Praise for Louise Jensen

‘The term page-turner was made for books like this. Intricate plotting, incredible pace, and a wonderful weaving of past and present’

Andrea Mara

‘Full of twists, turns with fiendishly clever misdirection, this is a gripping, powerful and ambitious book’

Philippa East

‘What a story! . . . The twists and turns of both the backstory and the present-day plot had me turning the pages, wondering how it all fitted together – and when the truth started to unfold, it did not disappoint. Absolutely loved it’

Helen Cooper

‘Louise Jensen is the master of suspense . . . Taut, atmospheric and utterly compulsive’

Kia Abdullah

‘A gripping, edge of your seat thriller you won’t want to stop reading!’

Lauren North

‘A galloping pulse-pounder’

Heat

‘Gripping thriller’

Woman & Home

‘Red herrings will boggle the mind and you’ll be left open-mouthed by the turn of events’

Woman’s Weekly

‘A compelling page-turner’

Bella

‘Emotionally gripping story’

Woman

Also by Louise Jensen

The Intruders

The Fall

All For You

The Stolen Sisters

The Family

The Gift

The Sister

The Surrogate

Writing as Amelia Henley

From Now On

The Art of Loving You

The Life We Almost Had

About the Author

Louise Jensen began writing after an accident left her with a disability, enforcing a complete lifestyle change. She has sold over 1.5 million copies of her international number 1 psychological thrillers, which all contain complex characters and unexpected twists. She’s been nominated for several awards including the Goodreads Debut, the Guardian’s ‘Not the Booker’, a CWA Dagger and best Polish Thriller. Her novels have also been translated into twenty-five languages and optioned for TV.

As well as regularly returning to the number 1 spot in the Kindle charts, Louise’s books have been featured on the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller lists. Louise also writes emotional book-club fiction as Amelia Henley.

When she’s not writing, she finds inspiration during country walks with her dog.

Follow her on

Instagram logo. @fabricating_fiction

Facebook logo. @fabricatingfiction

Note to Readers

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For Mouse & Hawkshoo, who turned out not to be losers after all …

Contents

Cover

Also by Louise Jensen

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Book Club Questions (Contains Spoilers)

Keep Reading …

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Friday

Mel

The text, when it came, unfurled the dread that had always been there in the pit of Mel’s stomach. The dread she carried from living a lie. The constant fear of being found out.

Of being found.

7 days. You have 7 days or I’ll ruin your life like you ruined mine.

Chapter 2

Saturday

jen

Something has broken inside Mum. I see it in the haunted look in her eyes, the way she anxiously keeps checking her phone. From the lack of colour in her cheeks to her smile, tight and forced.

We’re in the kitchen, the radio on. Music usually cheers her up.

‘I love this song.’ I nudge her when she doesn’t answer. ‘“7 Days”.’

She visibly jumps. ‘What? What did you say?’ Her eyes are wide.

‘Craig David. “7 Days”.’ I begin to sing but she doesn’t join in. ‘Mum, are you okay?’

I wave my hand in front of her face as she stares off into space. ‘Earth to Mel Abbott. Come in, Mel Abbott.’

‘Sorry, Jen. Did you say something else?’

If I ask again, she’ll say she’s okay. My concerns will be batted away with a light and airy ‘I’m fine’ as though I’m six, not twenty-six, and need protecting, but then that’s Mum. Always trying to protect everyone. If I press her she’ll tell me that work has been tough, and I don’t doubt that it is. As a social worker she has seen things I never want to see. Battled against the system, the lack of funding, limited resources, trying to do her best for the kids. I think, if she could, she’d like to hide some of them away, somewhere safe, rather than filling out endless paperwork, waiting for court orders.

She won’t discuss her cases with me. She can’t, so instead of pushing her, I ask, ‘How about a picnic today?’ I guess it’s kind of a distraction technique, the type she’d used on me when I was young. A bag of chocolate buttons produced in one hand so I stopped focusing on my scraped knee.

‘Jen, it’s freezing.’

‘It isn’t. It’s really mild for November and who knows how long we’ve got before the winter weather hits?’

‘I don’t kn—’

‘Please, Mum,’ Amy chips in. ‘We can wrap up warm.’ At thirteen she still has that cute factor as she flutters her eyelashes.

‘I don’t know. We don’t have lot of food in.’ She’s wavering.

‘We can go to the shop. Come on, sis.’ Amy is pulling me to my feet. Both of us hurrying out of the door before Mum can change her mind.

At the little Tesco we sling food haphazardly into the basket. Me, going for anything with a yellow reduced sticker on, Amy chucking in whatever she fancies. I discreetly remove some of her selections when she isn’t looking. Despite Mum and I working full-time, money isn’t stretching as far as it used to, not that we’ve let Amy know that.

It’s while I’m waiting at the self-service checkout drumming my fingers impatiently against my leg as the red light flashes that I need help, that I think I see him and for a second I feel the floor rock beneath my feet. My fingers tighten around the handles of my basket. Is it him? The profile is the same, the bump in his nose from where it had been broken.

‘Are you okay?’ The young assistant stalks towards us, high ponytail swinging. I want to tell her that I was, but now I’m not, when Amy chimes in, ‘We’ve accidentally scanned the quiche twice,’ and I realise she wasn’t talking about me at all. I glance out of the window while the assistant punches in her code but the street is quiet, empty. I’m left with a sense of unease though as I stuff everything into our canvas bags. Whilst we hurry home I manage to convince myself that I must have been mistaken.

In the kitchen, it’s too quiet. Mum staring absentmindedly out of the window, nursing a cup of milky coffee, a skin forming on the top. We’re usually a house of music and laughter. I flick the radio back on. TLC streams out of the speakers. Amy and I begin to sing, Mum finally relaxing a little, joining in as she butters the bread I’ve unpacked from the bags. ‘Don’t go, Jason Waterfalls.’ Amy and I exchange a look, a grin, knowing there’s no point telling Mum there is no Jason Waterfalls because by the next time she hears this song she’ll have forgotten. She always gets lyrics muddled up. So we sing the same words, me grating cheese, Amy piling on Branston pickle, our voices growing louder as we plead for Jason Waterfalls not to go. Amy and I dance around each other, my hips swinging as I rinse grapes under the tap, Amy filling up our pastel Chilly’s bottles with water. We’ve always pulled our weight, the three of us a team. Perhaps it’s Dad not living with us that has strengthened our bond. Mum is the stitching holding us together. It’s a testament to her that we never felt his absence as keenly as we could have. As a family, we’ve never felt less.

The mood is definitely lighter by the time we pack up the car.

‘Shall we ask Camilla and Mason?’ I ask. Until seven weeks ago my best friend and her four-year-old son had lived with us. Sometimes I forget we’re not related. She’s been part of our family for years and we’re all missing them.

‘Yeah.’ Amy bunches her hair off her face, securing it with a purple scrunchie that had been looped around her wrist. She’s changing, growing, her face leaner. She’s beautiful and she doesn’t even know it yet.

Picnic! You in? I text Camilla. We can pick you up?

Still in pyjamas, join you later!

I don’t need to tell Camilla where we’ll be. Ashwood Forest has always been our go-to place. Not just for casual outings but for birthday parties where Mum would tie bunting around branches and laden a trestle table, wobbly on the uneven ground, with bowls of Wotsits and mini sausage rolls. Playing hide and seek amongst the trees. Paddling in the lake because Mum never let us actually swim in it – ‘It’s deeper than you think, dangerous.’

The tranquil surroundings look anything but dangerous as we bump down the uneven track, a glimpse of glistening water visible through branches that have shrugged off their orange and golden leaves. The patch of grass where the few dog walkers and hikers who do know about this place park their cars is empty. There’s another beauty spot a five-minute drive away. Wakefield Woods. That one has a café, ice cream kiosk, toilets, dedicated bike tracks and a pretty courtyard lined with local craft and produce shops.

Here it is normally deserted. Even the wooden hut that used to host school trips is rotting away after funding was cut.

‘Last one down to the lake is a loser.’ Amy is out of the car before Mum has properly parked and then she’s running, badminton set clutched to her chest, twigs cracking underfoot, leaving a trail of shuttlecocks in her wake.

The boot opens with a click and I lift out the heavy rucksack before Mum can grab it, handing her the blankets to carry instead. As a child I never really thought about how much Mum did for us in her role as both a mother and a father. She’d heft our bikes onto the rack on the roof of the car, uncomplaining. Fix grease-smeared chains, flat tyres. Looking back through adult eyes I can see that she coped with a lot, taking everything in her stride. Suddenly I feel an overwhelming urge to tell her how grateful I am, how much I love her, but she’s already racing ahead. Calling for Amy to stop and give her a hand carrying things. Mum shoves the pile of blankets into Amy’s arms when she comes back to help, before pelting towards the sparkling water, turning as she reaches the clearing first, forming an ‘L’ with her fingers on her forehead, breathless, laughing.

‘That’s not fair,’ Amy says.

‘Life isn’t fair.’ I jog past her, rucksack bumping on my back, straps digging into my shoulders.

‘Hey.’ Amy catches up with me, overtakes me. ‘Jen’s the loser,’ she shouts as she joins Mum but I think, as I’m overcome with a rush of affection for my family, that really I’m the winner.

By the time I reach the clearing I’m dragging in air that isn’t fume-filled like our street can be, but fresh, earthy. We’re only twenty minutes from home but it feels like a million miles. Even the sky is clearer. We’ve been here before at night to show Amy the constellations. Lying under the velvety darkness with a million popping stars shimmering above us. The sense that we were the only three people in the world.

Mum spreads out the blanket and after I’ve dumped the rucksack Amy and I string a net up and try to play badminton. A robin cocks his head from a nearby branch, watching us. I don’t know why we put ourselves through it, we should know by now how rubbish we are. We blame the breeze for snatching the shuttlecock, the sun for shining in our eyes, the slight slope for making running impossible. Everything except for the fact we’re both uncoordinated. Unfit.

We flop to the ground. Mum produces a pad of magenta Post-it notes and three pens.

‘Who am I?’ Amy pounces on a pen and begins to scrawl a name on her note. Likely someone we’ve never heard of from one of the obscure Eighties detective shows she’s obsessed with. Mum’s looking thoughtful but she’ll pick a singer, she always does.

Who am I?

A chill snakes down my spine because, aside from this game, it’s a question I’ve been giving a lot of thought to.

Especially today.

Especially since I thought I saw him.

Who am I?

Stop it.

I am fine. We are safe. Everything is just as it should be.

‘Hurry up, Jen,’ Amy urges and I quickly scribble ‘Charlotte Brontë’ not solely because I’m an English teacher but because I think she was inspirational. She had something to say and she didn’t let the fact that women didn’t have careers, that it was almost unheard of for them to publish novels, prevent her from chasing her dream.

I stick my Post-it to Amy’s forehead. ‘You can go first.’

‘Am I an author?’

‘Might be.’ I shrug.

‘Jen!’

‘Okay. Yes.’

‘One of the Brontës.’

I try to keep my expression neutral while Amy studies my face before grinning triumphantly.

‘Charlotte Brontë.’ She punches the air with her fists. ‘Got it in two questions! Beat that.’

I think I can at least equal it because we all know each other so well.

Or so I thought, then.

‘Am I a singer?’ I ask Mum.

She says yes and I wait, knowing that she’ll inadvertently begin softly humming one of their songs.

‘ABBA!’ I recognise the faint strains of ‘Dancing Queen’.

‘Friday night,’ Amy begins to sing knowing Mum will join in with a ‘See that girl, watch her scream’.

I laugh when she does and Mum looks affronted. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. Your turn, Mum.’

Mum makes multiple guesses before turning to me for help. We interrogate Amy before giving up.

‘It’s Zeus and Apollo.’

‘The Greek gods?’ Mum asks. ‘But—’

‘No. The doberman dogs from Magnum, P.I.’

‘You can’t have two names.’

‘Says who? You can’t separate them. Anyway, I knew you’d never guess two names, but that’s the point, isn’t it? To win?’

We are squabbling over whether Amy broke the rules when we hear a high-pitched giggle.

Seconds later Camilla and Mason emerge from the trees. He’s wearing bright yellow wellington boots. She’s dragging a large fire-engine-red cart, damp leaves sticking to the wheels. It’s the one we bought last year when we all went to Norfolk. The path down to the sand was steep and the amount of paraphernalia we took for a day at the beach with a small child was ridiculous. Today, Mason is still clutching his bucket and spade. After the recent rain, the earth should be soft enough to dig.

Camilla waves.

‘You should have texted you were here, I’d have come to help,’ I say.

‘It’s okay. It’s not like I’m carrying anything.’ She steadies the cart while Mason scrambles out.

‘Wow, that’s a lot of toys you’ve brought.’ Mum lifts a football out.

‘Aunty Lissa.’ Mason couldn’t pronounce Melissa when he began to speak and I don’t know why he didn’t go with Mel, but it’s Lissa that stuck. ‘You can go in goal. Amy, you are on my team. The other grown-ups,’ he waves his pudgy arm dismissively at Camilla and me, ‘can be on the other team.’

We form a makeshift goal with our coats.

‘First one to five.’ Amy dribbles the ball, kicking it gently to Mason, who picks it up and runs towards Mum before launching it at the goal. Mum makes a show of trying to save it, diving dramatically to the side.

It’s good to see her having fun, laughing. Whatever has been troubling her momentarily forgotten, but then Mason has that effect on everyone. It’s virtually impossible to feel low while he’s around.

It isn’t long before Camilla heads over to the blankets, wrapping one around her shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. She looks tired and has lost weight since she moved out. Mum and I usually split the cooking, Camilla hates it, and although I know she’ll be feeding Mason a decent diet, I hope she’s looking after herself too.

‘Still adjusting to living alone.’ She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I don’t tell her she didn’t need to move out, she knows she didn’t, or tell her that she can always come back, she knows she can. Instead, I ask if there’s anything I can do.

‘Feed me.’ She covers her stomach dramatically and, laughing, I unpack the food.

We chat as we eat. Mason carefully removing all of the pastry from a pork pie, squidging it into Mum’s hand before he eats the meat. I pass Camilla an apple. She pulls out the multitool that Mum gave her on their first camping trip and deftly slices it with the knife attachment.

When we’ve cleared away, Mason wants to play football again.

‘I don’t know where you get the energy from,’ Mum says. ‘How about charades while we let our lunch go down?’

Mason springs to his feet. ‘Me first, me first.’

He jumps into his cart, it wobbles but Camilla has grabbed the handle before it can roll. He places both hands on the top of his head like a light. ‘Nee naw, nee naw.’

‘You’re an … ice cream van?’ I guess.

‘No, silly head.’

‘A shark?’ Amy breaks into the theme from Jaws.

‘No. Aunty Jen? What am I?’

Who am I.

Later, back at home, we’ve eaten salt-and-vinegar-drenched chips. Mason is dozing off at the table.

‘Time to get you home.’ Camilla lifts him onto her hip. ‘Goodness, I don’t need to go to the gym anymore, lugging you about.’

‘Do you want to stay?’ Mum offers.

Camilla hesitates, Mason pitching in with an ‘I want Aunty Lissa to read me a story.’

‘I need to get him used to the flat.’ Camilla’s almost apologetic.

‘Why don’t I come to you and help with bedtime?’ Mum says, although she looks just as exhausted as Camilla.

After they’ve left, Amy heads up to her room.

I sit on the sofa, shattered. There’s a new crime series on ITV. The police have unearthed a body. Are uncovering secrets.

My mind drags me back to Tesco.

That profile.

That broken nose.

Him.

And yet, it can’t be.

I startle as there’s a clatter from outside, followed by a yowling.

‘Marmalade?’ I call out the front door. Our ginger cat comes padding in.

Back on the sofa, I stroke his back rhythmically. The sky is darkening, blue to grey to black.

It’s nine thirty. Well past Mason’s bedtime.

Mum still hasn’t come home.

Chapter 3

Sunday

jen

Mum got home late last night. ‘Mason wouldn’t settle,’ she tells me. Her movements are slow and leaden as she lumbers around the kitchen this morning as though exhaustion has rendered her incapable of moving her body properly. Last night, I had heard crying, muffled sobs into the pillow she’s taken to spraying liberally with sleep spray, but when I’d gently tapped on her bedroom door, stepped over the threshold into the lavender-scented room, the soft carpet swallowing my footsteps, Mum had feigned sleep.

It could be that it was a wrench leaving Mason. He’s like a grandson to her. Camilla another daughter. Or it could be something else entirely.

Him?

I need to broach the topic of who I thought I saw in case Mum has seen him too, in case that explains her weird behaviour, but I don’t think this is the right time, although I’m at a loss to know when will be.

Not when it could change everything.

Ruin everything.

The new life we’ve carefully built for ourselves suddenly seems paper-card fragile.

I hadn’t slept well either. Lying stiffly on my back as the hours slid by, listening to the traffic outside, tensing as headlights passed by the window, light and shadows creeping across the ceiling. My fingers gripping the edge of the duvet wondering who was in the cars driving by in the early hours.

What they wanted.

Who they wanted.

The cutlery drawer rattles as Mum yanks it open.

‘Why don’t you sit down? I can make you some breakfast,’ I offer.

‘I’m already on it.’

The smell of coffee, strong and dark, is the kickstart I need. I wrap my hands gratefully around the mug Mum pushes towards me; it has the words ‘World’s Best Daughter’ on it. I don’t think I am, even though I’ve spent years trying to make amends. It was a stocking filler last year. Mum had also bought one for Amy because, despite our age gap, despite everything, she’s always treated us the same.

Mum’s spreading golden honey carefully onto toast, reaching all the corners, the knife dripping sticky globules onto the table.

‘Here.’ She slides it across to me but I don’t have an appetite. While Mum pops two more slices of white bread under the grill I press my thumb against the crumbs around the rim of the plate but my mouth is dry and I cannot swallow them down.

I have to tell her.

‘Mum,’ I begin as she says, ‘Amy hasn’t surfaced yet? I remember when I used to be able to sleep through Sunday mornings.’

‘Oh to be thirteen again,’ I reply instinctively, stupidly, my eyes stinging with tears, even after all this time, remembering what had happened to me as a teenager, what I did. It’s a time period I never want to return to. I know I’m overemotional today because I’m tired and, in truth, scared, but this doesn’t stop my throat closing as unwanted memories tug at me.

But then I’m pulled to my feet by smoke spiralling from the grill, the smoke alarm shrilling.

While Mum plucks out the charred toast with two fingers, dropping it into the bin, I flap a red-and-white-chequered tea towel towards the plastic disc on the ceiling until the noise stops.

‘At least we know the alarm works.’ Mum rinses her fingers under the cold tap, wincing.

‘We know that from the landlord’s visit on Friday.’ I crack open the window, the breeze immediately splattering droplets of rain onto the sill. It isn’t the unseasonably cold morning air snaking into the kitchen that causes a shiver to dart down my spine but the thought of the landlord in my bedroom. Mum had called him to look at the leaky bathroom taps and he’d asked that while he was here could he carry out an inspection on the rest of the property?

Mum had rushed to Amy’s room to carefully peel her posters from the walls because, despite us paying an extortionate amount of rent every month for our home, it isn’t supposed to resemble one. The walls are devoid of picture hooks, painted magnolia, not the bright, patterned wallpaper we’d prefer.

In the kitchen, I had quickly hidden all traces of Marmalade, shoving his bowls into a Tesco bag at the back of the cupboard, shooing him from his favourite spot in the patch of late-afternoon sunlight that illuminates the window seat by the back door. We’d never intended on getting a pet but he’d showed up one day on the doorstep, ear torn, so thin his ribs were visible, and fixed us with pitiful eyes. He hadn’t been chipped, and I was worried if he’d gone to a shelter then nobody would adopt him. He wasn’t exactly pretty. Amy had fallen in love with him too and we’d tag-teamed Mum to break the rules, which I guess was unfair as we both know how Mum likes to abide by them.

After I had turned the polka-dot seat pads upside down to hide the ginger animal hair, I had leaned against the worktop, arms crossed, staring out at a sparrow with sharp claws curved around the feeder, pecking furiously at the fat balls.

‘At least he agreed we can sublet,’ Mum says.

I don’t answer. I’d felt violated when he was here somehow, and that’s the way I feel again now when I think of what’s to come.

‘Mum?’ I don’t want to be awkward because I owe so much – everything – to this strong and stoic woman who would lay down her life for her family if she had to, but I cannot prevent the thoughts in my head from spilling out of my mouth. ‘Are you sure about this lodger?’

It’s an effort to keep the whine from my voice, I am not eight years old anymore – Do we have to go to the dentist? The optician? The supermarket? – because although I am an adult now, regardless of my achievements, sometimes I fall into the role of a petulant child. Part of me had hoped that the landlord would refuse permission when Mum had asked him at the weekend whether we could rent out the room Camilla used to share with Mason, but he’d bared his yellowing teeth into a smile as he’d agreed, looking at Mum’s cleavage, not at her face.

