The rain poured down on the Rhonda Valley as Celia and Clive waited in earnest for news.

It had been four days since Rhiannon had gone missing, and they hadn’t slept a wink since. They didn’t care to, either—hope and desperation kept them awake; and alive.

What if the man in the white top had seen something? What if the blue Volvo was significant? The questions raced through Clive’s mind as he desperately seeked answers; seeked something which could lift the abominable burden of guilt.

The telephone rang. Celia, hesitating for a moment, delicately held the receiver and lifted it to her ear.

“Yes?” she whispered, hoarsely. With every word, that deep, agonising pain which could grow no stronger had now grown one thousand times so. Each word pierced Celia’s heart like a poison dart. The pain was unbearable.