Never Coming Back by Tim Weaver

water left in the pan. The pork steaks were burned to a crisp. Vegetables were half prepared, just left there on the chopping board. It was like the four of them had downed tools and walked out of the house. There was nothing out of place.” She turned her coffee mug, lost in thought for a moment. “In fact, the opposite, really. Everything was
in
place. Even the table was set: cutlery laid out, drinks prepared.”
    â€œDid it look like they’d left in a hurry?”
    She shook her head, but in her eyes I saw a flicker of hesitation: as if she’d remembered something but wasn’t sure whether it was even worth bringing up.
    â€œEmily?”
    â€œThe milk,” she said.
    â€œMilk?”
    â€œThe fridge had been left ajar. This big four-pinter was lying on the floor, and all the milk had poured out of it, across the linoleum. But that was it. That was the only thing. Even the dog was still wandering around the house.”
    â€œDid you check upstairs?”
    â€œI checked the whole house.”
    â€œAnything stolen?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMoney, bank cards, wallets, phones, TVs, DVDs, computers—you know the kind of thing. None of that had been taken?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWould you know if it had?”
    â€œThe TV was on in the living room, Paul’s computer was on in his study, Liv’s toys were scattered all over the floor of her room. But not like the place had been turned over. Not like that at all. It was like Liv—like all of them—had
just
been there.”
    â€œMoments before?”
    â€œRight. It was like a museum.”
    She meant it was a snapshot of time; nothing but the milk out of place. The food was still cooking, the lights were still on, the TV, the computer, the cars, the dog.
    â€œYou presumably tried calling them?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo answer?”
    â€œTheir phones were still in the house.”
    I reached across the table and grabbed a piece of paper with a shopping list on it. It was everything I needed to repair the fence panels out back. For now, it would have to do as a makeshift pad. I’d left the real one back in London, I suppose as some sort of symbolic gesture. Except here I was, four months after leaving the city, doing everything I shouldn’t have. Part of me knew this was already a mistake: my feelings about taking on work from people I knew had hardened and crystallized over the past two years, mainly because I’d done it once—for a woman Derryn had worked with—and, in trying to find her son, I’d been left with scars on my body that would never heal, and memories that would never fade. And yet, as Emily recounted the disappearance of her sister and her family, I felt a buzz of electricity in my stomach. For the first time in months, I felt normal.
    â€œWhat’s Carrie’s surname now?”
    â€œLing.”
    I started making some notes. “Her husband’s Paul?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd the full names of the girls?”
    â€œAnnabel and Olivia.”
    â€œDid you file a missing persons report?”
    She nodded. “I called them right away. They told me to come to Totnes station. The PC there asked me a few questions, filled in somepaperwork, then said a team would be by the next day to take DNA samples and look around the house.”
    â€œThey didn’t find anything?”
    â€œNo,” she said, eyes on me, hands flat to the table either side of her mug. “They took lots of things away for analysis, but it all got returned eventually.”
    â€œDo you remember exactly what they took?”
    â€œPaul’s computer, their phones.”
    â€œWhose phones?”
    â€œCarrie’s, Paul’s and Belle’s.”
    â€œAnnabel had her own phone?”
    â€œShe’s almost twenty-five.”
    I put down the pen. “So, how old is Liv then?”
    â€œEight.” But she didn’t need me to fill in the