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‘Whatever I need for accommodation,’ she’d told him.

‘And then a credit card for clothes and entertainment and stuff, but, like, that will be seriously itemised. I can’t go crazy.

So I’ve borrowed a lot of clothes off Imogen at work.

You know, the new hire? Grew up with private yachts and a pony, that one.

’ She gave him a broad smile. ‘I don’t think they’ve realised yet that I’m not some kind of a champagne socialist like the rest of the staff. ’

The comment had made Seaton a little uncomfortable. It was still hard for him, knowing that Anna was not wealthy, and that he had the means to help her. But her mother had made it abundantly clear that Anna did not want his guilt money.

But this story, and her place in Cambridge, was something he could help with.

And so Seaton had stepped in to smooth her path.

He’d used his contacts to find her a hard-up postgraduate English student to talk her through the academic side.

He’d advised her on pretending that she was a Jesus College student, because he knew enough fellows there to give her the jargon she needed to talk convincingly about the course.

He’d helped her get set up as a rower, too.

Anna had wanted to seem exactly the kind of talented, athletic young woman who might come across from the States to be able to row here.

It had given her a perfect excuse to have been barely seen by anyone in her college over the course of the year (because rowers trained pretty incessantly) and also a reason to be desirable to a group that liked status.

So he’d hit up an alumnus who was now a boatman and got her access to a sculling boat and blades at Jesus College Boat House.

It had been the rowing angle that had led him to find her a whole new identity, in fact, something he’d felt immensely satisfied with.

After the Rules dinner, he’d gone away and mulled over the difficulty of faking a really high-profile rowing pedigree.

It might once have been straightforward, but in this day and age competitors’ names were easily available online.

If you’d never rowed at any events, it would show.

Anna was, herself, an extremely able rower, which was why she’d chosen that sport to fake.

As a tall and strong young woman, she’d ended up rowing crew while at Colombia and had achieved some national success.

Since moving to the UK, however, she’d become a weekends-only rower at one of the London clubs, a much less intensive lifestyle.

But with a few weeks to put some extra muscle on at Cambridge’s intensive F45 gym, she would undoubtedly look the part. Which just left her track record.

He’d realised that the best thing would be playing a part that already existed, and after a lot of digging he’d happened upon a persona that had fitted perfectly: that of Aria Lauder.

Aria was a twenty-three-year-old member of the Lauder dynasty, a seriously moneyed family with a lot of land in Vermont. She’d gone to Yale, where she’d rowed crew and ended up competing in the world championships. She had all the prestige Anna was looking for.

But– and this was where he felt as though the fates were shining on them– during her final term at Yale she had come close to overdosing on cocaine, which had turned out to be a serious addiction problem.

She had ended up behaving erratically, and crashing out of the rowing programme in disgrace.

She had been sent to rehab some months ago.

Even better than all this, Anna’s team at the newspaper had found out that Aria was back in rehab again, having removed herself and been readmitted. This information was not online and had taken a lot of careful work to discover.

With all her social media deleted and a reclusive family except for a senator brother who wanted nothing to do with her, Aria couldn’t have been a better pick. And she’d been all Seaton’s discovery.

He’d even been able to find a perfect house for ‘Aria’ to live in– the end terrace of a row that looked out on to Jesus Green.

It sat right next to a series of student houses occupied by Jesus College students but was privately owned.

It had status, of the old-fashioned kind a wealthy American family would likely look for, but it also didn’t look too much for a postgraduate student.

All of this was the kind of thing nobody else would have got right.

It had taken intimate knowledge of the university and its colleges, and of the status signalling that went on in these families.

Even better than feeling he could help, though, Seaton had got to spend time with Anna. He’d felt as though they were at long, long last getting to become a real father and daughter. As though he’d started to make up for two lost decades.

So why did you let her walk into danger? he thought to himself now as he hurried the last steps across towards Anna’s house. You knew she was taking risks. Why didn’t you stop her?

But as he grew close enough to see the number on Anna’s little green front door, and the net curtains in the blank windows, he realised that there was a simple answer to that: he hadn’t wanted to risk Anna retreating from him.

He’d been afraid of driving her away– again– and so he’d kept quiet and played along.

He found himself in front of the door, less than twenty-four hours since he’d last stood here but with a very different feeling coursing through him.

He didn’t really expect his knock to be answered this time, but he still made a point of picking up the hinged brass knocker and rapping it three times.

He was very aware of the sounds around him as he waited: of the rhythmic thock of tennis balls at the courts close by on the green. Of a group of students talking on the grass. Of riotous birdsong, and a hum of background traffic.

From inside the house, however, there was nothing.

With a sick feeling, he pulled out one of the two shiny brass Yale keys he’d been given by the lettings agent.

