Excerpt from One Puzzling Afternoon by Emily Critchley, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I saw Lucy Theddle today."

Josie jumps and turns around. "Oh, Edie. I thought you were in the living room." She recovers herself and continues rinsing a fork under the tap. "Who's Lucy Theddle then?"

"She disappeared in 1951." As I say the words aloud I feel surprised that this is something I know, and by my certainty.

"Mm." Josie puts a plate on the drying rack. "Perhaps she moved away? Did you eat an egg last night?" She holds up my blue and white striped eggcup.

Did I eat an egg last night? Perhaps I did. My mother always used to overdo them, cook them until they were dry and rubbery.

I can see my mother now, sitting at the kitchen table, her rollers in, cigarette in hand, the toast still warm in the rack, looking at the front page of the Ludthorpe Leader. She's got the wireless radio on and Eddie Fisher sings "Anytime You're Feeling Lonely." It must be a Saturday because the BBC Light Programme doesn't usually start until I'm at school. I've got a boiled egg on my plate—­a real one, which means the weather is warm. We mostly have powdered egg in winter, although my mother swaps tinned egg for nylons, not strictly legal, but many people swap rations. You wouldn't think we actually won the war, my mother is fond of saying. The egg is probably supposed to be a treat, although it's overdone and I don't want it. My mother doesn't eat much as she worries about her figure. She blows her cigarette smoke out of the side of her mouth so it avoids me, glances down at the front page of the paper, at Lucy's picture: I do hope they're doing all they can to find her.

Of course, my mother knows all about Lucy. Lucy is in my year at school. Not only that, she's the mayor's daughter. Our town has talked of nothing else all week.

I'm looking at the paper, at the grainy photograph of Lucy standing in her back garden, rose bushes behind her. Her younger brother has been cut from the picture, but I can see his small fingers curled around hers. They'd been dressed in their Sunday best, told to stand still for the photograph. Lucy is wearing a white dress with a lace collar.

"Edie, are you okay?"

Josie is staring at me. Eddie Fisher's voice fades.

"Yes. I'm fine."

She peels off the marigolds and drapes them over the sink. "Well, go and sit down. I'll bring some biscuits through, shall I?"

"We don't have any. I've run out."

"Nonsense." Josie opens the cupboard. She waves a packet of custard creams at me. "I told you I bought these last Tuesday and put them in here for you."

"Oh, those biscuits," I say, pretending I hadn't forgotten about them. "Yes, let's have those biscuits then."

I pause next to my calendar. It's National Geographic. I'm in October—­the Taj Mahal—­although I'll be able to change it to November next week. Daniel is coming over on Friday; I've written Daniel 5pm. Fish and Chips.

I take a pen and write in today's square Saw Lucy Theddle outside Post Office.

In the living room, I pick up the crossword, intending to give it another go. I'm not very adept at them but I like to try. Daniel tells me they are good for my brain, like oily fish and walnuts, neither of which I am fond of. I usually end up getting stuck on the crossword and asking someone else if they have any ideas. Sometimes I just can't think quickly enough. It was much easier with Arthur. Arthur was always good at the crossword.

Josie finally appears with the mugs, the custard creams tucked under her arm. The tea is too hot but she takes quick, tiny sips. No doubt there is somewhere else she needs to be before she collects her small scabby-­kneed son from school. I always forget his name. It's something silly like "Tree" or "Sky."

"So who's Lucy Theddle?"

Josie is talking to me but looking at the screen of her phone, perhaps thinking about something she needs to do. She's trying to be in two places at once. I know how she feels, although I never try to be in two places at once, it just happens. The problem is, when you've got so much past behind you, it creeps into the present.

Excerpted from One Puzzling Afternoon by Emily Critchley. Copyright © 2023 by Emily Critchley. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks Landmark. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.