The newspaper screams a headline at me: Body Found In Search of Missing Teen. I can’t take my eyes away, even as I slot the bread into the toaster. My mum probably bought the paper on her morning dash to the corner shop and I know it’s not meant for me to read. Still, I can’t help sliding it closer as I wait for my toast and the kettle to boil. I’ve heard about this case. The victim is just a little younger than me, but I don’t know her. She went to school in the southside. That’s where Sally Sanderson was heading to when she went missing, over a month ago now. The school assumed she had been skiving, and hadn’t reported her absent till lunchtime. It had taken even longer for her mother to phone the police. She’d also assumed she was wandering around town all day so she waited until hometime. And she waited. And she waited. Finally, far, far later than she should have, she called to report her missing. The poor woman has been torn to shreds on the news since then. But really, how was she supposed to know that out of all the times her daughter had bunked off, this was the time when something bad had happened? There’s a big picture of the young girl plastered on the front page. A recent selfie. She’s pursing her lips and has her fingers in a peace sign. She could be one of the many girls in my year at school.