We squeal in on two wheels. A skinny figure in bottle-bottom spectacles windmills an arm along a line of wooden holiday huts. “That way!”
At the end of the line, the last of the huts stands with the door swinging open, the lock smashed. From inside, a baby’s hysterical shriek.
Brakes screeching, the car’s still moving as I fling my door and sprint inside...
… and at the end of a corridor shimmy past a semi-blocked door…
… to find Michael in a living room, the back door swinging.
“Charlotte!” Then, flinging an arm to point somewhere behind an upturned couch. “Vicky!” he yells, then bolts out of the door. From behind me, police stream through the house then out again, following him.
A hand claps on my shoulder. Chad. “They’re following your Mom. Let’s get your sister.” His head swings