They’d agreed that he would keep one, in case she needed him to pick something up for her.

But he’d never yet had to use it, and the idea of letting himself into his daughter’s space made him feel uncomfortable.

A sudden, awful thought occurred to him at that point: that she might be here, but not answering because she had company. Could she have stumbled back home with someone after the ball?

Seaton imagined a half-naked, muscular male student standing in the hallway, and he winced.

He bunched the keys into his fist and hammered on the green-painted front door, a no-nonsense sound much harder to ignore than the knocker.

He waited another minute and still gave it another sharp rap before he eventually let himself in.

Even then, he felt it necessary to call out once the door was a few inches open, and then again when it was open all the way.

He remembered, just in time, to call her Aria.

His anxiety was making rational thought challenging.

There was silence within the house. His view inside was of the slightly dim hallway, and it was empty of life.

It did, however, contain Anna’s backpack, which was leaning up against the wall.

On the coat rack there was a range of jackets, the mid-sized Staud shoulder-bag she wore when required to be slightly more formal, and beneath them a selection of sports shoes, heels and everything in between.

None of them had been left in any kind of order.

Seaton moved past them, heading for the large living room, which at least had only a few cups, plates and books scattered around, along with a vase of wilted flowers from Seaton’s own garden that she’d failed to put enough water in.

He tried not to take their unloved state personally. This was just how she was.

When Anna had moved in here, Seaton had arranged for a cleaner to come in two days a week, acutely aware that she might be hosting the Pitt Club group here.

Anna had been outraged by the idea at first. Having someone clean offended all her ideas of independence, personal space and social equality.

But she’d later admitted that it was actually wonderful when the pragmatic Moira come in to just sort everything, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to manage once she went back to her London flat and had to do it all herself.

‘She puts laundry on,’ Anna told him, early on. ‘And then she hangs it out. Like, immediately. Without it having to go through another two times because you forgot to take it out and it reeks. I’m not sure she’s actually a human being.’

Seaton moved through to Anna’s study-bedroom, which was pure chaos.

The bed was unmade, the thick down duvet and pillows piled up in total disarray and the sheet half off.

Any visions he’d had of being able to tell whether she’d slept in it died a death.

Anna was obviously not someone who ever made her bed, which he should have predicted.

He looked for other clues to interpret instead.

Her desk, which she’d propped a mirror on, had a jumble of cosmetics.

Although he wasn’t familiar with the specifics, Seaton recognised the brands: Dior.

Yves Saint Laurent. Helena Rubinstein. He knew that Anna hadn’t used them for her May Ball make-up routine, at any rate.

He’d paid for her to have her hair and make-up done in town by a stylist. He’d been impressed at how Hollywood she’d looked afterwards, though he’d also been a little disturbed at how unlike his daughter she’d suddenly been.

As if she’d been replaced by a glamour model or an actress.

What was missing from the desk was Anna’s laptop, which usually sat there, whenever she hadn’t carried it out to some coffee shop or taken it to London with her. Seaton found himself frowning at the empty space. Was it downstairs, perhaps? In her backpack? Or at the kitchen table?

A quick hunt showed him that it was in none of those places. And that added to his worry considerably. It might be password protected, with hidden files, but it wouldn’t be impossible to break into.

It would be a disaster , Seaton thought with a rush of cold. Everything she’d found out… Who she was…

He tried to stop himself panicking. To think rationally.

She might have taken it somewhere, but he was certain she wouldn’t have taken it along to the May Ball.

The photo she’d sent from the queue had shown her holding only a black-and-silver handbag to match her dress, with a pair of hot-pink shoes poking out of the top.

Flat shoes for later in the night, he’d guessed.

Did she come back here? he thought. Did she wake up normally, start working and stumble onto something, then forget about meeting me because she was pursuing it?

It was the kind of thing she’d do, but she’d have taken her phone with her. Her real one.

Pulling his own mobile out again, he rang her original number. For a moment, there was no sound– and then he heard an unmistakable buzz from somewhere upstairs.

He felt his heart squeeze as he hurried to the first floor, chasing the sound until he found its hiding place: a Prada sunglasses box in the bottom of her wardrobe. He had to slide all of her dresses to one side to see it, and crouch down to pick the box up.

With the phone in his hand he began to feel a real, creeping sense of fear. It was here, and she was not.

And into his subconscious crept the other thing he hadn’t quite registered along the way.

The dress , he thought. The dress isn’t here.

The Dolce & Gabbana dress that Anna had spent a fortune on– his fortune on– and which she’d been wearing when he’d last seen her– it wasn’t here.

Which meant that Anna had gone to the ball and had never made it home.