Creep.

‘I am, but we don’t have to have someone else living here. I thought you were okay with this?’

Mum’s words are nuanced and although there is no pressure in them, I feel it pressing down on me regardless. After the bills are paid and the groceries bought, there isn’t much left over at the end of the month. I know the extra rent won’t be spent on luxuries. Mum wants to help out Camilla who doesn’t have anyone but us. This hasn’t explicitly been said but Mum worries about Camilla, worries about everyone. Even I have doubts about how Camilla will manage, living alone for the first time since she’s become a mum. The cost of raising a child, the cost of everything right now, is crazy. She had looked exhausted at the picnic yesterday. Her Etsy shop selling handmade jewellery is doing well but is it enough?

I’m only half-listening, drifting away, wondering what it might be like.

A stranger in our home.

My bare feet in the shower, standing where theirs have stood, in the residue of their soapy water.

Flakes of their dead skin, invisible on the mattress, the sheets. Their sweat soaking into the pillow.

Their eyes travelling over my drying underwear draped over the clotheshorse on the landing, once-white Bridget Jones pants and greying bras fraying at the strap.

An enquiring gaze sweeping over our family photos which are crammed onto every available surface, privy to our most intimate moments. Mum cradling a newborn Amy in a pale lemon blanket while I gazed in wonder at the new addition to our family. My first day at school, white socks bunched around my ankles, and later, Amy standing proudly outside the local primary, pigtails tied with bright red ribbons. The pictures of Dad have long since been removed but the ones of the three of us – the three musketeers, Mum calls us – remain constant. We’re so alike with our dark, unruly hair, our brown eyes.

Will the lodger judge us?

Me, for sometimes throwing things into the recycling tub without washing them out properly, Amy retrieving them, grumbling as she rinses tin cans clean. Lecturing me about the environment, which I do care about but admittedly, occasionally, I’m not as diligent as I could be. Amy, for her obsession with ancient crime shows on obscure channels, Cagney & Lacey, Dempsey and Makepeace, terrible hairstyles and terrible fashion and she loves everything about them. Mum, endlessly singing, tunelessly, most of the lyrics mixed up and back to front.

‘Jen?’ The sharpness in Mum’s voice brings me back to now. ‘Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’ll be handy having a plumber here, won’t it? Saves calling the landlord if we have an emergency. I hope you like him when he comes later. Make sure you apologise for my absence. It’s a shame that he has to move out of his house in the eastern district, it sounds so nice, but—’

‘What? When’s he coming? Why am I the one meeting him?’

‘I’ve just explained all of this. He’s coming this afternoon. I’ve already met him and liked him. I want you and Amy to meet him too. Make sure you’re comfortable before he moves in.’

‘But where will you be?’

‘I’m popping up to see Uncle Donald,’ she says nonchalantly as though this is an everyday occurrence. It isn’t. Not when popping there means a three-hour round trip.

‘Is he sick?’ This is my immediate thought.

Mum seems to slump, pain flickering across her face. She gathers herself, straightening her spine. She shakes her head while rummaging in her bag, hair falling across her face, masking her expression.

‘Aunty Carol?’ Then an even worse thought slams into me. ‘Mum … are you ill?’

‘No. Aunty Carol’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’

But nothing is fine and Mum is leaving and I haven’t even told her the thing I need to say, which gnaws away in the pit of my stomach.

‘Why don’t Amy and I come with you?’ I could do with a change of scene and I haven’t seen Uncle Don for ages.

‘Because the lodger is coming,’ Mum reminds me. ‘Taking a lodger isn’t a decision I’ve come to lightly. Not with you and Amy in the house, but I’ve checked out his references and they’re good. He’s paid a holding deposit but I can always give him that back.’ Mum runs through who she’s spoken to and what she’s found out as Amy shuffles into the kitchen on pink-unicorn-slippered feet. ‘If you really don’t like him then we’ll forget it, but if it’s just that you’re opposed to change then—’

‘Smoke alarm woke me up.’ Amy yawns. ‘I figured as no one came to rescue me the house isn’t actually on fire. Any Coco Pops?’

‘Good morning to you?’ Mum tries to plant a kiss on her head but Amy wriggles away, rolls her eyes at me in a she-still-thinks-we’re-babies way.

‘What do you think about us getting a lodger?’ Unfairly, I fish for back-up. We’ve never really needed a ‘them and us’, not even when Dad was around, but sometimes Amy and I fall into a team, united that yes, we do want pizza for dinner again, yes, we will look after a cat between us.

Amy shrugs. Stirring the cereal Mum had placed before her, the milk turning chocolatey around her spoon.

‘It’ll be cool. Someone else here. It’s too quiet without Camilla and Mason. Yesterday was fun at the forest.’

This is something we all agree on. It’s understandable that Camilla wants her own space, that Mason is too old now, at four, to share a bed with her – he’ll be starting school next year – but their absence stretches to every corner. The flattened patch of carpet that runs in front of the sideboard in the living room where Mason’s play mat used to be. As a baby he’d lie on it, wearing only a nappy, kicking his chubby legs, small hands reaching for the activity gym above his head, a mirror, a rattle, a dolphin that squealed, all dangling enticingly within reach. As a toddler he’d crouch on the mat on his haunches, vrooming cars across it. Despite our multiple hoovering efforts, the beige pile has not sprung back up.

I still find myself twisting sidewards in the hallway as I head for the front door, despite there now being space where the buggy used to be.

Camilla is only around the corner, we still see each other all the time, but then, like after the fish and chips last night, she leaves and it’s just not the same.

Perhaps I am not scared of change per se, but reluctant about it. Craving the familiarity because there was a time when everything was so overwhelming, so uncertain, that I relish the structure, the routine I have now. Without Camilla and Mason the shape of my world has changed and I need to adjust to the new form it’s taken.

‘I’m off now.’ Mum scoops her car keys from the hook by the back door. ‘Look after your sister.’ Mum pulls Amy in for a hug before she turns to me and says exactly the same thing. ‘Look after your sister.’ She wraps her arms around my neck. There’s no waft of hairspray the way there would be if it were a work day and she’d tried to tame her curls. Instead she smells of Mum, and I hold her forearms around me because suddenly, inexplicably, I don’t want to let her go. I have such a strong sense of foreboding. An unknown change hurtling towards me.

‘I don’t need a babysitter anymore, Mum.’ Amy wipes a dribble of milk from her chin with her sleeve. ‘What are you going to do with me when Jen moves out?’

Mum’s arms stiffen around me.

We both know why I haven’t moved out yet, why I won’t.

Why, however much I sometimes want to, I just can’t.

I close my eyes, picturing what I thought I saw yesterday.

Who I thought I saw.

Chapter 4

Sunday

jen

I’ve a sense of being trapped after Mum has left. Trapped inside of this house, unable to go out until the prospective lodger has come. Trapped by my own tumultuous thoughts.

‘Want to play a game?’ I ask Amy.

‘Nah. Maybe later.’ She stomps upstairs and I hear the door to her bedroom noisily close.

Welcome to the teenage years.

Yesterday at the forest it was great, but she has reached the age where she doesn’t always want to be around her family. That became apparent when, after qualifying two years ago, I had taken my first teaching post at Amy’s school. It wasn’t for her year group so I wasn’t expecting her to be so mortified.

‘You can’t teach at Sommerford!’ Revulsion had crossed Amy’s face and I had actually stepped backwards as though I’d been pushed. ‘You’re my sister. It’ll be totally embarrassing.’

‘I …’ I had trailed off. Not knowing what to say. Whether I should decline the position. There’d be other schools, perhaps not so close to home, but before I could formulate a response Mum had stepped in.

‘You should be proud of your sister, Amy, not embarrassed. Sommerford is a great school. It’s a really good opportunity for Jen.’

‘Suppose,’ Amy had said reluctantly and I had relaxed, but then when I’d been putting some laundry away in Amy’s room I had seen the open notebook on her desk. Her latest story, ‘The Mystery of Why My Sister Ruined My Life’, was about a girl whose sister became her teacher, and my stomach had dropped. Although, as an English teacher, I was usually proud of Amy’s imagination and her stories, all I had felt was an immense wave of hurt.

It had been tempting to confront Amy. To ask her how she thinks I had felt when, at a time other girls my age were experimenting with make-up and dates and hanging around shopping centres, I was dragged along to soft-play areas and farms. Seeing the way my friends stared at Mum pushing a buggy when we were out. Hearing them make jokes about how gross it was Mum having sex when she was ancient, and although now I’m in my mid-twenties I can see now that Mum being in her thirties when Amy came along wasn’t old at all. Still, the sniggering had stung at the time. But even when I had been embarrassed, I had never, not once, thought that Amy had ruined my life. Not when she was born. Not when Dad, unable to cope with an unplanned arrival, with another bout of middle-of-the-night feeds and nappy changing, had left.

I had taken that notebook to Mum, my eyes full of tears. ‘I have to turn down the job at Amy’s school.’

‘She’s just a child, she doesn’t mean it,’ Mum had said.

A shadow falls across the table. ‘I was just thinking of you,’ I say as Amy wanders back into the kitchen in her pyjamas.

‘What about me?’

‘Your reaction when I got the job at Sommerford.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that. I was a bit of a bitch.’

‘You don’t mind I teach there now?’

‘Nah. The boys voted you hottest teacher at the end of term. They’re all nice to me in the hope I’ll invite them around and they might get to see your bra or something. I know they’re not real friends though. It’s … What do you call it when Marmalade jumps on your lap because he wants something?’

‘Cupboard love.’

‘Yeah that. Basically, out for what they can get.’

I’ve showered and dressed when the doorbell chimes. By the time I reach the front door it’s open. Mason hurtling towards me with his arms spread wide. ‘Aunty Jen, Aunty Jen.’

I sweep him into my arms, hitch him onto my hip and smother his cheek with kisses. His mouth is stained red and he smells of strawberries and rain. His hair damp.

‘You’ve grown since yesterday. You’ve got even heavier.’ I bend my knees sharply, pretending to drop him. He shrieks with laughter but then, spotting Amy over my shoulder, wriggles to be free. ‘Amy, Amy. Look at my Thomas the Tank Engine shoes. They flash when I run!’

‘Show me,’ Amy encourages, even though she has – we all have – seen them umpteen times before. They pound upstairs together.

Camilla is shimmying out of her raincoat, tugging off her wellies.

‘You don’t have to ring the bell before you let yourself in, you know?’ I say. ‘You okay?’

Camilla’s eyes are circled with deep violet bags. Her hair is unbrushed, scraped back into a ponytail.

‘I didn’t sleep too well.’

‘Coffee?’

‘All of it, please.’ In the kitchen, she says, ‘I was hoping to talk to your mum. I tried calling several times but she’s not answering her phone.’

Mum is usually glued to her phone unless she’s with clients of course. She’s so dedicated to her job she even has her work calls forwarded to her personal mobile. She isn’t good at setting boundaries.

‘She’s driving right now. She’s gone to see Uncle Don. She left about an hour ago, should be there soon.’

Camilla’s face crumples, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Hey,’ I thread my fingers through hers, ‘what is it?’ I wait, noticing the tremble of Camilla’s lip while she tries to compose herself.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Admit it.’ I gently let go of her hand, holding mine up, palm facing her. It’s our way of calling each other out, stemming from our first year in secondary school. The art teacher had accused Camilla of hiding some craft supplies. She’d concocted an elaborate, implausible story of why it couldn’t have been her.

‘Camilla Hernandez, are you being deliberately mendacious?’ Miss had asked.

‘Yes.’ Camilla had replied and immediately got detention.

‘I thought she meant tenacious,’ she had told me later. ‘Why couldn’t she have just asked if I was lying?’

‘Would you have admitted it?’

‘Not to her, no.’

‘But to me?’ It had seemed imperative that I knew she would always be truthful because our friendship was brand new and there had already been so many lies in my life.

‘I’ll always admit everything to you.’ She had solemnly held up her hand as she had made that vow and I had pressed my palm to hers. ‘I did hide some of the supplies but only because I knew we were supposed to be making necklaces for our mums and I didn’t want to because I don’t have one.’

‘You can share mine,’ I had immediately said and, over the years, she had.

Now, I can feel the warmth of her hand while I wait for her to answer.

‘Okay. There is something wrong.’ It then falls out in a garbled rush. ‘I’m so bloody tired. Mason’s sleep has regressed and I don’t know whether it’s moving out of here that’s unsettled him. Although he’s dry in the day, he doesn’t always go through the night anymore, and he’s awake so many times that even when he’s asleep, I’m lying there waiting for him to wake again and tell me he wants the toilet. Melissa was so good settling him last night after his stories, but the minute she went home he was up again. I was hoping she might have some good advice.’

‘It’ll pass. It’s just a stage.’ I’m out of my depth. What do I possibly know about raising a child on my own? I can’t give her the answers she needs, but I can offer her a break. ‘Why don’t you leave Mason here? Have some time to yourself. I can drop him off tomorrow, sometime before lunch. It’s teacher training day but I’ve only got to go in for a couple of hours and then there’s an online thing I can do from home. Amy will be around if you want him to stay for dinner so you could have the whole day?’

I notice her hesitation, understand why. ‘You’re a wonderful mum but everyone needs a rest sometimes. You must have some commissions to be getting on with?’ Camilla’s bespoke jewellery is stunning. She’d love her own physical shop and is steadily growing her business hoping to achieve that. She’s built such a good reputation already through online reviews.

‘I do have a fair few orders with Christmas coming up but I don’t know about leaving Mason. I don’t know if I can bear to be without him. We’ve never spent a night apart before.’

‘We’re only five minutes away if he needs you.’

‘But you look exhausted yourself, Jen. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ I lie.

My eyes meet hers. In mine is a plea. I want her to hold up her hand. Ask me to ‘admit it’ because I desperately need to talk to someone even though I’ve never told her about him, Andy, but she’s already turning away, calling upstairs to ask Mason if he wants to sleep over. Hugging me a thank-you as we finalise arrangements before trudging down the garden path. Shoulders rounded, hood pulled over her head.

The rain has picked up. I shiver. Close the door.

After lunch we play Twister. It’s Mason’s current favourite game. His arms and legs are so much shorter than ours so he tends to lie across the mat, stretching out to all corners. Spotify streams as we take our turns.

Once the album I had chosen ends, Mum’s go-to playlist – Eighties rock – blasts out. Mason begins to jump up and down to Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’. ‘It doesn’t make a difference if we’re naked or not,’ he sings with sincerity. Amy and I collapse into laughter.

‘What’s funny?’ He tilts his head to one side.

‘Perhaps don’t learn lyrics from Aunty Lissa.’ Amy ruffles his hair.

Mason is in bed and Amy is watching Netflix in her room. The soft, saggy sofa sighs as I sink onto it, chilled glass of wine in hand, bowl of salted Kettle crisps on my lap. It isn’t until I’m a third of the way through Dirty Dancing that I realise the prospective lodger never showed up.

I message Mum to let her know this, to check that she’s okay.

My message remains unread.

My sleep was fitful. Listening out for Mason in case he woke, which he did, several times. Listening out for Mum coming home, which she didn’t. It’s a relief when the pale sun rises, diluting the darkness, weaving strands of orange and yellow through the grey sky, which is again laden with clouds.

I check my phone, try to call Mum. This time the call disconnects, the dialling tone and the thrum of anxiety resounding in my ear.

But then, in my message thread, there are three dots. Mum is typing.

I wait.

And wait.

The dots disappear.

My fingertips beat out a nervous rhythm on the windowsill as I stare out of the rain-streaked window. There’s a figure on the opposite side of the street, staring up at the house. My stomach tightens. The person is motionless next to the lamppost, hood pulled over their head. As far as I can see, they’re not on their phone, not walking a dog, just … standing there. I cannot tell if it’s a man or a woman and if I hadn’t thought I had seen him in town a couple of days ago then his name wouldn’t even have crossed my mind.

Grubby clouds scud across the sky, the sun casting now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t shadows. With a hiss the waiting bus releases its brakes and pulls away from the stop. As it sloshes away, the oily puddles pooling in the gutter reclaim their iridescent rainbow colours as they settle.

The figure has disappeared.

The relief is immense. A nervous laugh bubbles. And Mum says Amy is the one with the vivid imagination.

I can’t believe I never considered that the person might be waiting for a bus, albeit waiting in the wrong place but able to hurry to catch it when it arrived. My eyes scan the street. I didn’t see them actually board but they’ve definitely gone.

It’s because I thought I saw Andy, because I can’t get hold of Mum, that I’m feeling so rattled.

Mum.

As though I’ve conjured her with my thoughts, my phone rings, one of my favourite photos of her illuminating the screen. She’s in the garden. Behind her a rhododendron bush with vibrant lilac flowers and shiny green leaves. Her face is partially hidden behind Marmalade who sits on her lap, but from the crinkles around her eyes it’s apparent that she’s smiling. That she’s happy.

‘Hello?’

There’s nothing but crackling and then silence. A second call that disconnects a split second after I answer.

Almost immediately, a text, a reply to my earlier one, that said, please let me know you’re okay, mum, why did you stay at Uncle Don’s?

Sorry signal is rubbish. You know what it’s like here. I’m fine but are you okay to hold the fort for a few days?

Why? What about work?

I’ve taken some personal leave. I need a break. Sorry I didn’t come home, it was a spur of the moment decision. I can come back if you need me?

Something is wrong.

My thumb hovers over the keypad. Mind automatically fearing the worst, but then isn’t that what I do? Catastrophise? Look at how I reacted moments ago, thinking Andy was outside. Perhaps Mum genuinely does need to get away. Her role as a social worker isn’t an easy one. Her hours are long and she often finds it impossible to switch off when she’s home. Blames herself instead of the system when she can’t get her clients access to the services they need as soon as they need them. I can’t remember her ever having a holiday without me or Amy.

But then this isn’t a holiday.

She’s taken some personal time from work.

Because … ?

Jen? Please?

It feels odd but perhaps she just wants to spend some time with her brother. Although I don’t understand what’s going on with her, I know that I don’t have to. She’s always been there for me, unquestioning, unflinching. I have to do the same for her. For whatever reason, she clearly needs some space and the least I can do is give it to her. I don’t want her to feel unnoticed. Unappreciated.

We’ll be fine here but please keep in touch xxx

She sends one more text, signing off as she always does with a ‘LOL’ because she still insists that means ‘lots of love’ to her.

I send back a laughing emoji because that’s what I do, even though my own mouth is straight and serious. And although I try to shake off my unease, as I head downstairs I’m still unsettled.

Afraid.

Andy.

My heart begins to race. I wish I’d confided in Mum yesterday, shared my concerns. Wishing I’d had the reassurance that it couldn’t possibly be him, but I hadn’t because Mum was so clearly worried about something.

But what if it’s Andy she’s worried about?

What if she’s seen him too?

The thought slams into me and I grip the windowsill to steady myself, the skin covering my knuckles stretched and white.

Heat creeps through me.

If he’s found me – found us – then …

I can’t bear to think about it.

Chapter 5

Monday

jen

Amy and Mason are already in the kitchen, both in pyjamas, feet bare.

‘Mum still asleep?’ she asks.

‘She’s going to be staying with Uncle Don for a couple of days.’ As I tell her I’m anticipating her questions, formulating answers.

‘Cool. Good job I got up with this one then.’ She smiles at Mason. ‘This is his third breakfast.’ Amy shakes her head in disbelief. Mason giggles.

He only ever wants a few Rice Krispies at a time so he can hear them ‘snap, crackle and pop’ when the milk is poured on. He quickly scoops them into his mouth before they turn soggy and then Oliver Twists his bowl out for more.

‘I don’t know where he puts it all.’ I smile gratefully at Amy, ruffle Mason’s hair. ‘Want some orange juice?’

He nods. ‘Shaken but not stirred.’

‘Seriously? James Bond?’ I raise my eyebrows at Amy. I should have kept a closer eye on them yesterday afternoon when we’d finished Twister.

‘Chill. We were playing. I didn’t let him watch the S-E-X.’

I slosh juice into his glass, glad he’s too young to sound out words.

The doorbell chimes.

I’m expecting Camilla, unable to wait for me to drop Mason off, but it isn’t her.

On the step stands a man, the early-morning sun shines directly behind him, casting him in a halo of wintry light that’s so dazzling I shield my eyes against it.

‘I’m looking for Melissa Abbott?’ His eyes are questioning, bright blue, hair white blond.

‘Sorry, she’s gone away for a few days.’

Disappointment registers on his face. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘Ah. You’ve come about the room?’ I realise who he is. ‘She sends her apologies that she isn’t here.’

‘You must be Jen, her daughter? She mentioned you. I’m Luke.’ He offers his hand and I take it, his fingers wrapping firmly around mine. Skin warm and soft.

‘Sorry, Mum was meant to be here but she was called away. Family business. We were expecting you yesterday? Thought you must have changed your mind.’

