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In the last two years, I’ve relived the final hours I spent with my daughter a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, slowing and stopping time to examine every detail, hoping this continual, slow-motion reconstruction will help me find the clue that’ll lead me to her.
Lottie shoving pieces of paper beneath the bathroom door.
Lottie splashing in the pool.
Lottie holding my hand as we walk along the powdered sand to face the ocean.
Lottie treating Sian with the contempt she deserved.
I’ve always fast-forwarded through my brief phone call with Harriet, concentrating instead on the moment I turn round and see Lottie talking to a strange man who has his hand on her shoulder.
But now I remember.
I remember the sound of a flight announcement in the background of the call. I remember asking my sister:Are you at the airport?
And her answer:It’s just the TV.
