bed, curling herself once more beneath the blanket.

She woke sometime later, as suddenly as she had fallen asleep, and this time with perfect clarity. She knew instantly where she was, and how she had got there, although she still had no idea why.

The light had changed. The sun had moved away from the window, and as she had no other way of telling time, Harriet thought it must now be afternoon. She was hungry again, and beginning to feel thirsty.

Time passed. She gazed out of the window at the gray rooftops, and when she tired of that, she thumbed through the books in the bookcase. There were a few of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five adventures, an Arthur Ransome, a very tattered edition of Black Beauty, and a copy of Peter Pan. Had this been a child’s room, wondered Harriet, some long time ago?

The room had grown warm and stuffy as the afternoon lengthened. She thought about breaking out one of the windowpanes, but realized she’d have no protection from the air if it turned cold in the night. Nor was she sure what sort of retribution such an action would bring.

She realized that she was beginning to smell, as was the pail in the corner of the room. It occurred to her that she had never in her life been dirty or failed to have clean clothes. Trying to ignore her growing thirst, she settled against the wall with one of the Enid Blytons. Her mother was always nagging her about reading when she should be doing other things, but here there was nothing else to do. The thought of her mother made her throat ache again. Blinking, she stared resolutely at the page until the feeling eased.

It was only when she found herself squinting to make out the print that she realized the light was fading. She had put down the book when she heard the creak that signaled footsteps on the stairs. She waited, heart thumping, hoping it was her dad come to take her away.

But the woman came in alone, with a tray, as she had that morning. This time it held some biscuits, more of the dried fruit, and what looked like some sort of tinned meat. There was also, Harriet saw to her relief, a glass of water.

“Where’s my dad?” she said, straightening her stiff legs as she pushed herself up against the wall.

“He’s been… delayed. Maybe he’s forgotten about you.”

This was a mistake on the woman’s part, because if Harriet knew one thing, it was that her dad would not forget about her. Fear struck through her, worse than anything she’d felt before. Had something happened to her dad? Something that had kept him from coming for her?

She thought about trying to bolt through the door, but the woman seemed to read her mind. “I wouldn’t try it,” she said, with the smile Harriet had seen earlier. “The front door locks from the inside and I have the key. There is no phone. And I’d have to drag you back up.” Her tone made it clear that Harriet would not want her to do that. She smiled again and went out, locking the door behind her.

As the footsteps faded, Harriet fell on the food, devouring the stale biscuits and the disgusting tinned meat. Even the water tasted stale and flat, as if it had been stored for some time. She drank a little of it, then realized she’d better save as much as she could – and that the more she drank, the sooner she’d have to use the pail again.

While she’d finished her brief meal, the room had grown dimmer. Harriet had already noticed that there were no lamps. Now she realized there was no ceiling fixture, either. Trying to quell her rising panic, she searched along the walls, moving furniture when she could. When she’d completed the circle, she did it once more, then went back to the bed and sat. There were no electrical outlets in the room, no paraffin lamps or candles, not even a match. There would be no light.

She lay down and closed her eyes, but the darkness seemed to press on her eyelids. When the panic threatened to choke her, she got up and fumbled her way to the door, kicking at it and shouting until she’d worn herself out, but the house was silent as a tomb.

Crawling back to the safety of the bed, she stared into the encroaching gloom. After a while, she began to realize that it had not got any darker. She could see her hand, when she held it in front of her face, and the window stood out as a silvery rectangle. It was the reflected light of the city, and it gave her a strange comfort to think that there were people outside this house, moving and laughing and talking, eating and drinking. She was not entirely alone.