‘Sorry. I’ve tried ringing her and texting but—’

‘The signal is really patchy where she is.’

‘Can I reach her on a landline?’

‘No, sorry.’ Don doesn’t have one. ‘Look, do you want to see the room? It’s no problem. I can show you round?’

He hesitates. Looking beyond me. ‘Can I leave your mum a note? For when she gets back?’

‘Sure. Come in for a minute.’

Stepping aside, I let him in.

Just inside the front door is the room Mum refers to as her study. It was originally a dining room but too cramped for a decent table so we always eat in the kitchen. When Amy outgrew her toys, Mum had bought a small desk and a filing cabinet. There are pops of colour, a magenta pen holder that Amy had made at school, a yellow cushion on Mum’s chair, a yucca plant in a bright orange pot that’s grown too large for the cramped corner, its trunk curved, leaves reaching for the window. The room smells of vanilla from the diffuser on the bookshelf.

‘This is a nice space.’ Luke looks around.

‘Thanks.’ I rummage through the drawer for a pad. ‘We never really used it but during the first lockdown Mum worked from home where she could so she needed somewhere, although she still had to go out for visits.’

‘I guess social workers had to keep going throughout the pandemic,’ Luke said.

‘They did. Not that you could have stopped Mum anyway. She’s so committed to the kids on her list.’

I find some paper and a pen. Scrawled on the first page, in big letters,

Help

Lily

Plan

I tear it off. Mum often doodles and scribbles when she’s on the phone.

‘Sounds like someone is in trouble,’ Luke says, watching me as I ball up the paper.

‘Mum’s a social worker, remember? Someone is always in trouble.’

I hand the pad to Luke, aware I’m talking too much because, if I’m honest, it isn’t having a stranger in the house that’s throwing me off. It’s having a man around my age, a good-looking man, that has me smoothing down my hair, discreetly checking the front of Dad’s old Beatles T-shirt for coffee stains. Pulling the cord around the waist of my yoga pants a little tighter.

Breathing in.

Stop it.

‘You’re younger than I thought,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, when Mum said you were a plumber I thought you’d be, I don’t know …’ I can feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘Different,’ I finish off pathetically.

‘What else did your mum tell you, about me?’

‘She said …’ I rack my brains. Not wanting to tell him that I hadn’t fully been paying attention. Had been too busy resenting him before he’d even arrived. Disproportionately bothered by the thought of his feet in the shower, but now the thought of him in our bathroom, naked. . .

Stop it.

I’m embarrassing myself, acutely aware of the flush creeping around my neck.

‘She said that your references are good and the room is yours if you want it. I mean if I like you. I don’t mean … I mean, if we like you. Me and Amy. Not that we could dislike you, but it’s important we all feel comfortable, isn’t it? That you like us too.’ I drag in a deep breath when I finally pause, pulling myself together at the thought of Amy.

This man, this stranger could be living under our roof and although Mum felt he was suitable, I need to feel that too. I straighten my spine, fish around for appropriate questions to ask.

‘Are you reliable?’

For a brief moment his eyebrows knit together and he looks despairing until he turns away from the window and I realise the sun had been in his eyes.

‘It’s just that you’re a day late,’ I prompt.

‘Look. When did you say Melissa will be back?’

‘I don’t know. She’s taken a few days off work.’

‘And she left?’

‘Yesterday.’

There’s a scream from the living room. I hurry towards it, am pushing open the door when there’s the sound of laughter.

Mason and Amy have Twister out again.

‘I thought someone was being murdered.’

‘Want to play?’ Amy’s in a downward dog pose, her hair falling over her face.

Mason is lying on his stomach, starfished in the centre.

‘In a bit.’ I turn around, Luke is right behind me.

He apologises as he heads back to the study. ‘Sorry, I heard a scream and I forgot how loud kids can be. I used to play that with my sister when we were young. It was horribly unfair on her being so short, but she loved flicking the spinner and seeing what colour it landed on.’

‘Did you let her win?’

‘Usually. Guess that’s the thing with being the eldest. You want to protect your sibling, don’t you? Your mum said that you’re the same with Amy?’

‘Yes.’ I relax. Mum must have really liked him to share details about us. She’s generally quite private. ‘Although we’ve had our moments like any family. Amy and I still fight sometimes.’

‘Yeah well, I didn’t say siblings can’t be annoying.’

‘Are you close with your family?’

‘We have our ups and downs. I couldn’t imagine living with my mum again though,’ he says, reading me. ‘I’ve been independent for so long. Anyway, Mel told me she had two daughters, but who is the young lad?’

‘Mason. He’s my friend Camilla’s son. They used to live here. Do you want to see the room?’ I remember why he’s here.

There’s a moment’s hesitation, our eyes lock together. He’s uncomfortable and I wonder if it’s because he feels it too. This energy between us. ‘I … I’m not sure.’

‘Of course.’ It isn’t a rejection but it feels like one. It stings. ‘It can be a little chaotic.’ I don’t know if the kids, the noise are the reason he doesn’t want to stick around but it’s preferable to think that than to wonder if it’s me.

‘It isn’t that … it’s, well, it’s …’ He notices the photo collage in the corner and moves closer to it. There’s Mum and me, raising wine glasses to the camera, beaming as we toasted my first teaching job. One of Amy standing outside the school looking too small in her new uniform, sleeves hanging over her hands, tie beige and burgundy stripes. Camilla and Mason, tramping through snow with wellington-booted feet.

Luke turns back to me. ‘Okay. If it isn’t putting you out I’d love to look around.’

He follows me upstairs.

‘Mason was in here last night, so.’ I straighten the duvet, glance around. ‘We can empty it.’ There’s not much in here, some cuddly toys on the shelf, a couple of books Camilla left behind. ‘Do you have much stuff?’

‘No. Just some clothes really. Don’t worry about clearing anything out.’

‘I don’t know what Mum’s told you about us. We’re pretty quiet generally. Mason might stay sometimes but there’s an airbed in Amy’s room so he can sleep there now, but …’ I’m not sure if it’s my place to say what Mum could have already said, but I feel a responsibility towards Amy and Mason. ‘Is there a girlfriend who might stay overnight?’

What I really want to know is whether he might have a parade of women in and out. Noisy sex. Bras flung off halfway up the stairs.

‘No.’

‘Me neither. I don’t mean a girlfriend, I mean …’ What is wrong with me? I’m horribly embarrassed. Luke doesn’t need to know anything about my love life, or lack of one. Next, I’ll be oversharing that I’ve broken things off with Kamil, the geography teacher I was seeing, because I didn’t feel a spark, didn’t see a future between us. I was surprised by how badly he took it, leaving pleading, almost aggressive, notes in my locker. Realising he had seen something in us that I didn’t.

My phone vibrates with a text. I check the message, quickly type out a reply.

‘Is that your mum?’ Luke asks.

‘No. It’s Camilla asking how Mason is.’ I show Luke the bathroom and then we head back downstairs to the living room. He picks up a photo of the three of us from the sideboard, we’re lying on the lawn in a kind of circle. Our heads touching.

‘Very arty.’

‘Amy had us posing for Instagram.’ I pull a face.

‘You don’t like the camera or you don’t like social media?’

‘Both really. Mum and I didn’t want her to have an account but everyone seems to use it and she’s kept her profile set to private.’ I’m still not comfortable with her having one. Mum and I have been so careful since we moved – fled – from our hometown. I don’t even have social media accounts, there are more secrets than Andy that I want to keep hidden.

‘You can’t be too careful nowadays, can you?’ Luke says. ‘I can’t believe how alike you all look. It’s a good shot.’ He replaces the frame gently back on the sideboard.

‘Seconds after that was taken the phone slipped through Amy’s fingers and landed on my face. I mean she says it “fell” but I think she was fed up with me telling her to hurry up.’ I can laugh at it now but it hurt at the time.

‘Yep. Back to what I was saying about siblings.’

‘So.’ It feels awkward to ask. ‘I guess you discussed money and everything with Mum? Oh, of course, she said you’d already paid a deposit. You know how food and cooking and everything would work for us all?’

‘I had a good chat with Melissa. She knows what I’m looking for.’

‘Great, well, come and meet Amy properly.’

Amy, standing up on the Twister mat now, immediately spots Luke behind me. I introduce them. Watch as Luke crouches down to Mason’s level as they chat. Notice how Luke declines joining in the game after Mason asks him, which I’m glad about. It would be really inappropriate for him to be that close to the kids, but … those arms wrapped around me.

Stop it.

Mason’s face lights up when Luke asks if he can see the trains in the corner. He examines them as though they are precious jewels.

‘I used to take my sister to watch the trains,’ he says. ‘We’d try to guess where the passengers were going.’

He includes Amy in the conversation. Fabricating adventures for the imaginary passengers of Mason’s. Making her laugh.

After a while, she gives me a wide grin, a double thumbs-up.

‘The room’s yours if you want it,’ I say, surprised by how much I want him to say yes. It isn’t only because he has an easy way about him, but because it’ll be one less thing for Mum to worry about. I don’t think any of us were expecting that we’d all like the first person who answered the advert.

He drums his fingertips against his lips, thinking. Eyes roaming around the room. His gaze rests on me again. ‘Could I move in this afternoon?’

After lunch, Luke has returned with a rucksack. He wasn’t kidding that he doesn’t own many things. He stands in the hallway shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, eyes darting everywhere, landing on nothing. I can’t imagine having to leave this house, move in with a family of strangers. It must be so strange.

‘Make yourself at home.’ I hand him a key and tell him that we’ll leave him to get settled while Amy and I take Mason home.

‘Then I need to go into school for a meeting but Amy can stay at Camilla’s, give you a chance to acclimatise. We’ll be back around dinnertime.’

It’s weird turning around and seeing him framed in the window. It’s been so long since Dad left, I wonder if we’ve done the right thing letting him move in. Whether his masculine energy will change everything.

‘It isn’t a big deal, Jen.’ Amy holds Mason’s hand as they step over the cracks in the pavement. ‘If we don’t all get on he’ll just have to move out.’

She’s only thirteen but she’s said exactly the right thing to reassure my unspoken fears. Of course it doesn’t have to be forever. Mum likes him. Amy and I like him. Nothing has changed. It feels somehow though, as if everything has.

‘You’re right.’ I take Mason’s other hand and walk on tiptoes. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him and see how it goes.’

He’s nice. We’re lucky really.

I lose my balance, feet landing heavily. ‘Oops.’

‘Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,’ sings Amy.

Inexplicably, I shudder.

Camilla sweeps Mason into her arms the second she opens the door, and rests her chin on his head. Her skin is pale, eyes bloodshot, full of tears, not meeting my own. Surrounding her, the fug of alcohol.

‘Made the most of a night on your own?’ I grin.

‘Yeah. I don’t usually drink in case Mason wakes up. I’m regretting it now.’

‘Do you want me to take him back?’

‘No. It’s just a hangover.’ She musters a weak smile. ‘Sorry, got to go. Think I’m going to throw up again.’

She closes the door before I can ask whether Amy can stay, explain about Luke. Tell her how happy I am that he’s moving in. Not only because he’s friendly and Mum will be pleased, but there’s another reason I’m glad he’ll be here, particularly with Mum away. If Andy has found me – found us – then I’ll be safer with Luke in the house, won’t I?

Amy and I, we’ll both be safe, won’t we?

Chapter 6

Monday

amy

‘I’ll be perfectly safe walking home by myself,’ Amy says again as Jen looks anxiously at Camilla’s closed door, then back at her.

Jen chews on her thumbnail as she always does when she’s deep in thought. Amy doubts Jen even realises she does this, not with all the lectures she gives Amy about biting her nails.

‘Are you worried about me being alone with Luke?’ Amy has always been perceptive, wise beyond her years, Mum says. ‘Because how’s it going to work having a lodger if you don’t trust him?’

‘It isn’t that I don’t trust him.’ The minute Jen’s finished speaking she’s chewing her nail again.

Yeah, right. She totally doesn’t trust him.

‘But I said we’d give him time to settle in.’

‘It’s our home. And it’s going to be his home too. We have to be normal. If you think it’s going to be awkward you should ask him to leave before he unpacks.’

‘No. No, I don’t want him to leave.’ Jen smiles but Amy knows it isn’t real. ‘It’s just that we don’t really know him and—’

‘But Mum checked his references and they were all good?’

‘They were.’

‘And she’s a great judge of character. So are we, look.’ Amy crosses her arms over her chest. ‘It’s cold. Do you want to come back with me and chuck him out, or not?’

Jen’s hesitating.

‘How is it you can control a class of teenagers but basically, when it comes to your personal life, you can’t make a decision?’

‘Because I have a history of bad decisions,’ Jen mutters before she claps her hands as though she’s in front of the whiteboard. ‘Right. Okay. You go home and call me if you need anything.’

‘Anything?’ Amy grins.

‘You know what I mean.’ Jen shoves her on the shoulder. ‘But Amy, seriously. About Luke—’

‘We’ll keep an eye on him and see how it goes.’ Amy repeats Jen’s earlier words. ‘Now go and do some training, teacher.’

Amy hoped that perhaps Luke wouldn’t be here, but his boots are in the hallway. As much as Amy had meant it at the time when she’d told Jen they had to act normally, she finds herself closing the front door quietly. Feeling guilty in a way that she is home hours earlier than she said she would be. Rather than clattering her keys onto the sideboard, she hangs them properly on the hook.

Oh god. If having a lodger results in her being tidier then Mum will make them have a lodger forever.

There’s a faded Levi’s denim jacket dangling from her usual hook. It looks vintage. For a second she thinks about trying it on. Knowing it will be too big but wondering if she rolled the sleeves up, whether it would look okay. Jen has some ancient stuff of Dad’s. Band T-shirts, The Eagles and The Rolling Stones, and sometimes Amy thinks it isn’t fair that because Jen’s older, because she wasn’t just a baby when Dad left, she got to keep some of his things. Amy had tried to ask him once whether she could have something and he’d laughed and told her that his clothes would swamp her, offered to buy her something new.

‘I’m sure Jen will know where you can find something that will fit you that looks as though it’s from back in the day.’

Amy had bit back tears. Not letting on that it wasn’t something retro she wanted but something of his because he gave so little otherwise.

Gives even less now that he’s remarried.

There’s a sense that someone has been in her room. The air disturbed. Scent of aftershave lingering. Jen would tell her that she’s imagining it. ‘You’re always looking for a mystery to solve.’ But there’s … something not quite right.

A presence.

A thud.

Amy jumps, then shakes her head at how ridiculous she’s being. Of course there’s a presence. Luke is in the room next door. Dropping things from the sound of it. So what if she can smell aftershave? She’d left her door open and maybe that’s what happens when a man lives in the same house. Different smells. Different sounds. It isn’t like she’d know, is it?

She sits down on the edge of her bed. Feeling out of place. Should she let Luke know she’s back or should she watch one of her crime shows? Put her headphones in? But then that seems rude. Partly she’d wanted a lodger because the house was so quiet without Camilla and Mason. She thought it would be fun, but it isn’t fun. Instead it’s awkward.

Normal.

She had told Jen they had to act normal, but this isn’t her usual behaviour, creeping around, sitting in silence. She’ll let Luke know that she’s here, offer him a cup of tea. She isn’t worried that he’s a stranger because she trusts Mum. Knows that she’ll have been thorough in checking him out. She wouldn’t solely have exchanged a text with a random contact number, she’d have talked to someone properly. Most likely have gone to see them. Not just his old landlord either. Mum had said she’d spoken to his employer. Got a character reference from someone who knew him. Amy can’t remember who. She’d barely listened when Mum had spoken to Jen about it.

She knocks on his door and pushes it open without waiting for his acknowledgement. Without thinking. But then she isn’t expecting to see him like this, is she?

Sitting on the bed, poring over a book, tracing the page with his fingertip, a faraway expression on his face. She feels as though she’s disturbed a private moment.

‘Um, sorry.’ She’s backing away.

Luke’s head jerks up and the book topples off his lap, onto the floor.

It isn’t just any book.

It’s her school yearbook.

Her eyes meet his. She wants to ask him whether he went into her room, but of course he must have, and she wants to know why he would have done that because it’s such an invasion of privacy, but more than that, part of her wants to tell him to fuck off. To get the hell out of their house, but rather than making excuses and looking ashamed, he smiles.

‘I found this under the bed. Is it your school? It brought back so many memories of my secondary. The things I thought I’d be when I left.’

‘Under the bed?’

‘I was storing my rucksack and …’ he trails off. Brow furrowing. ‘I’m sorry I looked at it, Amy. I promise I’m not a snoop.’

‘A snoop?’ She laughs at the unfamiliar word. ‘That’s okay. I thought it was on my bookcase but literally nothing is ever where it should be when Mason has been here. We’ve had tangerines stuffed into plant pots, the remote controls lined up on the shoe rack, so a book under the bed is nothing. Once, right, Mum couldn’t find her car keys and we literally turned the house upside down looking for them. She had to get the bus to work. It turned out that Mason had put them in Marmalade’s toy box.’ After that Mum bought those sticky Velcro pads to hang the hook by the front door.

‘I’ve never heard of a cat having a toy box before.’

‘Then you’ve never met a cat like Marmalade. He’s special. He loves those seagrass mice filled with catnip but the feather and bell on a stick is his favourite thing to play with.’

‘And what about you? What’s your favourite thing to do?’

‘Dunno.’ Amy shrugs.

She doesn’t tell him about the detective shows she likes so much because she knows it sounds so random. The kids at school laugh at her because of it and adults say ‘cool’ because it’s what they say when they don’t really get it but they’re humouring you. Adults should never say ‘cool’.

So she doesn’t tell him that she watches Eighties crime shows because she finds comfort in the structure. Enjoys the initial adrenaline rush when the crime is discovered but she’s safe knowing that it will be solved in the end. That the Eighties is so far removed from her own life, with the lack of smartphones and social media, that it’s another world almost, so she never worries she could fall victim to the same fate as the actors. That she likes solving puzzles, figuring things out.

She’s never shared with anyone that the main reason she watches them, and she’s only figured this out recently, is because it isn’t really about the mystery, more the history. The detectives through their investigation get to know the criminal, who they are, what they want, why they act the way they do, what they need. Everything. Piecing it together bit by bit. And that’s what Amy wants to learn, to be able to uncover who her dad is behind his cheery superficial conversations and his too bright smile. Why he left. Not if he’ll be back, she’s stopped wishing for that years ago, but, if she’s being honest with herself, whether it was her fault somehow. Why can’t he be like one of the stars of her shows? Steadfast. Reliable. Always there to save the day.

‘There must be something you enjoy?’ Luke probes again, taking her silence not as her being lost in thought, but her struggling to come up with an answer.

‘Milkshakes.’ She grins. ‘There’s a café just round the corner, Nita’s. They make them with proper fresh fruit and ice cream and everything. Better than Maccy D’s.’

‘Sounds great. You’ll have to show me where it is.’

‘Yeah. I was gonna offer you a cup of tea but …’ She smiles hopefully. He looks as though he’s unpacked and she has nothing to do this afternoon. Besides, being here, being in the room where Camilla and Mason used to be, steam-train curtains still draped at the window, is making her a little sad.

‘If Jen doesn’t mind. Is she here too?’

‘No, she went into school.’

‘Teacher training. I always wondered what that entailed.’

‘It’s CPD and planning and stuff. Sounds dead boring. Anyway, she won’t mind if we have a milkshake and some cake.’

‘Oh, cake now as well?’ Luke smiles. ‘What would your mum think about snacking between meals?’

‘She’d definitely approve. She gets on really well with Nita who runs the café. Nita loves her, but then Mum has been known to clear tables and wash up when it’s busy.’

‘It seems your mum is a popular woman. Everybody wants something from her. Okay, let’s go there.’

On the landing, Amy turns around. Luke hasn’t moved off the edge of the bed.

‘You go down,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll follow you.’

Amy is at the counter, the ten-pound note Luke has given her clutched in her hand. Nita scoops ice cream into a glass and goose bumps spring up on Amy’s arms as though the temperature has dropped.

Someone has walked over her grave.

That’s what Mum would call it.

The sensation of eyes burning into her is so strong she turns around. Luke is at the table near the window, frowning as he studies his phone. She lifts her eyes to look outside just as Nita says, ‘Amy? Here you go.’

Amy drags her gaze back to the counter and pays for their order.

At the table, Amy stirs her strawberry shake with a blue-and-white-striped straw.

‘So why the yearbook?’ Luke tears open a sachet of sugar and tips it into his coffee. ‘You’re what? Year 9? We only had one when we left.’

‘Our school does one when you join and then again when you leave. Guess so you can look back at what you wanted to be and laugh at how stupid you were.’

‘So young and yet so cynical.’

‘Yeah, well, there are a fair few footballers and Instagram influencers in there.’

‘And you? What do you want to be?’

Amy shrugs, moving crumbly chocolate cake around her plate with her fork. ‘Happy?’

