“Lara, can I give you a piece of advice?” Dad waits until I look up. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Relax. Maybe it’s not as complicated as you think.”

I look at Dad, at his straight face, his honest eyes. If I told him the truth, he wouldn’t believe any of it. He’d think I’m a paranoid delusional or taking drugs. Or both.

“Did Uncle Bill mention a necklace at all?” I can’t help saying.

“A necklace?” Dad looks puzzled. “No. What necklace?”

“I… it’s nothing.” I sigh. I take a sip of Lingtoncino and look up to see that Dad is watching me. He smiles, but I can tell he’s troubled.

“Darling, you have a wonderful opportunity here.” He gestures at the letter. “A chance for you to get your life back on track. Maybe you should just take it. Don’t overthink it. Don’t look for problems that don’t exist. Just take your chance.”

He doesn’t understand. How could he? Sadie isn’t a problem that doesn’t exist. She does exist. She’s real. She’s a person, and she’s my friend, and she needs me-

Then where is she? says a sharp voice in my head, like a knife thumping into a block. If she exists, where is she?

I start in shock. Where did that voice come from? I can’t be doubting-I can’t be thinking-

I feel a sudden feathery panic. Of course Sadie’s real. Of course she is. Don’t be ridiculous. Stop thinking like this.

But now Ginny’s voice is running through my head again. I think it’s all in the head, Lara. It’s what people want to believe.

No. No way. I mean … No.

Feeling giddy, I take a gulp of Lingtoncino and look around the coffee shop, trying to anchor myself to reality. Lingtons is real. Dad is real. The job offer is real. And Sadie is real. I know she is. I mean, I saw her. I heard her. We talked together. We danced together, for God’s sake.

And, anyway, how could I possibly have invented her? How would I have known anything about her? How would I have known about the necklace? I never even met her!

“Dad.” I look at him abruptly. “We never visited Great-Aunt Sadie, did we? Except that time when I was a baby.”

“Actually, that’s not quite true.” Dad shoots me a cautious look. “Mum and I were talking about it after the funeral. We remembered that we once took you to see her when you were six.”

“Six.” I swallow. “Was she… wearing a necklace?”

“She might have been.” Dad shrugs.

I met Great-Aunt Sadie at the age of six. I could have seen the necklace. I could have remembered… without realizing that I remembered.

My thoughts are in free fall. I’m hollow and chilly inside. I feel as though everything’s turning on its head. For the first time I’m seeing a new possible reality.

I could have made this whole story up in my head. It’s what I wanted. I felt so guilty we never knew her that I invented her in my subconscious. I mean, when I first saw her that’s what I thought she was. A hallucination.

“Lara?” Dad peers at me. “Are you OK, darling?”

I try to smile back at him, but I’m too preoccupied. There are two voices arguing in my head, right across each other. The first is crying out, Sadie’s real, you know she is! She’s out there! She’s your friend and she’s hurt and you have to find her! The second is calmly intoning, She doesn’t exist. She never did. You’ve wasted enough time. Get your life back.

I’m breathing hard, trying to let my thoughts balance out, let my instincts settle. But I don’t know what to think. I don’t trust myself anymore. Maybe I really am crazy…

“Dad, do you think I’m mad?” I blurt out in desperation. “Seriously. Should I see someone?”

Dad bursts into laughter. “No! Darling, of course not!” He puts his coffee cup down and leans forward. “I think your emotions run high and sometimes your imagination too. You get that from your mother. And sometimes you let them get the better of you. But you’re not mad. No madder than Mum, anyway.”

“Right.” I swallow. “Right.”

That’s not much consolation, to be honest.

With fumbling fingers, I pick up Uncle Bill’s letter and read it through again. If I look at it in a completely different way, there’s nothing sinister. There’s nothing wrong. He’s just a rich guy trying to help out his niece. I could take the job. I’d be Lara Lington of Lingtons Coffee. I’d have a great future in front of me, salary, car, prospects. Everyone would be happy. Everything would be easy. My memories of Sadie would melt away. My life would feel normal.

It would be so, so easy.

“You haven’t been home for a while,” Dad says kindly. “Why not come and spend the weekend? Mum would love to see you.”

“Yes,” I say after a pause. “I’d like that. I haven’t been back for ages.”

“It’ll restore your spirits.” Dad gives me his endearing little crooked smile. “If your life’s at a juncture and you need to think about things, there’s nowhere better than home. However old you are.”

“‘There’s no place like home.’” I raise half a smile.

“Dorothy had a point. Now eat up.” He gestures at my tuna melt. But I’m only half listening.

Home. The word has riveted me. I never thought of that.

She could have gone home.

Home to where her old house used to be. After all, it’s the place of her earliest memories. It’s where she had her big love affair. She refused ever to go back during her lifetime-but what if she’s softened? What if she’s right there, right now?

I’m stirring my Lingtoncino around and around obsessively. I know the sane, sensible move would be to blank out all thoughts about her. Accept Uncle Bill’s job and buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate with Mum and Dad. I know this.

But… I just can’t. Deep down, I can’t believe she’s not real. I’ve come so far, I’ve tried so hard to find her. I have to give it one last go.

And if she’s not there I’ll take the job and give up. For good.

“So.” Dad wipes his mouth with a chocolate-brown napkin. “You look happier, darling.” He jerks his head toward the letter. “Have you decided which way you want to go?”

“Yes.” I nod firmly. “I need to go to St. Pancras station.”

OK. This is the very, very last place I’m looking. This is her last chance. And I hope she appreciates the effort I’ve made.

It took me an hour from St. Pancras to St. Albans and another twenty minutes in a taxi to Archbury. And now here I am, standing in a little village square, with a pub and a bus stop and a weird modern-looking church. I suppose it would be quite picturesque if lorries didn’t keep rumbling by at a million miles an hour and three teenage boys weren’t having a brawl under the bus shelter. I thought it was supposed to be quiet in the country.

I edge away before one of the boys pulls out a gun or something and head over to the green. There’s a board with a map of the village, and I quickly locate Archbury Close. That’s what they turned Archbury House into after it burned down. If Sadie really has gone home, that’s where she’ll be.

After a few minutes’ walk, I can see the gates ahead: wrought iron with Archbury Close written in swirly iron writing. There are six little red-brick houses, each with a tiny drive and garage. It’s hard to imagine that once upon a time there was just one big beautiful house sitting in its own gardens.

Feeling conspicuous, I enter through a small side gate and start to wander around, peering in through the windows, crunching on the little patches of gravel, and murmuring, “Sadie?”

I should have asked Sadie more about her home life. Maybe she had a favorite tree or something. Or some favorite corner of the garden, which is now someone’s utility room.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, so after a bit I raise my voice a little. “Sadie? Are you here? Sa-die?”