This anonymous bubble we live in guards vile secrets of our neighbours
In the harrowing days following her daughter's disappearance, Louwana Miller existed on a steady diet of cigarettes and blind hope at her home in Cleveland.
She kept Amanda's bedroom just the way it had been on the day she vanished, her bed unmade, her teddy bear resting against her pillow, her laundry neatly folded on her bedside bureau.
Louwana tortured herself by replaying in her mind Amanda's cheery last words – "I've got a ride. I'll call you back" – as though this most banal of sentences might offer a clue, any clue, as to where her beloved Mandy could be.