‘Very profound.’

‘Yeah, well. Mum’s a social worker and Jen’s a teacher because they both want to make a difference and help kids, but I just see them being stressed all the time.’

‘You don’t need to know what you want to do right now.’

‘When did you realise that plumbing was your calling?’

For a moment he looks blank. ‘A calling? I’ve never thought of it as that. There was never a lightning-bolt moment. I just kind of fall into things sometimes.’

‘So it wasn’t because your dad was a plumber or anything?’

‘No. Are there many kids that want to follow in their parents’ footsteps anymore?’

‘Dunno.’

‘But in the yearbook everyone wants to be someone. What about your friends?’

Amy deliberately scoops cake into her mouth so she doesn’t have to tell him that she doesn’t really have any. Not proper ones anyway. Other than the odd boy who fancies Jen, not many people are nice to her. No, it’s totally worse than kids being unkind. She’s ignored.

‘The girls at school. Anyone you’re particularly close with?’

Amy swallows. ‘Can we stop talking about school? It is my day off.’

‘Yes, of course.’

In between slurps of shake, they chat, although later, back at home, Amy realises she had done most of the talking, answering Luke’s questions without asking any of her own.

That’s probably why she doesn’t have any friends, she’s too lost in her own world, in herself.

There’s a tap on her door. Luke.

‘Here’s your yearbook back.’ He hands it to her.

When he’s gone, she leafs through it. Studying the faces of her classmates. The boys with their confident grins, the girls posing with duck faces for the camera. Everyone seems so … so sure of themselves in a way that Amy isn’t.

She reads some of the captions. ‘By the time I leave school I want at least 50k followers.’ ‘I’m going to be a footballer. My dad says I’m good enough.’ ‘I’m not staying on. I don’t need exams. Basically, after I’ve been on Love Island my career will explode.’

Amy flicks through the book to find her entry, she can’t quite remember what she said.

But it isn’t there.

Her page has been ripped out.

Chapter 7

You should feel safe in your own home, shouldn’t you? How many people don’t? Sensing something is off. Something they can’t quite put their finger on.

You don’t notice the camera in your room. Why would you? It’s small, discreet, easy to hide.

Easier to buy.

You don’t need special shops anymore, expert advice.

You can order them online, on Amazon. You don’t need to be particularly technical to use them.

Anyone can.

More people than you’d think do.

Whether it’s to keep tabs on a cheating partner, the person looking after your child. Or just because they like to watch, like to listen.

I like to watch.

Listen.

Chapter 8

Five years ago

camilla

So many new sights awaited Camilla.

University!

She couldn’t believe she was finally on her way to Kirkcombe. A few years ago when she’d been shuttled around foster homes her prospects had seemed bleak. But then she’d met Jen, moved in with the family when she had turned sixteen and now her future stretched before her like a yellow brick road.

After A-Levels she and Jen had been due to start at the same uni but in the weeks before, Jen had become withdrawn, tearful. Admitting that she didn’t want to leave home, didn’t want to leave Mel and Amy. That she’d see how she felt next year instead.

Mel had tried to encourage Jen to take her place but Jen had been weird. Everything had been weird. Frantic whispered conversations between Mel and Jen that had ceased whenever Camilla entered the room. It was the first time she’d felt uncomfortable, out of place. Something had been going on and she wasn’t privy to it. It was a slap-in-the-face reminder that she wasn’t really part of this family and for a time she thought about heading off to uni alone.

Eventually, they had both deferred their places but when Jen hadn’t wanted to go the following year either, Camilla resigned herself to never having the uni experience. But now they were here, albeit a couple of years older than most of the other students. Although Jen had had another last-minute wobble, this time Mel had somehow been able to calm her.

‘It’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay. Your uncle Don is the head of the Faculty of Business and Law so he’ll be around if you need him.’

September had held on to the glow of summer as they’d stood in the fading light, luggage at their feet, staring in awe at the beautiful medieval building that used to be a monastery and would now be their home for the next three years. Jen, pale, hung on to Amy’s hand as Mel looked around for someone to ask for directions.

‘Hello,’ said a passing member of staff, crouching down to Amy’s level. ‘Are you our newest student?’

‘No, silly.’ She giggled. ‘My sister Jen is going here. She wants to be a teacher. Then you’ll come and teach at my school, won’t you, Jen?’ Amy gazed up at Jen adoringly.

‘We’ll see. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.’

‘You’d never embarrass me.’

Tears sprang to Jen’s eyes.

‘Remember why you’re doing this.’ Mel flanked Jen, taking her other hand, and for a moment Camilla wanted to cry but she wasn’t sure why.

Then Mel turned to her, ‘We’re so proud of both of you,’ and then they were all hugging, tears flowing.

Jen straightened up and wiped Amy’s cheeks with her sleeve. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Can I have your room?’ Amy sniffed. ‘It’s bigger than mine.’

‘No. We’ll be home every holiday.’ Jen crooked her little finger to make a pinky promise to her sister.

It didn’t take long to settle into their accommodation. Before they’d come to look around, Camilla had thought student digs would be the same as in American films, with two sharing a room, but the reality was six students to a self-contained flat. Each room had a tiny en suite with a shower, 4ft double bed, a desk, a chair and a wardrobe. It was basic but it was enough.

It was hers.

The kitchen and living area were communal. Squeaky black plastic sofas and a table to eat at.

Mel began to unpack saucepans. They’d been to Ikea the week before, Amy pushing the trolley, intermittently jumping onto it, gliding through the crowded store – ‘when can we have meatballs? I’m sooo hungry.’ They’d only brought one set of everything because Jen and Camilla were both in the same flat, although their courses were very different. Jen had her future all mapped out, while Camilla wasn’t sure what she wanted to be, but she knew it would be creative, so she’d chosen Art and Design.

Then there was nothing left to do except say goodbye.

Camilla embraced Mel tightly. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’ Mel squeezed back just as hard. ‘But in no time at all you’ll be accepting your degree in a mortarboard and gown. Honestly, you’ll have the best time. You’ll remember it always.’

That had turned out to be true.

Camilla had always remembered her uni years.

Only not for the right reasons.

Freshers’ week was crazy.

Huge pitchers full of something unidentifiable, pink and sweet and sticky that slipped down too easily. Bars blending in to each other. Dancing and laughing and hugging complete strangers.

Every morning when Camilla woke, the taste of a greasy burger still on her lips, she opened her eyes and daylight sliced into her brain reminding her that she was frittering her precious maintenance grant on hangovers and junk food.

‘I’m never drinking again,’ Jen vowed as she had every morning while Camilla filled the kettle, wincing at the sound of the water gushing from the tap.

They became friendly with two of the girls who shared their flat, Rochelle and Shanice.

‘Student drinking is going to actually kill me.’ Camilla sipped from a stolen Guinness pint glass filled with water.

‘Ha. It won’t. My sister survived it here,’ Shanice said. ‘Well, she survived the drinking anyway.’

‘What did she study?’

‘Law.’

‘Ah, Jen’s Uncle Don is the head of the Faculty of Business and Law.’

‘Donald Knightley is your uncle?’ Shanice raised her eyebrows, gave a small shake of her head. ‘Well, you can’t choose your family I guess.’

‘I know he has a reputation for being tough on his students but that’s because he wants to get the best out of them. He’s a good guy. Anyway, shall we go to Rumours later?’

‘Thought you were abstaining for a while?’ Camilla said.

‘I will, I’ll start on Monday,’ Jen said and it looked as though she meant it, but throughout the term she had continued to party, to drink. Getting a tattoo when she was off her face. Camilla had always tried to be good. Sometimes there was a stigma around foster kids: they’re disruptive, rebellious, liable to go off the rails. Not everyone thought like that of course, but certain narrow-minded people did and Camilla had always been mindful not to live up to that stereotype.

Jen, though, didn’t seem to care what people thought of her. Rochelle and Shanice encouraged her to go out every night. Camilla tagged along, not because she wanted to but because she was scared what might happen to Jen if she didn’t. She became a different person when she drank.

The music pulsed. Vibrations of the bass rattling her bones. Lights strobed, pink and blue. Jen raised her arms above her head, swayed her hips from side to side, midriff exposed, legs bare beneath her tiny denim skirt. She shook her head, her hair, damp with sweat, falling onto her face.

She stumbled backwards into another student, Harvey King. Camilla had seen him before, watching them, watching Jen.

Jen began to grind against him, Shanice pressing her body against his back. Harvey grinned, his hands on Jen’s waist, fingers creeping higher.

She wrapped her arms around the back of his head, gripping his ponytail, his hands travelling over her breasts, up to her hands, wrapping his fingers around her wrists.

Camilla grabbed Jen’s arm, ‘I need you,’ and dragged her away from him.

‘What’s up?’ Jen slurred as Camilla led her outside. The biting air was a slap in the face, the streetlights muted by wisps of swirling mist that merged with the breath billowing from Camilla’s mouth as she spoke. ‘I want to leave.’

‘Aren’t you having a good time? I am.’ Jen lurched towards a low wall, sitting down heavily, crossing her arms over her chest. Trembling.

‘You call practically having sex on the dance floor a good time?’

Jen stood, staggered on her high heels, Camilla steadying her. ‘I wasn’t.’

‘You’re letting some random—’

‘When did you become the fun police?’

‘I’m not.’ Camilla took a breath, calmed herself. ‘I’m just worried—’

Jen hunched over, hands on thighs. Camilla was by her side in an instant, holding her hair back from her face as she vomited into the gutter. She retched over and over, and when she was done she straightened up, wiping her mouth with her arm, asking in a small voice, ‘Can we go home now?’

Camilla rushed back inside and retrieved their coats. When she came back out she saw Jen dart down an alley, peering out from around the corner. Camilla followed her line of sight. Had that creep Harvey come out of the club? All she could see was a policeman.

‘Jen?’ Camilla hurried towards her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I just thought—’ Jen shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

They began to walk back to the campus, Jen weaving into the road as she threw worried glances over her shoulder. Camilla slipped an arm around her waist to guide her, both of them barefoot, carrying their looked-good-but-pinched-their-toes shoes.

‘Everything all right, girls?’ Jen’s Uncle Don stepped out of the mist.

When Camilla had first met him she had been intimidated by his status, but he had been a reassuring presence since they started university. Gentle and kind. Never interfering but making it known he was there if there was a problem.

‘Jen’s not feeling well,’ Camilla said, virtually holding Jen up.

‘I can see that,’ Don said.

‘I’m not drunk.’ Jen’s head flopped onto Camilla’s shoulder.

Don looped one of Jen’s arms around his neck, Camilla did the same the other side. It was a relief when they reached the flat.

They manoeuvred Jen onto her bed, Don stepping back as Camilla covered her with the duvet.

‘Will you be okay?’ Don asked as Camilla walked him to the door.

‘Yeah. I’ll sleep with her tonight. Make sure she doesn’t choke or anything.’

‘Thank you,’ Don said.

‘That’s okay. She’s been good to me. Her and Mel.’

‘My sister always did want to save the world. Should I ring her? Is this a regular occurrence?’

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’

‘Do you both want to come to lunch again on Sunday? At least I can be reassured the two of you are eating.’

‘That would be lovely, thanks.’ His wife, Carol, roasted the crispiest potatoes. That wasn’t the only reason she wanted to go. She and Jen were struggling, their means-tested grants not stretching as far as they’d hoped. She couldn’t wait for the next instalment to drop at the beginning of next term, but then all it would be doing was paying towards the overdrafts they’d already built up. It was so easy to get credit. Camilla already felt sick every time she added up her debt so far and this was only year one. What would it be like by the time she graduated?

‘Don’t worry.’ Don reached out and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and Camilla tried to replace her frown with a smile.

‘Thanks, Don. Night.’

‘Goodnight, Camilla.’

Camilla watched him trundle down the hallway, towards the lift. If she’d had a father, she would have wanted him to have been like Don.

‘Here.’ Camilla helped Jen sit up. Popped two paracetamol onto her tongue and then held the glass against her lips.

‘Is it possible to have a hangover while you’re still pissed?’ Jen flopped back down onto the bed. Camilla climbed in beside her.

‘Why do you do it? Every night?’

‘I dunno. It’s like … I never got to do it when I was a teenager. You know how it’s been. Mum’s like all “Amy looks up to you”, “Don’t come home too late, you’ll wake Amy up”, “Can you just look after Amy while …” “Amy must be protected”.’

‘Protected? From what?’

‘Life? Me? I dunno, it’s … I love Amy to bits, but I’ve had to play the perfect big sister. I know you’ve helped out a lot, but it’s such a responsibility, isn’t it? Having a child in the house.’

‘Is that why you’ve never really had a boyfriend?’ They’d both dated but never anything serious. Neither of them had ever brought anyone home to meet Mel. When Camilla had asked Jen why before, she’d been guarded, but this Jen, drunk and uninhibited, was open.

‘Boys just get you into trouble, don’t they? The last thing I wanted was Amy becoming attached to someone who wouldn’t stick around. I dunno. I was thirteen when Amy came along and until then it had been me, Mum and Dad, and everything was so normal and then it seemed that suddenly Amy was born and she cried, like all of the time. Dad couldn’t handle it. He thought the nappy stage had ended with me and—’ Jen breathed out deeply, alcohol fumes wafting towards Camilla. ‘He left and we had to move and Mum never asked me to help with Amy or anything but I felt I had to. Mum didn’t ask to be on her own with a newborn. I felt guilty if I wanted to play by myself or shut myself in my room away from the noise and I guess I kept feeling guilty as Amy got older.’

‘And now you’re here.’

‘Now we’re here.’

Jen reached across for Camilla’s hand. ‘I just want to cut loose a little.’

‘I get it.’ And Camilla did, now. ‘But we can’t afford to live like this.’

‘We can extend our overdrafts.’

It wasn’t the answer but it wasn’t the time to talk about it. They’d already begun to bicker about money like they were a couple.

‘I don’t want you to fuck up your coursework.’ Camilla squeezed Jen’s hand, closing her eyes.

‘I won’t. I’ve fucked up enough already. I don’t want to let Mum down.’

Camilla thought she heard Jen whisper ‘again’, but when she looked at Jen, her friend’s eyes were closed and she was asleep.

Soon Jen began muttering, ‘No. No. No.’ Her head thrashing on the pillow. ‘He’s going to find us.’

Camilla lightly stroked her forehead with her fingertips until Jen quietened.

Who was she having nightmares about and why had she been scared of that policeman?

That uneasy feeling Camilla had when she first began to believe that Jen and Mel were keeping something from her sloshed around her stomach with the cheap white wine she had drunk. Did she really know her friend as well as she thought?

Can you ever really know someone?

Chapter 9

Most humans have a sixth sense, an instinctive knowing when they’re being watched.

A chill snaking around the back of the neck.

Goose bumps.

Fear.

Throwing an uncomfortable glance over the shoulder, the brain processing the threat of danger before the eyes have registered it.

I’ve been watching you for hours now and it’s clear that you do not possess this instinct.

You’re oblivious to the fact that I’m here, witness to your most private, vulnerable moments.

You have no idea at all.

Yet …

Last night I watched as you slept. Your sleep wasn’t deep, peaceful. You flailed around on the mattress, tangled up in the duvet, as though you were trying to escape something.

Or someone.

Chapter 10

Tuesday

jen

I’m exhausted this morning. Last night I had a nightmare. When I woke up my skin was sticky with sweat, bedsheets clinging to me.

‘Morning.’

Luke’s voice startles me. I tighten the belt of my dressing gown, self-conscious. Ridiculously I’d kind of forgotten that he’s living here.

‘Morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘Like a log,’ he says even though he looks tired. Eyes rimmed red. ‘The bed’s really comfy, thanks.’

‘Coffee?’ Although we’d agreed Luke would buy his own food and cook his own meals, it seems churlish not to offer him breakfast, not when I’m making mine anyway. ‘Bloody tap.’ I twist it as hard as I can once I’ve filled the kettle. ‘It keeps dripping. Don’t suppose you could take a quick look, could you, please?’ Perhaps it will be handy having a plumber in the house.

‘Yeah, I’ll have a look in a bit.’

‘Thanks. Help yourself to food.’

We sit stiffly at the table. The sun is autumn lazy and so the main light glares overhead and I feel the first traces of a headache pulse at my temples. Steam rises from the mug I’d bought for Mum. There’s a picture of a fried breakfast on it and the words ‘Don’t go bacon my heart’.

‘I love that song,’ Mum had said and she and Camilla began to sing it, Mum as Kiki Dee and Camilla as Elton John. Don’t go bacon my heart. Mum probably thought they were the actual lyrics. It was after this that Camilla had made four matching necklaces. A silver heart with a piece of bacon suspended from a delicate chain. Amy, Mum and I never take them off. I touch mine now, fingering the cool metal while Luke scrapes thick dark raspberry jam on his toast. For a second it looks like blood and my stomach roils as I remember that night all those years ago.

Blood.

Screaming.

Pain.

It’s thoughts of Andy that have triggered the unwanted memories.

‘Hey, sis.’ Amy bounces into the kitchen, ponytail swinging. Fresh faced in the way that thirteen-year-olds are. The floral body spray she’s started using is claggy in my throat. I push my breakfast away.

‘Morning, new lodger.’ Amy grins.

‘Ha.’ Luke smiles at her. ‘Does that make you my landlady?’

Amy giggles as she reaches across the table and grabs a slice of toast. ‘That literally makes me sound ancient.’ She begins to butter it standing up. Mum would tell her to sit down and use a plate but I don’t say anything. Partly because I don’t have the energy but also because I don’t want Luke to witness any bickering on his first morning.

Is this how it’s always going to be? Feeling I have to be on my best behaviour in my own home? I’m having second thoughts again. I wish Mum were here. She doesn’t even know Luke’s moved in yet. If I had messaged her to tell her that he’d taken the room immediately she’d have come home straight away and, although I don’t know what’s going on with her, she clearly needs a break. I will try to call her in my lunch hour though. I’m doubting I’ve done the right thing again, but that’s the thing with living at home when you’re in your twenties, isn’t it? You’re still a child, not the one making the big decisions. Losing confidence in your own judgement because there’s always someone with more life experience to step in.

Amy pounds back up the stairs and I rise to my feet, clearing Luke’s empty plate.

‘Is it okay if I have a shower first?’ I hate myself for asking. Should we have drawn up a bathroom rota or something?

‘Of course,’ Luke says. ‘I’ll wash up the breakfast things. You must have to get to school?’

‘Yes, but don’t worry about washing up. We tend to shove everything in the dishwasher. You must have customers waiting too? All those toilets won’t unblock themselves.’ I wince as I say it. I sound condescending and I really didn’t mean it like that – my dad always said learn a trade, have a job for life – but Luke doesn’t look offended. ‘What time do you finish?’ I ask. What I really want to know is whether I’ll have time for a bath before he gets home. Not that him being here should prevent me from having one but still, it’s early days, isn’t it?

‘It varies. What about you?’

‘In an ideal world three thirty, but then I’m still working from home for another two or three hours. But I’m often called in to meetings with parents or other teachers. Amy and I share a tracking app so I can make sure she’s got home okay if she walks home before I’m ready to leave. Where’s your van, by the way?’

Luke stares blankly.

‘You know, the obligatory white van that all tradesmen seem to have. I forgot to say we have a spare parking permit if you need it? Sorry, there isn’t enough room on the drive.’

‘Oh, that’s okay. I have a red pick-up though, not a white van. I rent a garage. I wouldn’t want to leave it on the street with all the tools in the back. You never know who’s watching, do you?’

Some days I love my chosen profession. I stand in front of a classroom, kids engaged, and know that I’m making a difference to, hopefully, at least one of them. Shaping futures. Then it’s a privilege. A joy. Other days, like today, my patience is akin to stretched elastic, about to snap. Getting through a fifty-minute lesson is more painful than holding my hand over a burning flame. Not that I’ve ever done that, but you know what I mean.

All morning the boys have been sniggering. Craig, the ringleader, has riled them up about something. The Year 8s are only twelve and thirteen and, although some of them are a handful, most of them are really sweet. Craig, though, has five older brothers and they’ve all left their mark on this school. It’s unfair to attach a reputation to his surname, but the other teachers had breathed a sigh of relief when they found out he wasn’t in their form. When the bell rings for lunch they all hurtle out of the door.

It’s impossible to relax in the staff room. It smells of coffee and despair and everyone is flat like they’re having a bad day too. I wonder if it’s something in the air with the kids all misbehaving or if Tuesday is reason enough to throw a dampener over an already dull day.

It’s grey outside the window. Grey sky. Grey carpark. But I’m only here to grab my sandwich. I’m going to eat outside, call Mum.

Kamil, my ex, stares at me with accusing eyes not full of anger but sorrow – a puppy pleading to go for a walk. I’d known it was a mistake dating someone from work, but where else do you meet someone? I haven’t signed up to any dating apps because, well, because I don’t want to put my picture online.

