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‘I’m not joking. You’re the one for me, Lizzie Nightingale. I knew it from the moment I saw you stumbling along that icy path in your big purple coat, looking like a little elfin angel thing. I promise I will take care of you for the rest of my life.’ He gives another wince of pain. ‘Even if I never walk again.’

Olly is so impulsive. A risk-taker. I suppose that goes hand in hand with snowboarding. He goes full-pelt into everything. Including love.

In a few short weeks, he’s made me feel so special and adored. Lying in Olly’s chalet bed, wrapped up in his arms, watching snow fall outside, I have never known love like this – utterly consuming, can’t-be-apart love.

He makes me breakfast every morning, constantly tells me how beautiful I am and texts me all day long.

I’m waiting for him to work out who I really am. Just a nobody. And then this holiday romance will come crashing down.

‘Just lie down and rest,’ I say, stroking his forehead. ‘They’ll take you to hospital. I’ll bring you chocolate Pop Tarts.’

Olly loves sugar. He’s a big kid, really. So enthusiastic. And when we’re in bed he’s like that too – just ‘wow!’ at everything. ‘Wow, you look incredible, wow your body is amazing.’

He makes me feel so alive. So adored. So noticed. The exact opposite of how my mother makes me feel.

How did this happen so quickly?

I’m so in love with him.

Olly lies back on the snow, staring up at the sky. ‘I’ll heal. Won’t I? I’ll be able to compete?’

He looks right at me then, blue eyes crystal clear.

‘I don’t know, Olly. Just try to rest. The paramedics will be here soon.’

Olly reaches out a snowy, gloved hand and takes my mitten. ‘You’re an angel, Lizzie Nightingale. You have fabulous dimples, by the way.’

I smile then, without meaning to.

‘You will stay with me, won’t you?’ Olly asks, suddenly serious. ‘Until the stretcher comes?’

‘Of course I will. You fall, I fall. Remember? We’re in this together.’

I sit on the cold snow, my mitten clasped in his glove.

Kate

1.45 p.m.

Itake deep breaths, lifting knuckles to the door. The red-brick house is identical to its neighbours – except for the large crack in the front door.

Knock, knock.

No answer.

Tessa’s words ring in my ears:Get on to that Tom Kinnock case as soon as possible. He should never have been passed over to us. Get it shut down and off your desk.

I would peer in the window, but the curtains are closed, even though it’s gone lunchtime.

Knock, knock.

I put an ear to the door and hear voices. Someoneishome.

Knock, knock, knock.

‘Hello?’ I call. ‘It’s Kate Noble from Children’s Services.’

I knock again, this time with a closed fist.