I don’t want to be found.

And pathetically, I’d spent more time than is healthy perusing the fruit and veg at my local supermarket and waiting for a hot guy with a basket to show that he’s shopping for one, selecting fresh produce to prove he can cook and take care of himself.

Kamil was nice but … that’s it really. Nice. I’m looking for, I don’t know what I’m looking for. If I’m even looking really. Fleetingly an image of Luke flits through my mind and I push it away. Yes, he’s good-looking, polite, friendly and considerate, but if it was a mistake sleeping with a colleague it would be a monumental fuck-up to shag the lodger, wouldn’t it?

There’s Craig and some other kids from my class huddled around a mobile phone. They’re calling others over, showing them something. Everyone is laughing. Amy passes by them. They shout her name and she hesitates. She’s a bit of a loner, Amy. Sometimes I worry about her but she seems happy enough in her own world. Still, I stand and watch because although I should be pleased she’s being included, I have an ominous feeling.

It’s less than a minute before Amy is stalking away. That proves whatever the boys are up to is no good. It’s tempting to ask her about it but I don’t want to put her in a difficult position.

She’s heading in my direction. I raise my hand and wave but she swerves and walks away from me. I’d thought our eyes had briefly met but she can’t have seen me.

*

The kids aren’t allowed out of the grounds at lunchtime so sometimes they hang out behind the sports hall to vape. This leaves the park down the road free for the teachers to escape to. None of my colleagues are here today though. The dreary weather means that all the benches are free. I don’t mind these chilly autumnal days. The world smells fresh and new and I’m hopeful it will clear my head. I spread out a ‘bag for life’ so the moisture doesn’t seep through my coat as I sit in my favourite spot in front of the pond.

There’s a mum and toddler wrapped up in scarves and bobble hats, dipping their hands into a paper bag and chucking seeds at fat ducks who are fed so often that they ignore their offerings, gliding away to the small island in the middle. When Amy was small we used to make up stories about pirates and princesses and dragons who might live amongst the tangle of bushes.

After I’ve eaten, I call Mum. She doesn’t answer. I message, hope you’re okay and type out, I miss you, but then I delete the last part because it doesn’t seem fair guilt-tripping her.

There’s still ten minutes left of my break and so I call Dad. We don’t speak often but he might have heard from Mum. Sometimes I find it admirable that, although they divorced over ten years ago, they’re still such good friends. Other times it makes me sad that they had so much love for each other but couldn’t make it. What chance do the rest of us have? Dad’s moved on with Sheena but Mum has never really dated. She must get lonely even though she says Amy and I are enough.

Dad doesn’t pick up either. I send him a message – don’t worry, nothing important – because then I can tell myself that he knew there was nothing to worry about, which makes it easier for me if he doesn’t call me back, which he often doesn’t.

*

My low heels echo around the corridor as I head to my first lesson after lunch. We’ve been reading Wonder and the kids are mostly loving it.

Inside the classroom, the boys are again huddled around Craig and his mobile phone.

‘Give it to me.’ I hold my hand out. They know the rules.

‘But, Miss.’

‘But nothing. You know you’re not allowed phones in school. What’s so fascinating it can’t wait until you’re home?’ I wiggle my fingers – hand it over. Craig stares defiantly. I stare back, unflinching. It’s difficult. Most kids still do as they’re told at this stage, but Craig’s older brothers have likely told him the repercussions of misbehaving which, in these delicate times, aren’t nearly enough to make a pupil toe the line if they don’t want to. Teachers still like to pretend we have all the power but we don’t, not really.

There’s the first prickle of sweat under my armpits, the headache that’s been building behind my eyes takes a savage hold.

‘Come on, Craig.’ I thrust out my hand again.

The corners of his mouth slide up into a sly grin. He slaps the phone onto my hand with such force I bite the inside of my lip so I don’t wince. I’m not letting him get away with that.

‘Right.’ I keep my voice light. ‘Let’s see what’s more interesting than carrying on with Wonder.’

‘Literally everything,’ Craig mutters.

I swallow hard as I look at the image on the screen. It’s a naked woman. Of course it’s captivated a bunch of twelve-year-old boys. I’ll be sending him to Mrs Finchley, the head teacher, but I need to let the rest of the class know that it’s not acceptable to objectify women. There’s been a worrying trend of misogynistic videos online aimed at influencing young boys. Sometimes it feels as though the world’s moving backwards instead of forward.

‘So.’ I try to keep my voice weary, playing for time by swiping through the photos while I find the right words. There are multiple pictures of different women in different poses, no doubt sent to Craig, or stolen, from one of his brothers.

I pause at one. ‘This is …’ My voice cracks. ‘How … Where did you get these from?’ My authoritative mask has slipped.

Craig picks up on the note of desperation in my voice. ‘Why, Miss? Do you want some?’

I don’t answer, I’m still staring at the screen. The woman has her forearms covering her face. Her stocking-clad legs are open, breasts bare save a tattoo of a yellow bird.

‘You like that one, do you? I like a tattoo myself.’

Heat rushes to my cheeks. It’s a wrench to tear my eyes away.

‘There’s nothing wrong with liking girls, Miss.’

‘I don’t like girls. Not that it’s any of your business.’

Craig tries to snatch the phone from me.

I clench my fingers around the handset. ‘Get off.’

‘Ooh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. If you’re wearing any. Hey, it’s not you in the photo, is it?’ He laughs cruelly.

‘Of course it bloody isn’t.’

‘Ah come on now, Miss. Show us your tattoo.’ He lunges towards me and I shove him away from me.

‘Don’t touch me.’

I’m shouting now, losing any semblance of control. He swipes for the phone again. Breathing heavily, I lift it higher but it slips through my sweaty hands and crashes to the floor. The screen smashes.

‘You’ll pay for that.’ His tone implies that he means with more than money.

‘It was an accident.’

‘It was the latest iPhone.’

‘If you hadn’t been—’

‘We all saw that, didn’t we?’ Craig sweeps his glance around the class, who are all wide-eyed. Mute. ‘She was shouting. Out of control. Swearing. She assaulted me. Broke my fucking phone on purpose.’

I want to reason with him, ask the class to back me up, but I’m shaken to the core.

There’s still another two hours left of school when I leave, shrouded in shame. I haven’t been sacked but Mrs Finchley has sent me home, told me stay away on paid leave while she talks to Craig’s parents, to the board. I can’t believe I might lose my job over this.

My head is low as I hurry towards my car. I’ll message Amy and tell her to walk home. As I unlock the door I feel eyes on me. I raise my head. In the window of the classroom stands Kamil, staring, unsmiling.

I’m fighting back tears all the way home.

There’s a tremble in my fingers as I unlock the front door. There’s a sound coming from Mum’s office – she’s back. Not thinking about the explanation I will give her, only the comfort she can give me, I rush inside her study.

It isn’t Mum inside, but Luke.

He looks horrified as I catch him rifling through her desk.

Chapter 11

Five years ago

camilla

No matter how many times she rummaged through the fridge, Camilla couldn’t find any food that belonged to her or Jen.

‘Nothing for breakfast,’ she reported back. ‘We’ll have to wait until lunch.’

‘I thought we had some yoghurt left?’

‘Me too. Someone must have taken it.’

They weren’t eating properly. She missed opening the cupboards at Mel’s and grabbing a snack. There was so much she had taken for granted.

They lounged on the bed, studying while they waited for Mel to come and pick them up.

Mel and Amy were joining them for a Sunday roast at Don and Carol’s. It was one of the highlights of Camilla’s week. Carol was a great cook and really funny. Don always listened to Camilla’s concerns surrounding her course, her future and reassured her. She was prone to worrying but he didn’t dismiss her fears as childish, he made everything she was feeling seem so valid.

And there was always a cheeseboard.

Jen’s mobile beeped. ‘They’re outside,’ she said after reading the text. ‘Are you sure this top isn’t too low-cut?’ Jen tugged up her neckline.

She wasn’t worried about showing her cleavage, Camilla knew. More about Mel spotting Jen’s tattoo peeking out from underneath her bra.

‘A bird in a square, with a date underneath?’ Camilla had peered at it when it was new, the skin swollen, clingfilm taped over the top. She had been confused.

‘Not just any bird, it’s a yellow bird, and it isn’t in a square. It’s a Polaroid picture.’

‘Right. Well, that makes perfect sense now.’

‘The yellow bird signifies freedom. The Polaroid is because I wanted to preserve exactly how I felt on that date, a snapshot in time. It’s the day we started uni. It isn’t as though I regret anything that came before but it kind of felt like it was the first day of my life.’

‘You look fine,’ Camilla said now. ‘But you know what the definition of ironic is? Getting a tattoo to represent freedom and then being terrified your mum will find out.’

Don’s house usually smelled of something sweet. There was always a Yankee candle burning on the hearth. Today, it was washing powder, fresh and clean.

The potatoes were golden and crispy. The beef thinly sliced, pink.

Crockett the poodle sat by Amy’s side, gazing up at her hopefully, thinking, rightly so, that she was the softest touch.

She slipped him a morsel, and they all pretended not to notice.

‘If you keep feeding him we’ll be calling him Tubbs,’ Mel said.

‘Tubbs?’

‘There’s an old series called Miami Vice where the detectives are called Crockett and Tubbs.’

‘Can I watch it, Mum? Please?’

‘You’re not old enough. Anyway, you’d be bored. All that solving crimes.’

‘I wouldn’t. I always guess who the baddie is in Scooby-Doo. Uncle Don? Help.’

‘I’ve never seen it so I wouldn’t know if it’s suitable.’

‘So why did you name your dog after the character then?’

‘I didn’t. As your mum well knows.’

Mel grinned. ‘He went through a period of being obsessed with a man called Davy Crockett—’

‘Being interested in history isn’t being obsessed.’

‘What about your poetry phase? That was when you sewed patches on the elbows of your tweed jacket.’

Everyone laughed.

‘Actually,’ Carol said. ‘“Crockett” means large curls and I thought the name suited a poodle’s coat.’

Jen dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘This horseradish is excellent, Aunty Carol.’

‘Have another dollop.’ Carol pushed the jar across the table.

‘Thanks.’ Jen dug the spoon in. ‘That’s the thing I miss the most since I’ve been at uni.’

‘Horseradish?’

‘Condiments in general.’

‘You miss that horrible stuff that makes you cry more than you miss me?’ Amy was indignant.

‘You’re a horrible thing that makes me cry.’ Jen held her hands up in surrender as Amy battered her arm with her napkin. ‘Just kidding. I mean it’s the little extras with a meal we can’t afford on our grant. The cheap ketchup tastes like vinegar and mayonnaise is a luxury I dream of.’

‘Have you thought about looking for part-time work while you study?’ Carol said. ‘I took the first year to settle in but then I worked in a lovely bookshop.’

‘There aren’t many shops about nowadays to employ people, lovely or otherwise. I’ve been looking.’

‘Oh, Jen.’ Mel put down her knife and fork. ‘I thought we agreed that you’d focus on your coursework. You’ve years ahead of you to work.’

‘I think if she can’t afford ketchup she needs a job.’ Amy snuck another sliver of meat to Crockett.

‘What about you, Camilla? Weren’t you working in the supermarket?’ Don asked.

‘I was, which was great because we got a discount on food.’

‘Cheaper cheap tomato ketchup, yay,’ Jen said sombrely. ‘The manager was awful. When she couldn’t work some of the shifts she wanted they sacked her without any warning.’

‘I didn’t want to miss my lectures. But then I was offered a job in a fast-food restaurant, but it was open twenty-four hours and you were rostered to work nights sometimes whether you wanted to or not.’

‘And everything is a zero-hours contract. There’s no stability.’

Camilla took a sip of wine.

‘Perhaps I can find you something at the uni, researching.’ Don patted the back of her hand reassuringly and Camilla still felt the warmth of it when he placed it back on his lap.

‘It’s Friday night. Shall we treat ourselves to fish and chips?’ Jen asked.

‘And pay with what? Magic beans? We can have some toast before we head over to Shanice and Rochelle’s new flat.’

At seven they were walking towards town, trailing a cloud of sweet jasmine perfume in their wake.

The building was all glass, a security panel on the main door. Jen checked her mobile for the code Rochelle had texted and punched in the numbers.

‘How do they afford this?’ Camilla asked as the lift glided upstairs, opening onto a brightly lit hallway. Green leafy plants in concrete pots. The walls scuff-free.

‘We’ll ask them.’ Jen tapped on their door.

Shanice answered, wrapping Jen in a hug as though she was her long-lost best friend she hadn’t seen in forever.

In the lounge, Rochelle popped open a bottle of Prosecco.

‘God. It’s been a long time since we could afford this.’ Camilla took a sip, the bubbles tickling her nose. She glanced around the flat. Music streamed from Sonos speakers. Multiple lamps cast a warm orangey glow.

She slumped onto the sofa, it was like falling into a hug.

They chatted about other girls on their course. Nights out they’d had.

‘So,’ Camilla asked as the warm fuzz of alcohol lowered her inhibitions, ‘how do you afford this place?’

‘We both got jobs.’

‘We’re looking for work. My uncle Don has been asking around at the uni but there’s nothing at the moment.’

‘Maybe you want to work with us?’ Shanice and Rochelle exchanged a glance.

‘What do you do?’

‘We’ll show you.’

They rose to their feet and padded out into the hall and wordlessly Camila and Jen followed them. Camila felt they were walking towards something she didn’t want to see, but was unable to stop herself putting one foot in front of the other.

Shanice flung open the door to a bedroom with a flourish and a ‘tada’.

At the foot of the bed was a tripod.

A camera.

Chapter 12

Tuesday

amy

That bloody photo.

Today has been awful. Horrible. Terrible.

Amy slams the front door and kicks her shoes off, making sure they thud hard against the wall. She’s just reached the bottom stair – because all she really wants to do is throw herself onto her bed and cry – when Luke sticks his head around the door of the kitchen.

‘Hey. Thought I heard something. You okay? Good day?’

Amy shrugs. ‘I’m going to my room.’

‘Oh. I’d appreciate some help when you’ve got a sec?’

‘Is Jen with you?’ Amy asks quietly.

‘No. She’s in the bath.’

As much as Amy doesn’t feel like company, she knows Mum would always want her to help someone if they asked. She traipses into the kitchen. Scanning the mass destruction. Sprinkles of flour, spilled milk. A mountain of washing-up.

‘Wow. You really do need help.’

‘Yeah. Cooking is, well, it’s not my thing but I wanted to make you both a meal to say thank you for having me. The thing is …’

‘You’re a bit crap?’ Amy can’t figure out what he’s making. Every jar of herbs they possess is on the table.

Luke laughs. ‘You’ve sussed me out. Anyway I figure Jen’s had a bad day, coming home early with a headache, and I think I’ve pis— annoyed her.’

‘You’ve pissed her off.’ Amy arches her eyebrows. ‘How?’

‘I arrived home first because some of the parts I needed for the job today weren’t delivered and I thought I’d go and buy some ingredients to cook but I didn’t have any paper for a shopping list so I looked for some in your mum’s office.’

‘And Jen caught you in there and thought you were being nosy?’

‘I think so.’

‘And were you?’ Amy crosses her arms, remembering her yearbook in his room, the missing page. ‘You could have just used the notes app in your phone.’

‘Umm. A little bit.’ Luke held his hands up. ‘I did want some paper, I’m dyslexic and I find it more of a challenge to read on a screen – but, you know it’s weird being in a strange house and while you both were out I thought I’d have a look around. Not in the bedrooms or anything, but I’ve checked out the bookcase in the lounge to see what you all read, and I found the DVDs in the TV cabinet.’

‘Oh no, not WALL-E.’ Amy covers her face in mock horror. ‘That was my favourite when I was young and Mum can’t bear to get rid of it. We usually stream everything but, you know, Mum’s sentimental.’

‘I can tell that from all the photos of you all in the hall and landing. God, I do sound like a real snoop, don’t I?’

‘Totally.’ Amy smiles to soften it. She doesn’t blame him. She’s the same. Always wanting to suss things out.

‘Anyway, I’m making amends.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Amy opens the dishwasher and begins to stack it. ‘And making amends takes every saucepan we have? What are you making anyway? No, let me guess.’ She turns to him and places her fingers on her temples, closes her eyes. ‘Bolognese.’

‘Ha. You’ve followed the trail of tomato sauce and decided I’d be predictable. Actually, Miss Marple, it’s a lasagne. The béchamel sauce went all lumpy though. I’ve had to chuck it away.’

‘You have to keep stirring it. Want me to make another?’

‘Please. Can I make you a hot chocolate, Chef?’

Amy’s throat closes. It’s been so bloody awful today and if Mum were here she’d also make Amy a hot chocolate with whipped cream and mini marshmallows, picking out the pink ones Amy prefers.

‘Hey?’ Luke lightly touches her elbow. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ Amy sniffs. ‘Was just wishing Mum was here right now. Actually I might go and ring her. I’ll be back in a bit.’

Amy walks into the hallway. From upstairs, water gurgles as Jen drains the bath so Amy slips into the lounge. Not wanting to see her sister right now.

Mum’s phone rings before her voicemail kicks in. She doesn’t want Mum to worry so she leaves her a ‘just calling to say hello’ message before she hangs up. From the fireplace, Mum’s face grins at her. They’re all wearing paper hats from Christmas crackers, faces close together. Mum’s arm is outstretched as she took the photo. The top of Jen’s head is cut off. Mason’s slightly out of focus as he wouldn’t keep still. Amy isn’t facing the camera, but laughing as she looks at Camilla who must have said something funny.

‘We’ve much better photos to frame,’ Jen had said when Mum had printed it out and eased it into the silver frame.

‘But we all look so happy and it’s a reminder that families aren’t always perfect and that doesn’t matter. It’s love that counts.’

But where is Mum and her love when Amy needs her now? She knows it’s unfair. She can’t remember a time when Mum wasn’t here. It’s only Tuesday afternoon and she last saw her on Sunday so it’s not as though it’s been ages. It feels like it though. The house seems different without her. It isn’t solely because Luke’s here that the house feels more serious somehow. It’s the lack of energy. The lack of music. Mum not singing along and getting all the words mixed up.

Amy switches on the radio when she returns to the kitchen. She would normally choose a playlist from Spotify but she doesn’t really know what Luke likes and this station is Mum’s favourite, even though it does play too many songs from the Eighties.

‘Ah. You’re back.’ Luke is wiping down the worktop. The kitchen is infinitely cleaner than it was when she left. ‘All good?’

‘Mum didn’t answer. I left a message.’ She watches as Luke twists off the tap. ‘It doesn’t matter how tightly you turn it, it keeps dripping.’

‘Does it? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Hey, you’re a plumber, can you sort it out?’

‘I can but my tools are in my van, well, my pick-up. In the garage I rent.’

‘There’s an old toolbox of Dad’s in the shed. I can fetch it?’

‘It’s okay. I’ll have a look in a bit. So, Jen said your mum’s visiting her brother?’

‘Yeah. Uncle Don.’

‘And where does he live?’

‘In a village called Stanhope.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It’s small but it’s close to Kirkcombe University where he teaches.’

‘Ah. I know that. Not a million miles away then.’

‘It felt like it when Jen went there.’ Amy remembers how she’d cried all the way home when they’d first dropped Jen and Camilla off.

Is this what life is? A series of people leaving?

But even if Dad didn’t come back, Jen and Camilla did and Mum will too.

She can’t help feeling unsettled though.

‘Sit down a minute. We can make the sauce after this.’ Luke places her ‘World’s Best Daughter’ mug in front of her with a flourish. Hot chocolate is spilling down the sides, the cream rapidly melting. ‘I figured that was your mug.’

‘Yeah. Jen and I both have one.’

‘So.’ Luke sits down opposite her. ‘You don’t sound like you had the best day at school from the way you slammed the door when you got home and ran straight upstairs.’

‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’

‘It’s not a criticism. If you want to talk about anything I’m happy to listen. Sometimes it’s easier to tell a stranger things.’

Luke gazes at her with concerned eyes but Amy lowers her head, shifting her attention to her drink. Running her finger up the outside of the mug, catching the spills.

‘Did you like school?’ She digs into her whipped cream with a teaspoon, scooping up marshmallows.

‘No,’ he says instantly. ‘I didn’t have anyone encouraging me at home though. Not like you, having Jen.’

‘It makes it hard, you know.’

‘Having your sister teach at your school?’

‘Yeah. But even if she were at a different school it would still be tough. It’s such a lot to live up to.’

‘Because she did well?’

‘Yeah. And … I dunno what I want to be yet.’

‘Jen probably didn’t at your age either. Look, I get that it’s rough on you having her at school, but it’s not always easy being the oldest either. Being expected to set an example.’

Amy scrapes her chair back and stands, not wanting to talk about her sister anymore. Not wanting to think about her.

‘Let’s make this sauce.’ She fastens Mum’s apron around her waist. It still has pink buttercream icing crusted on it from when she made butterfly cakes with Mason last week.

‘Amy?’ Luke is holding out a wooden spoon.

‘Sorry,’ she takes it, ‘I was miles away.’

It doesn’t take long to whip up a sauce and once it’s smooth she excuses herself – ‘I’m going to get changed’ – and shuts herself in her room, not wanting to hang around downstairs. She can’t avoid Jen forever, of course, but she doesn’t know what to say to her. She’s pretty certain about what she’d seen on Craig’s phone and what she’d seen was a photo of her sister.

Her naked sister.

She covers her face with her hands as though the picture is in front of her, but she can still see it every time she closes her eyes.

How could it be Jen?

Jen’s … not prudish but she’s never seemed entirely comfortable in her own skin. Always wearing a swimsuit rather than a bikini on holiday, turning her back to Amy before getting dressed if they were sharing a room.

How could it be her, posing, legs open.

Amy feels sick at the thought.

And yet there was the tattoo on the woman’s breast. Distinctive. Unique. A Polaroid picture of a yellow bird. Jen had said she designed it herself to commemorate finally starting uni, but if that tattoo artist had added it to his portfolio then perhaps someone, somewhere has the exactly the same design?

In exactly the same place?

She hadn’t lingered long enough on the image, hadn’t wanted to zoom in to see if the date Jen started uni was on the tattoo.

Half of her is furious, wanting to go and confront Jen, but she both wants and doesn’t want to know.

Because if that woman is her sister, well, then what other secrets might she be keeping?

Everything feels off as they sit around the kitchen table. Luke is in Amy’s usual seat and so she slides into Camilla’s place but if feels wrong.

She shivers.

Luke notices. ‘Sorry, had to crack open a window. The garlic bread is a little crisp.’

The lasagne though is surprisingly good.

‘This is really tasty,’ Jen says, although she’s only moving forkfuls of it around her plate.

‘It’s the béchamel sauce that’s made it special. I decided without the lumps would be better.’ He winks at Amy. Tongs salad onto his plate. ‘Actually your sister made the sauce. Thanks again, Amy.’

‘’S all right.’

‘How’s your head, Jen, any better?’

‘Not really.’ She gives a weak smile.

‘Must be all the shouting at school today.’ Amy stabs a cherry tomato, the juice splattering her fingers.

‘Shouting?’ Luke raises his eyebrows.

‘There was a misunderstanding,’ Jen says.

‘So there’s this boy, Craig.’ Amy can feel Jen glaring at her. ‘And he had these photos on his phone and the rumour is that they’re of one of the teachers.’ Amy deliberately keeps her eyes on Luke. ‘And this teacher freaked out. I mean, if you’re trying to hide something then you don’t—’

‘Perhaps the teacher was upset that the boys were objectifying women,’ Jen says.

‘And getting hysterical isn’t playing up to the female stereotype?’

‘Perhaps Craig should learn to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Perhaps the teacher should learn to keep her legs shut.’

‘Enough.’ Jen slams her fist on the table. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Sorry.’ Her voice is thin. She tries to smile at Luke. ‘As Amy said, there’s been an incident at school today involving one of the teachers and a student but it’s all a misunderstanding. Craig is a known troublemaker. He likes to make stuff up.’

‘What are your other pupils like?’ Luke is the only one eating.

‘Actually, I think I’ll go lie down? I really appreciate you cooking but I just feel sick.’

Amy feels sick too.

She and Luke finish their dinner. She asks him questions about his family because she doesn’t want to talk about school anymore and that’s what grown-ups always tend to ask when they don’t know you well, isn’t it? How’s school? As though it’s the most bloody important thing.

It isn’t.

The most important thing in her life is hers and hers alone.

Luke hadn’t really wanted to talk about himself, and their conversation had petered out as they cleared up together because poor Jen.

If only he knew the truth.

Let Jen feign a headache.

Jen’s a liar.

Let her keep her secrets.

Amy has a secret of her own.

In her room she draws the curtains. Opens an app on her phone to turn on the lamp. A violet glow fills the room. She’d been so happy when she’d got the colour-changing bulbs for her birthday. She dims the brightness and opens her laptop.

Before she fires it up she glances around the room, uncomfortable. She’d left it in such a mess this morning. If Mum were here Amy would have made her bed. It’s not like anyone can see her, like anyone will be watching when she logs on, but she straightens up the duvet and stuffs her pyjamas under her pillow and then she’s ready.

Let him be there.

She loads the app and then types, hello.

Instantly the ticks change colour to show the message has been read. There’s a timer to indicate he’s typing. Buzz2012.

- How was your day?

- Lame

- What happened?

- Just … stuff

- Wanna talk about it? Sometimes it’s easier to tell a stranger

- Is that what you are?

Amy’s stomach drops. She’d thought they’d become more than that.

- Nah. We’re mates but you know, when you can’t see someone’s face you can share stuff you wouldn’t normally

- I wish I could see your face

- My webcam is still broken. So what’s up?

- Just school is rubbish. My sister is rubbish. Everything’s rubbish.

Amy sends it then immediately adds,

- Except you.

- What about your new lodger? Is he rubbish?

- He’s a rubbish cook … but nah, Luke’s okay. Glad he’s here while mum’s away.

As she writes this, she finds that it’s true. She’d hate to be alone with Jen right now.

- When do you think your mum will be back?

- Dunno

- Don’t get into trouble while she’s gone

- Trouble? Like what?

There’s no indication he’s typing a reply, and for a disappointing moment Amy thinks he’s gone but then an image pings onto her screen – a unicorn in a tutu graffitiing a wall.

Amy laughs, then sees Buzz2012’s message.

- Your turn to send me a picture

- How can I top that?

- We’ve been messaging a while now. It’s time I had a photo of you.

Chapter 13

You’re wearing pyjamas, sitting cross-legged on top of the duvet. The top you’d worn tonight slung carelessly on the floor. It had brought out the colour of your eyes.

You’re repeatedly trying to call someone. They’re not picking up. Then you’re back on your laptop, hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying furiously over the keys. I can’t quite see the expression on your face but I can sense an urgency about what you’re doing.

It’s important to you.

What else is important to you?

Then you’re back on your phone, anxiously chewing on your thumbnail before you fling your handset down.

Your head drops low, you cover your face and by the shake in your shoulders I can tell you’re crying.

It’s such a personal moment.

How easy is it to make you cry?

Who or what has brought you to tears? I wanted to uncover your secrets, all of them.

You wipe your cheek with your sleeve.

You look smaller. Vulnerable.

I should look away, I know I should, I know this is wrong, but I can’t.

Chapter 14

Five years ago

camilla

Camilla was watching Jen in the mirror.

They were getting ready as though it was a normal night out, but nothing about this night was normal at all. Camilla noticed Jen’s fingers trembling as she held the mascara wand to her lashes, jabbing herself in the eye. She blinked back tears.

‘Look. If you—’

‘We’re not committed to anything,’ Jen reminded her but she was wiping a black streak from her cheek, beginning again, her hand as unsteady as her voice.

‘I don’t know what to wear?’ Camilla asked in a small voice.

‘Whatever you’re comfortable with.’ Their eyes met and then ridiculously they began to laugh.

‘We’re not committed,’ Jen said again, firmer this time.

‘Okay.’ Camilla sloshed the rest of the bottle of wine between their glasses. ‘Bottoms up.’

‘Possibly,’ Jen said and they laughed again although it really wasn’t funny.

*

By the time they reached Shanice and Rochelle’s flat their fake bravado had waned. They looked at each other – shall we just go? – but before they could decide the door opened.

‘Come in. You look fab! Both of you.’

Shanice was casual in jeans, hair tied up in a ponytail. Camilla tugged down her borrowed denim skirt as she followed her into the lounge, wishing it were longer.

‘Hey,’ Rochelle greeted from the sofa, legs curled under her, glass of wine in hand. ‘Drink?’

‘We’re not committed to anything,’ Camilla blurted out.

‘Of course not.’

‘Then we’ll have a drink.’

‘So tell us again.’ Jen was trying to sound relaxed but she was gulping down her chardonnay.

Shanice topped up their glasses. ‘We have a friend, Harvey King, who has set up a site. Members only. They pay a subscription which gives them access to private content.’

‘Who?’ began Jen at the same time Camilla said adamantly, ‘I’m not doing nudes.’

‘Honestly, you don’t have to, yo—’

‘I don’t know if I’m doing anything.’

‘Chill. I felt the same as you but it’s like, super safe. The site is encrypted or something so none of the photos can be leaked. I can’t remember the technical stuff. I was worried too at first but it’s cool. We’re taking back the power. Men always drool over us so why not make them pay for it?’

‘I don’t get why people will pay when they can just google and see stuff for free online?’

‘The guy who set this up reckons it will be huge one day. That some content creators will become millionaires.’

‘I can’t believe people will pay though.’

‘Plenty do, and the more the subscribers like you, the more they interact.’

‘And that’s how you get gifts.’ Rochelle grinned.

‘Gifts?’

‘Designer clothes, handbags and stuff. You can make a wish list.’

‘I don’t need a handbag, we just want to pay the rent,’ Camilla said. ‘Be able to afford some decent cheese.’

‘You and your cheese. I wouldn’t mind a handbag,’ Jen said. ‘But I’m guessing the more you show the more you get.’

‘Well,’ Rochelle shrugged, ‘depends on the guy. Not everyone’s a pervert. Some are just lonely. Want to chat.’

‘Although we’ve had some very dodgy requests,’ Shanice added.

‘But we still get paid if we’re, you know, clothed.’ Camilla absolutely wasn’t taking anything off.

‘If someone signs up to your account after viewing your public profile then you get a percentage.’

‘Oh.’ Camilla felt flat. ‘I thought we got paid either way.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re both young and hot. Fans will sign up.’

‘And you get a fee for recruiting us?’

Rochelle holds her hands up. ‘We do. But then you’ll get a fee if you sign anyone else up.’

‘I mean, really, we’ve nothing to lose. If guys don’t like us then’ – Camilla shrugged – ‘we’ve lost nothing? Let’s do it.’

In the bedroom though, she began to have second thoughts, exchanging an uneasy glance with Jen.

‘Here.’ Shanice poured Camilla another glass of wine. ‘Relax.’

The wine wasn’t the cheap stuff that burned her throat but smooth and fruity and, really, it didn’t taste very alcoholic. She drank quickly. The warm bloom of alcohol settling her nerves.

Music began to play. ‘My working playlist.’ Rochelle grinned as Beyoncé’s ‘Run the World (Girls)’ filled the room. Shanice whooped, swayed her hips, arms above her head, glass in hand. Rochelle jumped onto the bed, began to sing. Jen glanced at Camilla, offered her hand and then twirled Camilla under her arm. By the time the track had finished they were breathless.

‘That’s put a nice flush on your cheeks,’ Rochelle said. ‘Mind if I touch up your make-up? I think you’ll still look a little washed out on the screen.’

Camilla and Jen sat on the bed and tilted their faces back. The glide of the brush against her skin was gentle and, as Rochelle blended in highlighter with her fingers, she felt herself relax. In that moment, it felt fun.

‘Need You Tonight’ by Inxs was playing, Michael Hutchence’s voice smooth and silky, and Camilla had to admit she felt a little turned on as she lay on the bed, arms stretched high above her head, one leg spread before her, the other bent, denim skirt bunched high on her thighs, T-shirt riding up, air cool on her bare midriff.

‘The camera loves you,’ Shanice said. ‘How about some shots of both you and Jen together now?’

‘Okay.’ Camilla downed another drink. Surprisingly she was enjoying herself.

‘Kneel on the bed and face each other. That’s right. You’re both so gorgeous. Subscribers are going to love you.’

‘How do you both feel about a topless shot? Nothing tacky, completely tasteful. You can keep your skirts on. No pressure though.’

It was being called gorgeous that made Camilla lose her inhibitions. Perhaps it was because she didn’t grow up with her biological mother or father, and it wasn’t until she met Jen and Mel that anyone had ever told her she was beautiful, worth something. And now both Rochelle and Shanice were smiling, telling her how sexy she was, how natural she was in front of the camera. She’d expected to feel many things tonight, but as she tugged off her T-shirt and reached behind her back to unclip her bra, she felt something she’d never expected.

Happy.

‘Cool. Now put your hands on each other’s waists. That’s it, lean in.’

Jen’s eyes were glassy, pupils dilated. Her breath drinking-wine-for-hours sour.

They were so close their nipples brushed against one another.

‘Great. Shall we try a kiss? It doesn’t have to be a real one but—’

‘No.’ Rochelle’s request cut through the haze. ‘I’m done now.’ Camilla crossed her arms over her chest as she shuffled to the edge of the bed, turning towards the wall as she got dressed.

‘Jen?’

But Jen was still on the bed.

‘Let’s go,’ Camilla said.

‘Do you want to carry on, Jen?’ Shanice asked. ‘You’re doing so well. You’re going to make a fortune.’

‘I don’t want to go any further.’ Jen covered her breasts. ‘You were right though, it is empowering.’

‘I’d never been comfortable with my body until I did nudes,’ Shanice said. ‘There was something so freeing about saying “this is me” and seeing the shots, seeing myself as others saw me. Wow.’ She shook her head.

‘Yeah. Same,’ Rochelle said. ‘It wasn’t about titillating men. It was about me becoming comfortable with who I am. My own sexuality. My parents were super religious and I grew up with the idea that bodies were shameful. That sex was shameful. But it’s the most beautiful, natural thing in the world.’

‘It’s about choice.’

‘Choice,’ Jen said in a soft voice. ‘There have been so many things I haven’t had a choice in. I want to accept myself, flaws and all.’ She gave a shy grin. ‘But I don’t want anyone else to see them.’

‘How about I take a couple of shots just for you?’ Rochelle asked. ‘No one has to see them. We don’t even have to get your face in. These guys can leave the room.’

Jen stared down at the duvet. Camilla sensed her turmoil.

‘Why don’t you sleep on it? You’ve had too much to drink to—’

‘I want to do this,’ Jen cut in. ‘Not for the site, but for me. Just for me.’

She hooked her fingers in the waistband of her stretchy black miniskirt and began to roll it down.

Chapter 15

Five years ago

camilla

The morning following the photoshoot Camilla’s mouth felt as though something had died in it. She reached for the glass of water on her bedside table, it was warm. Nausea sloshed as she pulled on her dressing gown and stumbled into Jen’s bedroom.

‘Jen?’ She shook her friend. ‘Wake up.’

There was a groan. Jen tried to yank the duvet over her head but Camilla stopped her. ‘Jen. I need to talk about last night.’

Jen turned into the pillow. ‘Do we have to?’ she mumbled.

‘Yes. It went too far.’

Jen sat up. ‘It did, didn’t it? Fuck.’

‘Fuck indeed. Do you think they put something in our drinks?’

‘I don’t know. I felt … Christ.’ Jen rubbed sleep from the corners of her eyes. ‘I felt free. You know I explained to you before how confined I’d felt at home growing up?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was the ultimate cutting loose, wasn’t it? I really don’t think I was drugged. It was the adrenaline. The rush. But, oh god, I’d be mortified if those photos ever got out. The ones of us. The ones, you know, of me, after.’

‘But that’s what we’ll end up doing, isn’t it, if we upload them? Going further than we want to because, let’s be honest, if we’re fully clothed and the next girl isn’t, who are guys going to pay to look at? And once the photos are out there? Well, nothing disappears once it’s online, does it? Imagine the photos resurfacing in the future, when we have respectable jobs, husbands, kids?’

‘Yeah. But we are skint and—’

‘Loads of people are skint, Jen, but they don’t all get their tits out,’ Camilla snapped. ‘Sorry. I’m just so …’ Her voice broke. ‘I’m not judging anyone who does this but I just wish we’d never gone, you know? Yes, I kind of enjoyed it at the time, at first anyway, but now I feel horrible.’

‘Me too. I don’t know how I’ll be able to face Mum at her birthday dinner later. I’ll ring Rochelle. Chuck us my phone.’

Camilla’s chest was tight as Jen made the call. She’d forgotten how to breathe properly. She could only hear Jen’s side of the conversation.

‘I’m sorry we wasted your time … Couldn’t you give your finders’ fee back?’

When she’d hung up, her face was even paler than it had been.

‘Rochelle is really pissed. She said they’re behind on their rent and was counting on their finders’ fee to pay it.’

‘That’s not our problem.’

‘It is because she’s already given the images to Harvey King and been paid. She said she hadn’t given him the ones of me, you know, after but …’ She began to cry.

‘I’ll sort it out, Jen.’ Camilla went back to her room and tried to ring both Rochelle and Shanice. Neither of them picked up.

Then she had another idea. It wasn’t great, but it was all she could think of.

Camilla felt she was actually melting with embarrassment as she tentatively knocked on Don’s office door.

‘Enter.’

There was a pine-tree-scented candle flickering on the windowsill. She’d always assumed Carol was the candle fan. On his desk a chrome lamp angled over a pile of papers.

‘Camilla. Everything okay? Still on for Mel’s dinner tonight?’

‘Yes. Sorry to disturb you.’ Nervously, she twisted her hands together.

‘I’m glad you have.’ Don glances at his watch. ‘My first lecture is due to start soon. I’d lost track of time. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s … well …’ The words were sordid and sour, stuck in her throat. She turned back to the door, her hand grasping the handle but her palm was sweaty and she couldn’t gain purchase.

‘Camilla?’ There was tenderness in his voice, warmth in the hand on her shoulder. She turned but she couldn’t face him, this man who was almost a father to her. The most constant male presence she had ever known.

She couldn’t tell him what she’d done. Who she’d become.

And yet she had to. It was him or the police or Mel and, really, Don was the only one who was here right now and might be able to do something.

‘I’ve—’ She placed her palms over her face. Felt his fingers on her elbow, gently guiding her to the tartan wing-backed chair. She took a deep breath in, the smell of the Yankee candle transporting her back to Ashwood Forest, and she longed for the innocence of those picnics with Mel, Jen and Amy once more.

Simpler times.

He gave her a moment to compose herself until finally she lowered her hands, gazed out at the window. There was a pigeon on the windowsill pecking at some crumbs. Don must have shared his breakfast. He was good. Kind. She needed to trust him.

‘Last night …’ Slowly, falteringly, reluctantly, she stuttered out her shameful story.

‘And he has the photos of you? Harvey King? You and Jen?’ Don’s mouth was a thin line. His jaw pulsing. There was fury radiating from him in waves, but none of it seemed to be aimed at her.

‘Yes.’

There’s nothing else she could say. Every single tear running down her burning cheeks a reminder of how much she regretted it. How scared she was.

‘Has Jen told Mel?’

‘No. Please don’t tell her.’ Worse than the thought she had let herself down was the knowledge that she had let Mel down.

‘She should know if—’

‘Please. Isn’t there something you can do? I’m so ashamed. This isn’t like me at all. Or Jen. We didn’t, I didn’t even—’ She’s hysterical. Voice rising in pitch.

‘Leave it with me.’ He stood, so she did too. The expression on his face unreadable. Disgust? Disappointment? Her knees still rubber. He walked her briskly to the door.

‘What are you going to—’

‘Leave it with me, Camilla.’

There was impatience in his tone now, but not unkindness. He strode down the corridor. Whatever he was about to do, he was going to do it now.

*

‘You did what?’ Jen was horrified. ‘He’s my uncle. I don’t want him to see me like that.’

‘Better than the rest of the world seeing you like that. This isn’t all about you, Jen.’

They didn’t speak for the rest of the morning but they were both relieved when Don messaged to say that Harvey wouldn’t be coming back to classes. The photos had been deleted.

And that was the end of it, or so Camilla had thought.

Then.

But later, Mel had come to take them out to dinner to celebrate her birthday when there was the sound of boots kicking against their door. Harvey’s angry shouts.

‘Camilla. Jen. You’ve ruined my life, bitches. I’m going to ruin yours.’

‘What’s going on?’ Mel clenched her hand around the keys in her hand. ‘I’m glad Amy is already at Don’s and can’t hear this.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘It doesn’t sound like nothing.’

‘It’s just, well, his name’s Harvey King and he thought— but we didn’t, and, honestly, it’s fine.’

As Camilla spoke, Harvey kicked the door again. Before they could stop her, Mel was striding towards it, yanking it open.

‘The fuck are you?’ Harvey muttered.

‘I’m Mel, Jen’s mum, and I know you’re Harvey King and you’re very upset.’

‘Fucking right. I’ve been kicked off my course. Do you know what—’

‘I know I’ve called the police, Harvey. Want to add a criminal record to your university record? Threatening behaviour, criminal damage. You’d find it very difficult getting a job then.’

He glowered at them once more before he turned and ran.

Mel hadn’t pushed them for details and at Don’s they all tried to act bright and breezy in front of Amy. Carol served beef in red wine but all Camilla could taste was shame.

She cleared the empty plates, waving off offers of help. In the kitchen she slid open a box of matches to light the candles on the cake but her hand was shaking so much the matches spilled all over the floor.

She began to cry silent tears, not wanting anyone to know.

‘Shall I make coffee to go with the …’ Don trailed off as he entered the kitchen. Wrapped his arms around her.

‘It’s okay.’

But it wasn’t okay.

Not then.

Not now.

Chapter 16

Wednesday

jen

When I wake, I’m drenched in sweat. The sheet is damp beneath me but I don’t get up. I don’t know what to get up for. From Amy’s barbed comments at the dinner table last night, she suspects it’s me in the nude photo that Craig was flashing around. If she asks me directly, I can hardly deny it, can I? Not with my tattoo of the yellow bird. Had she confided in Luke while they were cooking together?

My phone vibrates. Something in me momentarily lifts as I think it’s Mum, but it’s Amy. I’ll walk to school and back today. Shame floods through me for another reason. I’m lying here, wallowing, thinking only of myself when I could get up, make Amy breakfast because she’s the one that has to go in and face the mess I made of everything yesterday.

The kids don’t know for certain it’s me, of course. Craig was trying to wind me up but the way I reacted, oh god.

My face flames again.

How will I summon the courage to step into school again? It’s heartbreaking to think it might not be my choice. Will Mrs Finchley show the photo to the Board? Will they study it, wondering if it is me?

There’s a saying that goes something like ‘in life, you only regret the things you didn’t do’ but that’s not true, is it? There’s so much I’d change if I could.

Another message comes through on my phone.

Slut.

I bolt upright, heart hammering furiously in my chest, dragging the duvet up to my chin with one hand to cover myself as though whoever sent this can see me right now.

The number is one I don’t recognise. I wish I was braver, I wish I could call it and demand to know who it is, but instead a tear trickles down my cheek.

Slut.

Is that what everyone thinks of me? It should be what I think of myself that matters but I don’t know who I am right now. I know what I am: scared, ashamed, alone. More than ever, I need Mum.

Who could have sent the message? Craig must have it in for me after I’ve broken his phone but how would he get my number? Only a handful of people have it, it’s not as though I have loads of friends. Since we fled our home all those years ago, I’ve never really formed close friendships with anyone except Camilla.

At the thought of her I feel sick. I’m going to have to tell her the photos have materialised again. But then have they? Or is it just that one of me? I haven’t spoken to her for a couple of days, which is unusual for us. I avoided her messages yesterday because I didn’t know how to – didn’t want to – tell her about my suspension.

I thought the pictures had all disappeared, along with Harvey, but everything is coming at me again. The photos. Harvey. Someone was watching the house the other night. Now this text, and although that one word isn’t threatening, threatened is how I feel. Weak. Out of control. A victim.

I am not a victim.

I’ve fought too hard to swim to let this be the thing to sink me.

The front door slams.

I throw back the duvet, and clamber out of bed. At the window, I see Luke and Amy walking down the path together, chatting. I watch them until they reach the end of the road. Amy turns right, towards school. Luke goes left, presumably to collect his pick-up and go to work. He walks with purpose, swinging his arms, and I follow his shock of white hair, bright red sweatshirt until he disappears from sight.

Quickly I dress.

I’m going back to where it all started. Back to uni.

And the fact that I can call in at Uncle Don’s to see Mum is an added bonus.

Because although in this moment I am resolute, I also need a hug.

After the rush of the early-morning commute, the roads quieten down. My headlights are on, cutting through the gloom, wipers swish-swish-swishing against the drizzle.

I switch on the radio. Ed Sheeran is singing ‘Lego House’. At the sound of this song, Andy springs to mind. I switch it off.

The university is about thirty minutes away now, Uncle Don’s nearer than that. I spot a green illuminated sign of a BP garage and swerve into the forecourt. There’s a bucket outside with flowers in and I sort through them. Wilting tulips and sunflowers with brown curling leaves. It isn’t really the season for them but then seasons aren’t what they used to be, are they? I settle on a bunch of cream and yellow roses and on my way to the checkout pick up a box of Maltesers. I’ll tell Mum that I had free periods this morning and wanted to see her to tell her that I’m okay holding the fort at home for however long she needs.

The car bumps along the potholed lane towards Uncle Don’s, trees towering high above me sucking out the scant light there had been on the open road. No wonder it’s impossible to get a signal here.

In front of the house is Aunty Carol’s Fiat 500 but there’s no sign of Mum’s blue Fiesta. Something stirs in the pit of my belly as I approach the front door.

‘Jen, love.’ Aunty Carol’s face breaks into a smile before quickly her mouth drops and frown lines appear on her forehead. ‘Is something wrong? Come in, come in.’ My aunt ushers me inside. There’s a lingering scent of berries, no doubt from a Yankee candle. As always, I take off my shoes and as always Aunty Carol says I don’t have to because my feet will get cold against the flagstone.

The kitchen is cosy, the Aga throwing out warmth.

‘Let me put these in a vase.’ Aunty Carol takes the flowers, assuming they’re for her. I sit at the pine table, glancing around me. There are two plates on the draining board. Two mugs. I know before I ask, ‘Mum’s not here?’

‘Here? No. Should she be?’ Aunty Carol puts down the coffee she’d been scooping into the cafetière.

‘But she was?’

‘Yes, at the weekend. That was unexpected too. What’s going on?’ She crosses her arms, leans back against the worktop.

‘How long was she here for?’

‘I don’t know. I was due to help out at the food bank. She and Don were arguing so—’

‘Arguing?’

‘Sorry. That’s a bit strong. But there was tension between them. Whisper-shouting coming from his study. Bickering, I guess. You know what they can be like. Brother and sister.’

‘What were they talking about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t you ask him? Didn’t you think it was odd Mum just turning up out of the blue?’ This comes out more accusatory than I’d intended so I soften my words with an attempt at a smile. Reaching out my hand to finger one of the leaves on the flowers – look what I brought you.

‘A bit. I said to her if she’d have told me then I’d have swapped shifts with one of the other volunteers. What’s going on, Jen?’

‘I don’t know. Mum said she was coming here on Sunday.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘And then she tried to call but we were cut off.’

‘You know what the service is like here.’

‘And then she texted to say that she was staying.’

‘Here?’

I check my phone. Not quite remembering her exact messages.

‘Well, no,’ I say as I read them back. ‘She just said she needed a break and could I hold the fort for a few days.’

‘Right. But you came to find her?’ Carol says this gently but this time it is her who sounds accusing. ‘Your mum’s been through a lot over the years.’

She means that I’ve put Mum through a lot.

‘It just seemed out of character. Leaving Amy and me. And I’ve never known her to take personal days. It’s not easy to get her to take all of her annual leave, she loves her job despite its challenges.’ I rise to my feet.

‘What about that coffee?’

‘Sorry, Aunty Carol. I’ve got a few things to do and I want to be home before Amy. Lunch soon? I’m missing your potatoes.’

‘We’re here anytime. Bring Camilla and Mason too. We don’t seem to see much of her anymore. Safe trip home,’ she says as she kisses me goodbye, but I’m not going home.

Not yet.

It’s hard to decipher how I feel as I set foot onto university grounds. There are so many memories tied up with this place that gave me the best and the worst of times. Ultimately, I guess, it gave me more than it took. I’m a teacher now, at least I hope I still will be once Mrs Finchley has finished her investigations.

There’s a swarm of students scurrying along the curved paths. If you looked down from high above this would resemble an ant colony. Moving. There’s always somebody moving.

I cut across the lawn. In the summer there’ll be picnic blankets slung over dying grass. Now, it’s damp underfoot. I’ve reached the grey concrete stairs that lead up to the side entrance when I see him out of the corner of my eye.

A figure I think I recognise.

I turn and watch the man stride towards reception, arms swinging, mop of white blond hair, bright red sweatshirt.

Luke?

Disorientated, I sway, one foot on the step. I steady myself against the wall. It’s thrown me, seeing him here.

But was it him?

He’s been swallowed up by a rowdy group, laughing loudly at something. My attention gravitates towards another bright red top, then another. Someone else with blonde hair. He must be on my mind, subconsciously. But still I jog towards reception to see if it was him, but when I get to the front desk, there’s nobody there.

Upstairs, I wend my way through corridors until I come to Uncle Don’s office. I knock on the door, but no one answers. I really should have asked Aunty Carol for his teaching schedule today.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a middle-aged harried-looking woman with glasses swinging from a silver chain around her neck.

‘I was looking for Don?’

‘Are you a student here?’

‘No. I’m his niece.’

‘This isn’t his office anymore,’ she tells me as she hurries away, checking her watch.

I find a quiet space and I ring him, hoping he isn’t in a class.

‘Hi, Uncle Don.’

‘Jen? Everything okay.’

‘Yes. I’m at your office, well, your old office—’

‘You’re at the uni? Why?’

‘I was just passing,’ I say weakly. ‘Where are you? Can we meet?’

‘I’m at Park campus today. Lecturing in an hour but could see you briefly? What about a quick coffee at Deja Brew? It’s halfway between the two campuses.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Uncle Don is there before me. He’s ordered my favourite carrot cake and a latte. I remember when I was a student and couldn’t afford either and he’d treat me every Friday.

‘It’s lovely to see you, but unexpected.’

‘It’s a long story but I thought Mum was saying with you.’ I fill him in.

‘No, she came Sunday but didn’t stop.’

‘Do you have any idea where she was going?’

‘I assumed home.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Honestly, a little stressed.’

‘Why did she come to see you? Aunty Carol said you were arguing.’

He drains the dregs of his coffee. ‘She just needed some big-brother advice. It wasn’t anything to worry about.’

‘But she drove all this way.’

‘Jen, it was money stuff, difficult to get into on the phone.’

I didn’t realise Mum was so worried about money. Could she have debts I don’t know about?

Uncle Don’s pulling on his coat. ‘There’s nothing to concern yourself with and we weren’t exactly arguing. I told her she works too hard and that her job is sucking the life out of her. She didn’t like that. Jen, I get why you’re worried but everybody needs space sometimes, don’t they? She’s been in touch with you and I’m sure she’ll be back by the weekend. Do let me know though, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I will drop her a message though. I’ll let you know if I hear from her. Anyway, I have to go, darling girl. I’ll be late for my class. See you soon?’

‘Yes. We’re all coming to Sunday lunch in a couple of weeks. Uncle Don? There is another reason I wanted to see you.’ Already I can feel myself blushing. ‘You know the photos?’

‘Photos?’ He is winding his scarf around his neck. ‘Oh, the photos.’

We’re no longer meeting each other’s eyes.

‘One of them has resurfaced. My face isn’t visible but I’m worried all the others will show up. I haven’t told Camilla yet.’

‘Perhaps there’s nothing to worry Camilla with. I wouldn’t upset her by dredging up the past. I did the best I could and to my knowledge they were all deleted from the memory card in front of me. It’s the digital age. Perhaps nothing ever really disappears.’

Except, seemingly, Mum.

As soon as I’m home I call Mum’s colleague Rosa. She’s more than an acquaintance really, she’s worked with Mum for years and they’re quite close.

‘Hi, Rosa. It’s Jen. Jen Abbott.’

‘Hi, Jen. Is everything okay?’

‘I just wondered when was the last time you spoke to Mum?’

‘Tuesday morning. I wasn’t surprised she was taking a few personal days, especially not after she rang in sick with a migraine on Monday. She deserves it after last week. I hope she’s resting? Damn.’ In the background a phone is ringing. ‘Is something wrong, Jen? I really need to take this call.’

‘No. Thanks, Rosa. Bye.’

‘Give my love to Mel.’

I’m still uneasy as I hang up but reassured that Rosa had at least spoken to Mum on Tuesday. Mum hadn’t been right all over the weekend and although she rarely rang in sick, perhaps she did have a migraine. Understandable as Uncle Don says she’s worried about money. Rosa’s comments about not being surprised Mum was taking a few personal days seem to confirm that. There must have been a particular trying case. Perhaps I should give her some space? Rosa is right that Mum of all people deserves a break.

But …

Something isn’t right. I feel it deep in my gut, but I don’t know what to do about it.

I check the family tracking app, which I never do unless there’s an emergency. Mum’s location is shown as disabled.

Where is she? How can I find her?

Sitting still isn’t something I’m used to, something I’m good at. I think better when I’m moving. Figuring out lesson plans as I walk, practising conversations in my head before parents evening – no, unfortunately, I don’t think being disruptive is always the sign of a gifted child.

I must be able to figure out where Mum is and if I can’t, well, I need to determine my next step.

Too agitated to sit still, I’m hoovering the bedrooms furiously, wanting to finish before Amy or Luke arrive home, working my way from room to room. I’ve already scooped up Amy’s washing from the floor. The Dyson knocks into a bookcase. It wobbles and Amy’s iPad falls onto the floor.

The screen illuminates as I pick it up.

At first I can’t understand what I’m looking it. It’s as though my eyes are telling me one thing but my brain can’t process it.

A sick feeling spreads through my stomach.

Oh, Amy.

Chapter 17

Wednesday

amy

Amy allows herself to cry on the walk home from school. Not the ugly-rivulets-of-snot kind but there are definitely tears slipping down her face, her nose becoming stuffy until she can’t even smell the fresh bread as she walks past the small bakery.

All day she’s put up with crap about Jen.

‘Why isn’t your sister teaching today, does she have a porn shoot?’

‘Has your sister been sacked?’

‘Get your tits out, Amy. Let’s compare them to Miss Abbott’s.’

The worst of all was when she was in the toilets at break, throat swollen with the effort of trying to keep it together, when Gilly and Cathy had flanked her, their eyes meeting her bloodshot ones in the mirror.

‘Are you okay, Ames?’

Like they’d ever talked to her before, let alone given her a nickname.

She shrugged because she didn’t trust her voice not to break.

‘Craig’s a tosser, just ignore him.’

Gilly dipped her index finger into a pot of lip balm and sheened her lips. ‘Want some?’ She offered it to Amy. ‘It’s strawberry flavoured.’

Pathetically, Amy took some, thinking if having a slut for a sister was the thing to make her interesting, then make her friends, then she was almost glad that the photo was circulating.

‘So,’ Cathy said. ‘We know that, like, it must be super difficult for you right now. Basically, if you need to talk then we’re here for you, aren’t we, Gilly?’

‘Totally, yeah.’

‘You shouldn’t let Craig know he’s getting to you. Take back the power.’

‘Take it back?’ Amy wasn’t sure she ever had it in the first place. ‘How would I do that?’

‘Basically by showing him that the photo doesn’t bother you. That it’s, like, empowering for women to show their bodies if they want to.’

‘Our bodies, our choice.’ Gilly screwed the lid back on the lip balm. ‘If you brought in some more photos of Miss Abbott then it would be like—’

‘That was not my fucking sister in that picture.’ Amy was overcome with a fury she hadn’t experienced before. Her fists bunched at her sides.

‘Chill out. Keep your bra on.’

Laughing, the girls hurried towards the door. Amy glared at their reflections as they left. Before the door closed she saw Craig, in the mirror, leaning against the wall in the corridor. Gilly and Cathy talking to him. And then the door banged shut and she was alone again with the smell of piss and the graffiti. She locked herself in a cubicle. With the marker from her pencil case she wrote ‘Miss Abbott is a slut’ on the back of the door before she scribbled it out, furiously, breaking the nib of her pen.

She hated Jen. Hated her.

She is almost home. Luke should still be at work. It will just be her and Jen so she rehearses what she’s going to say to her. It must be Jen in the picture, there can’t be anyone else with that exact tattoo in that exact place. Amy needs, she deserves, to know the truth. She’ll carry on defending her sister like she had today but she needs to know who she is defending because, right now, Jen is a stranger to her.

She’s turning into her street when she becomes aware of someone behind her.

Shit. Is it someone from school? Had they seen her crying?

Amy rests her bag on a low wall. Pretends to search for something inside. She glances out beneath her fringe. A man passes by: his nose is crooked. She doesn’t know him. He doesn’t look in her direction, instead strolls ahead, whistling some old song by Ed Sheeran.

Once he’s passed, Amy carries on. Takes a deep breath to compose herself as she slots her key in the front door.

Calm. Be calm.

She doesn’t want to scream and shout at Jen but rather act disappointed because she knows from the few times she’s got into trouble at home, disappointment burns more than red-hot anger.

Mature. She can be mature.

As soon as she steps into the hall Jen is there, hands on hips.

‘Get in the lounge.’

‘Hello to you too.’

‘Now, Amy.’

‘What’s got your knickers in a twist? Presuming you’re wearing any.’

So much for being mature.

She takes her time, removing her shoes, whistling ‘Lego House’, acting like she doesn’t care.

‘Why are you whistling that?’ Jen demands.

Amy shrugs, slowly takes off her coat. When she can’t stall things any longer she follows Jen into the lounge, watching as Jen picks something up off the coffee table.

‘What. The. Actual. Fuck. Amy?’ Jen thrusts the spy camera towards her. ‘I found this in Luke’s room. Hidden in the bear on his bookshelf.’ She waves the camera wildly as though Amy might not have seen it. ‘I saw the images of his room, his bed, on an app on your iPad and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I thought, well, I hoped maybe it was just a photo for some reason but the app – spy something – well. I felt sick as I checked his room, sick.’

Jen takes a breath but all Amy can say is, ‘Oh.’

‘Oh? What the hell are you playing at?’ Jen is shouting. Screaming. If there’s disappointment on her part, she’s keeping it well hidden.

‘You shouldn’t have been going through my stuff.’ Amy’s defensive. ‘Anyway, it’s not what you think.’

‘Oh goodie. Because what I’m thinking is that you’re spying on our new lodger like some kind of, some kind of—’

‘Want to finish that sentence, Jen?’ Amy longs to pound upstairs and see if Buzz2012 is online. Sometimes, she thinks he is the only one who understands her.

‘What I want is for you to explain. Why is it that I found this camera hidden in that bear on the bookshelf in Luke’s room?’

‘I don’t need to do anything. Not while you’re shouting at me.’

There’s a lump forming in Amy’s throat. She clamps her teeth together to try and force it away.

She will not cry.

Marmalade, who’s been standing guard on the windowsill scanning for neighbourhood cats, pelts out of the room. He’s either seen next door’s Tom on the driveway or he wants to get away from the arguing.

‘Okay.’ Jen sits on the sofa and gestures for Amy to do the same. For a second Amy wonders what would happen if she stomps upstairs. Locks herself in her room. Although, yeah, it looks pretty bad, but she still feels she has the moral high ground here.

‘So.’ Amy perches on the edge of the chair. ‘When I was looking after Mason on Monday,’ she emphasises the point that she is old enough, sensible enough to be in charge of a four-year-old, ‘we were playing James Bond. I told you.’

‘Right.’

‘And I set up the spy camera I got from Christmas in his bear and showed him how we could see what happens from my room. The game was that one of us—’

‘It doesn’t matter what the game was. It matters why it was still there.’

‘Because after Mason got bored and we began to play with his trains I forgot about it. Then Luke came and it wasn’t until he’d moved in the room that I remembered it was still there.’

‘You could have taken it out of his room.’

‘I was going to when I came back here on Monday but he was in there.’

‘Did you think about knocking on his door and asking if you could have the bear? Christ, Amy. I can see how it happened but you must have realised that if he’d found it then he probably would have thought we were watching him.’

Amy stares into her lap.

‘What? Amy, what? You haven’t switched them on since he’s been here, have you?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Amy! What if he’d have noticed the camera? You might be a child but it’s inexcusable.’

‘Well, he didn’t, did he? He had no idea. In Biology we were talking about the five senses and Miss said that most humans also have a sixth sense, an instinctive knowing they’re being watched.’ Amy notices Jen shudder. ‘Yeah, like that, a chill around your neck or goose bumps or something. Luke doesn’t have that instinct. He had no idea. It’s okay.’

‘It is not okay. He’s not a specimen to study. He’s a person with rights.’

‘I know. I wasn’t watching him for a project.’

‘It doesn’t matter why you were watching him. It’s got to be illegal, not to mention immoral. You’re old enough to know that’s wrong. You’re not a child.’

‘You said I was a minute ago,’ Amy mutters.

‘Don’t be pedantic.’

‘Don’t use long words just ’cos you’re a teacher.’

‘Amy, he’s a grown man. You could have seen anything. Oh god, was that the point? Look, I know at your age you develop a curiosity—’

‘Please spare me the excruciating sex talk. I didn’t watch him because I wanted to see his penis. I could google and see millions of those if I wanted to. You know, all the naked images people make available on the internet?’

Jen bites her lip, not rising to the barb. ‘Why did you watch him then?’

Amy can see that Jen is despairing. She’s calmed down now, her anger dissipated. Instead, her sister seems close to tears.

‘Because I thought there was something off with him.’

‘Off? I thought you liked him? We discussed it before he moved in. If you weren’t comfortable then—’

‘I was comfortable. I did like him. I still do I guess, but Jen, it was weird. When you went to do your teacher training and I came back here, he was sitting on the bed in his room with a book and a really odd expression on his face.’

‘So? He gets engrossed in stories. You of all people should get that.’

‘It wasn’t a novel, it was my school yearbook.’

‘What? Are you sure?’ Jen leans forward, frowning.

‘Yeah. He said he’d found it under the bed. I knew it had been on my bookcase but you know what it’s like when Mason is around.’

‘Car keys in the toy box.’

‘Exactly. He took me out for a milkshake and asked me a lot of questions. I mean a lot.’

‘What about?’

‘Kids at school. Mum. It was the same when he asked me to help him cook.’

‘Maybe he was making an effort to get to know you. There isn’t always a mystery to solve, Amy.’

‘Maybe, but later, when we got back from the café and he gave me the yearbook, I flicked through it and the page that I’m on was missing. It had been torn out.’

Jen’s eyes widen. ‘Are you sure?’ she says again.

‘Of course I’m sure. And then you’d found him going through Mum’s office. Yeah, I guess that he might have wanted paper for a shopping list because he was dyslexic or whatever, like he said, but I dunno. You’d said we’d keep an eye on him and see how it goes.’

‘I didn’t mean literally.’ Jen didn’t sound angry anymore though.

‘If he’d been naked or anything then I would have switched it straight off. Honest. He was dressed or in his pyjamas. Mostly trying to call someone over and over, or on his laptop. Once he was asleep, there was nothing, you know, pervy or whatever.’

Jen nods. ‘I believe you. I’m sorry I shouted at you and swore. But it was the last thing I needed with Mum missing.’ Jen clamps her hand over her mouth.

‘What do you mean missing? I thought she was at Uncle Don’s?’

‘I didn’t mean missing, I meant—’

‘I swear to god, Jen, if there’s something, something else, you’re not telling me then I’ll tell Craig about your bloody yellow bird tattoo.’ It’s a low blow but in that moment Amy means it. Why is it that Buzz2012 is the only person who is honest with her?

There’s the sound of a key in the door. Footsteps down the hallway.

Luke pops his head around the lounge door, glances between Amy and Jen, obviously picking up on the tension in the room because he begins to back away. ‘Sorry, I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

‘Where were you today, Luke?’ Jen asks.

‘Working.’

‘Yes, but where?’

Luke’s hands are by his sides, keys inside of fingers that Amy notices are clenching. She notices everything.

‘It’s just that I was at Kirkcombe University today,’ Jen says, ‘and I thought I saw you.’

There’s a beat, a crackle of tension.

Amy tries to process the fact that Jen went to the uni. That Luke was there too. Had he followed her? Is she right? Is there something off? Where is her mum?

‘I wasn’t working at the uni, that’s miles away.’

‘Sorry. My mistake. Bit of a bonkers day. I wasn’t spying on you.’ She looks at Amy pointedly.

‘Shall I make a cup of tea then?’ he asks.

‘Please, that would be nice.’

The minute he leaves the room, Amy turns to Jen. ‘Spill.’

Jen fills her in.

‘So, we saw Mum on Sunday then she saw Aunty Carol and Uncle Don but no one has spoken to her since she left there and she’s disabled her tracking app?’

‘Yes but Mum did try to call me on Monday but it didn’t connect. You know what the signal is like.’

‘Somebody tried to call you on her phone,’ Amy says darkly. ‘Have you told me everything?’ She fixes Jen with her steeliest stare.

‘Yes.’

‘Jen?’ she says sharply.

‘Well, I’m sure it’s not connected, but I got a weird text today calling me a slut after, you know, the photo.’

‘Show me.’ Amy holds out her hand. Not wanting to discuss the photo yet.

Slut.

‘Have you called the number?’

Jen shakes her head.

Amy punches the number into her own phone. Calls it.

‘Hello.’ A man’s voice.

‘Hello. Who is this? I’ve accidentally wiped my contacts and—’ Amy listens to the reply. Hangs up the phone.

‘It was Kamil. I guess he didn’t like a nude of his girlfriend being passed around the school.’

‘I’m not his girlfriend and … he must have changed his number after we broke up. Can we get back to Mum?’

‘Okay. So your text isn’t connected. So on Tuesday—’

‘Oh, wait! Rosa said she spoke to her on Tuesday morning when Mum rang and asked for some personal time off.’

Amy stalks out of the room, returning a minute later with Mum’s laptop.

‘What are you doing with that?’ Jen asks.

‘I’m going to pull up her phone account and see if she’s talked to anyone else. We can check her bank too. See if she’s spending money, and if so, where.’ She knew the detective programmes she loves would come in handy one day.

‘Amy, that’s a huge invasion of privacy.’

‘Jen, our mother is missing.’

‘She’s asked for a few days away, some space. She’s had a rough time at work, Rosa confirmed it. There isn’t a mystery in everything.’ It is the second time Jen has said this, but this time she doesn’t sound convinced.

‘Still, it’s weird she hasn’t called us.’

‘She’s texted.’

‘We don’t know that’s her. If you’re not worried, why did you try and hide it from me? You’re the one who just said she’s missing.’

Jen chews her thumbnail. ‘Okay, look at the phone log, but she’ll be back by the weekend. I’m sure.’

Amy fires up the laptop. The screen is locked, a message displayed: You’ve entered the wrong password too many times. Please reset via your nominated email account.

Amy’s eyes meet Jen’s. ‘Still think there’s nothing wrong? Have you been trying to log in?’

‘No. Have you?’

‘No. That only leaves one other person.’ Her eyes flick to the door. They can hear Luke in the kitchen.

‘We can’t jump to conclusions. Mum’s always saying that since she became perimenopausal she has trouble remembering even the most basic of things. Even I forget my passcodes all the time.’

Amy pulls out her mobile. ‘I can log into the mobile phone app from here. We won’t be able to check her work mobile but we can see her personal one, oh wait, actually I think as she has her work phone diverted to her personal one we can see the calls that come in on that number, maybe outgoing ones too. I saw it on TV once but perhaps it depends on the network provider?’

‘I don’t know. Lucky we have a family sharing account though.’

Amy selects Mum’s mobile number from the dropdown. ‘Look, the last number she called was you on Monday. It only connected for a few seconds.’

‘There are no calls on Tuesday to Rosa. Why would Rosa lie?’

‘I don’t know. What about this call on Sunday? Early evening. That could have been after she left Uncle Don’s. Do you recognise the number?’

Jen shakes her head.

‘Me neither. Call it.’

‘And say what?’

‘Ask how they know Mum. Christ.’ Amy holds out her hand. ‘Give me your phone, I’ll do it.’ She’s seen it done enough times on detective shows to know how to pretend to be someone else.

Jen reads out the number and Amy calls it.

From the kitchen, Luke’s mobile begins to ring.

Amy feels it like a punch to the gut. A knowing that something terrible has happened to Mum. That Luke is something to do with it.

Chapter 18

Four weeks ago

mel

Mel was tired. Mind. Body. Spirit. When she’d chosen, all those years ago, to be a social worker she’d pictured herself making a difference. She knew she’d be faced with difficult decisions, but ultimately she thought she’d be helping provide a better life for her cases and although she likely does, some of the kids don’t see it that way.

Fourteen-year-old Shyla Lone didn’t see it that way.

Her head teacher, Mrs Finchley, had telephoned the department because they had concerns about her welfare. They’d been right to have those concerns. It’s difficult to think about the conditions Shyla was living in, cruelty to a child was something Mel never became immune to. It still clawed at her heart.

Shyla’s family were notorious locally. Three older brothers, in and out of prison.

They hadn’t wanted Mel to enter their home, hadn’t wanted to leave Shyla alone with her, but she had the authority to speak to a child on her own at any age. She’d stood firm and said she’d call the police to assist her if they didn’t let her do her job. It was something she’d had to do before.

Reluctantly, they’d let her in.

Shyla had been defensive, obstructive – Mel wouldn’t say ‘surprisingly’ because nothing surprised her anymore, she’d long since stopped being shockable.

Mel had obtained an interim care order and removed Shyla from her home. Shyla had cried because her home was all she had ever known. Her family made up her world.

It was sometimes hard to place a fourteen-year-old but Mel had arranged a temporary placement at Bob and Julie Franks in River Street, they had been foster parents for years.

Now, Shyla sat before her. Oversized jumper on, which Mel thought probably belonged to one of her brothers, the sleeves draped over her hands. Her knees were drawn to her chest, tatty trainers resting on the seat of the chair.

‘I want to go home.’

‘Sweetheart—’

‘Don’t fucking call me that,’ Shyla stared at Mel, challenging her, waiting to see what Mel would say about her tone, her language. But Mel had heard it all before.

So many times.

Shyla was frightened, lashing out. Desperate to return home but Mel couldn’t authorise that. It wouldn’t be in Shyla’s best interests. She wouldn’t be safe. Shyla’s family were criminals, violent, neglectful.

Liars.

And yet Shyla still craved their affection, their approval because no matter how shabbily a child is treated, ultimately they all want to feel they have their parents’ love. That they are worth loving.

‘I’m old enough to decide where I want to live.’

‘Not in the eyes of the law, you’re not.’

‘I want to go home. I hate it here. I hate them.’

‘Bob and Julie? They’re both very experienced and they—’

‘Please?’ Shyla was crying now. ‘I can’t be here, I just can’t.’

‘If I did move you, it wouldn’t be back to your house, Shyla. I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t let me go home.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Mel asked. ‘What are you going to do, Shyla?’

‘Not me. One of my brothers will get you. You’ll see. They won’t leave me here.’

Apprehension settled heavy on Mel. She’d been threatened before. Spat at. Hit. Cried on. Vomited over. She’d seen it all. There was something about Shyla’s expression though. Not determination, a raw, unfiltered desperation. Shyla was one of the cases who was still on her mind after she got home. The kind she turned over and over, examining it from all angles when she should have been going to sleep.

Although she tried not to let herself be intimidated, Shyla’s family were intimidating.

Perhaps it was time to get that lodger she’d been thinking about. Another adult living at home might make her feel a little safer, and the extra cash would come in handy.

A lodger.

There’d be no harm in it.

Would there?

Chapter 19

Thursday

jen

Luke is the first thing on my mind. This morning, I’m fully dressed as I pad down the hallway towards the bathroom. From Amy’s room, there’s the sound of the bolt drawing. She cracks open her door.

‘You okay?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Jen, what are we—’

‘I’ll sort it today, I promise.’

I check I’ve locked the bathroom three times before I step under the hot pins of the shower.

Yesterday, Luke had explained that his number was on Mum’s call log because she had called him on Sunday night to confirm his appointment to see the room on Monday. It does make sense but I’m still uneasy as I lather my hair with coconut shampoo.

My gut instinct after talking to Amy had been to ask Luke to leave, whether something was off, or whether mine and Amy’s imagination was running wild without Mum to ground us, I wasn’t sure. But then I began to wonder that if Luke did know where Mum was, would there be some sort of clue amongst his possessions?

Keep your enemies closer.

Today, while he is at work I am going to go through his room. Then I can ask him to move out. I’ll return the money he’s given to Mum.

The suds and my indecision swirl down the plughole. I have a plan.

Dressed again, I knock on Amy’s door. One slow tap, two fast ones, followed by another slow one. She’d insisted we devise a code.

I slip inside her room. She’s still in her pyjamas. Fiddling with the necklace Camilla made her, the silver heart and bacon, likely thinking of Mum out there, wearing the same one.

‘You’re going to be late for school.’

She stares at me, incredulous. ‘I’m not going to school. Not when—’

‘Amy, please.’

‘No. I don’t get why you haven’t rung the police, Jen. Okay, so yeah, Mum might have needed a break but I’ve messaged her like a million times asking her to call me and she hasn’t. She’s just replied saying she’s been driving or without a signal and we’ll talk soon. Something is wrong.’

‘I know.’ I’ve had similar messages myself.

‘So, let’s call the police. If you don’t do it then I will.’

She’s huddled against her headboard, looking so young and pale that my heart aches with the desire to shield her from all of this. Of course, it seems black and white to her, doesn’t it? The detectives she worships are always able to sort everything out within an hour’s episode. Christ, if this were a TV show I’d be screaming at the screen for the main character to call the police but this is reality and I know, I know the police can’t always be trusted.

They aren’t always good.

Mum knows this too.

I think of the reason we fled our hometown so long ago now and my stomach flips.

But Amy, beautiful, sweet, kind Amy, has been sheltered from some of the harsher truths because Mum and I have protected her, and I know Mum would want me to carry on.

‘Amy. I promise that I’m going to try and track Mum down today. I want to start by going through Luke’s things when he goes to work, so the last thing I need is for him to become suspicious. We need to act normally.’

‘Stick to our usual routine, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I could help,’ she says in a small voice.

‘Going to school would be a help. I’d know you were safe. I swear I will tell you everything I find out later and if I’ve found out anything worrying, or I can’t get hold of Mum again today, I’ll report her as a missing person.’

‘But I won’t be able to concentrate until we know that Mum’s all right.’

‘But if she’s okay, which she almost certainly is, then how will she feel if she comes home after her first break on her own and you’ve missed school?’

‘Do you really think she’s okay?’ Amy’s eyes are full of tears and I blink my own away.

‘I do.’ I hope I sound convincing. ‘She’s messaged us and tried to call and she’s spoken to Rosa. We know something’s happened at work to stress her. Even Uncle Don said the same. I’m sure she’s fine.’ This time there is conviction in my voice because I so want it to be true. ‘Look, how about we make a deal? You go to school and see if lessons will take your mind off things. If they don’t, then you can say you don’t feel well and go to Camilla’s?’

‘Okay.’

She drags herself from her bed and trudges towards her wardrobe. For her sake, for mine, I’m determined to find Mum today.

I’m getting dressed when Mrs Finchley rings.

‘How are you?’ she asks kindly, as though she wasn’t the one to send me home. ‘I’ve spoken to the children in your class and some of them dispute Craig’s version of events that you attacked him and deliberately broke his phone.’

‘But some of them did corroborate it?’ I try not to sound bitter.

‘A couple of his friends, yes. The rest, well, you’d be surprised at the number of kids who didn’t see anything. Anyway, our enquiries are ongoing but I just wanted to check in on you and let you know we’re making progress.’

There isn’t much I can say, so after she runs through what she hopes the timescale will be, we say goodbye and by that time, the house is empty.

There’s nothing in Luke’s possessions that indicate he is anyone other than who he says he is, but then he has hardly any belongings and that, in itself, is a concern. It’s as though he’s travelling lightly so he can make a break for it if he needs to.

Other than a few changes of clothes, there’s a grainy photo of two children on a roundabout in the park. There’s a few years’ age gap between them, much the same as Amy and me, and from the blur in the picture as the roundabout spins, the way they’re both dressed in jeans, bundled in navy winter coats, a hat, it’s impossible to tell if they’re boys or girls. They could be anybody.

Think.

In the kitchen I grab a pad and pen and jot down anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mum. It’s something the police will ask if I report her missing.

Other than the whole thing with Andy, I can’t think of anybody else.

But then a name springs to mind.

Harvey.

Is it a coincidence that the photo of me has resurfaced just as Mum went missing?

Has he harboured a grudge? Had he been able to make a success of himself after being kicked out of uni?

‘You’ve ruined my life, bitches. I’m going to ruin yours.’

Mum hadn’t called the police on him as she’d threatened but I’d heard he was arrested later that day anyway for getting into a fight. Taking his anger and frustration out on some random stranger.

Did he blame me? Her?

It seems such a stretch but could Harvey have hit rock bottom now and have tracked us down?

Even thinking it, I feel stupid. It’s like something out of a book or movie, isn’t it? Someone from the past coming back to seek revenge even though the timeline makes no sense.

But then that’s what I’ve been thinking about Andy, isn’t it?

That he’s found me.

And I definitely don’t want to be mentioning him to the police.

It takes me a few minutes to remember Harvey’s surname and when I do I google him. Pages of results spring up and so I narrow the search within his hometown. I remember that he came from Kenilworth because I remember someone joking about him being so posh his family probably owned the castle. This time there are fewer results. There’s a couple of articles about his father that mention him and then one result further down the page.

An obituary.

I scan it and then search again for details of his death. It seems that Harvey was found alone in his childhood bedroom shortly after leaving university, his family releasing the finding that the cause of death was an ‘accidental overdose’.

What a waste of a life.

What about Rochelle and Shanice? I never saw them again after the night of the photoshoot. With Harvey kicked out, they’d have lost their income. They had the original photos. What happened to them?

A Google search directs me to first Facebook. Shanice is smiling shyly from underneath her wedding veil. She looks so happy. On Instagram Rochelle is an influencer, stretched out on a beach in Dubai in a barely-there bikini.

I can rule out Shanice, Rochelle and Harvey then. Putting aside Andy for a moment, the only thing I have to go on is Luke.

Think.

Where did he come from? How did Mum meet him? I rack my brain trying to remember how she advertised our place, but I can’t recall her telling me. One minute she was asking how Amy and I felt about a potential lodger and the next he was coming to view the room. I remember her saying that she’d made a form for potential candidates to fill in. I can’t access her computer but knowing Mum, they’ll be filed away for safekeeping.

The filing cabinet in her office is always locked.

‘That’s the first thing burglars will head for then,’ Amy had said. The cabinet doesn’t contain jewellery but our passports, birth certificates, things Mum wants to keep safe.

I know where Mum hides the key, inside the cover of the cushion on her desk chair. I retrieve it but when I insert it in the cabinet and try to turn it clockwise the cabinet is already unlocked.

Unease twists my stomach. I told Amy yesterday that Mum’s been saying how bad her memory is since she became perimenopausal as an explanation for her possibly forgetting her password for her laptop, and that’s true, but forgetting to lock the cabinet when there is so much confidential information stored here?

There isn’t a suspension file marked ‘lodger’ but there’s one called ‘bits and bobs’. I rifle through it. There are no forms here. I scan through an appointment letter for a mammogram, reminders from Amy’s school, a cutting from the paper about Mum’s department fundraising for Cancer Research, with a photo of Rosa standing in front of the office, holding up a cheque and smiling. Mum no doubt didn’t want her picture in the paper. There’s a handwritten letter tucked inside a takeaway pizza menu, all shaky letters and ink stains as though it had been written with an old-fashioned fountain pen. The letter is formally laid out, an address in the top right-hand corner, Mr Edwards, 1 Pen Green. The eastern district. Mum definitely said that Luke was moving from that area.

Reference for Mr L Monk

Bingo.

It doesn’t matter that the letter has answered the questions Mum must have asked with words such as ‘trustworthy’ and ‘honest’ because I don’t believe them to be true.

I’m going to visit Mr Edwards.

I’ve got questions of my own.

Chapter 20

Thursday

jen

Mr Edwards’s house is the kind that used to be full of love. Full of life. I can tell this as I walk down the garden path towards the front door. The borders are a tangle of plants and weeds. Unruly ivy climbs the trellis fixed to the brickwork. The bushes under the window are crying out to be cut back.

It takes an age between me ringing the bell and somebody answering. I am just turning away, giving up, when a shadow falls across the glass. A silhouette shuffles up the hall before the door swings open.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Edwards?’

He nods. He’s sucking on a mint, I can smell it from here. Dribble trickles from the corner of his mouth and he takes one hand off his Zimmer frame to wipe it away.

‘Sorry ’bout that. My Nell always said I was like a bloody horse chomping on Polos all day. Said I’d have no teeth left, she was right ’bout that.’ He grins, displaying a set of perfectly even dentures.

‘My name is Jennifer and I was wondering if I could talk to you about your lodger? Mr Monk?’

‘He don’t live here no more.’

‘I know but I just have a few questions.’

‘Come in.’ He turns and begins his slow shuffle back down the hallway.

Part of me wants to call him back. To tell him that he shouldn’t let strangers into his house. But isn’t that what I’ve done with Luke?

The stupid.

The unthinkable.

I invited him in.

The doormat displays a faded ‘Welcome’ and I wipe my feet before I follow Mr Edwards. The hallway is full of dark rectangles where pictures must have been removed from the walls.

‘’Scuse the mess.’ Mr Edwards navigates a path through stacks of boxes before he flops on the faded floral sofa.

‘Are you moving?’

‘Yeah. Into an old folks ’ome. Last move I reckons.’ For a moment he looks downcast. ‘I always said to Nelly that as soon as you’re in one of them places the staff throw a thin blanket over your legs, turn you to face the sun and wait while you fade away. Still, I’ll be with my old girl again. I should have offered you a drink, what did you say your name was?’

‘Jennifer. But it’s okay. I can’t stop.’

He looks crestfallen at this and I wonder when he last talked to a human being. Although I’m desperate to find Mum I know she’d find ten minutes to spend with someone so obviously lonely.

‘Would you like me to make us some tea?’

‘That’ll save my legs. There should be some biscuits somewhere.’

While I wait for the kettle to boil I tackle the washing-up in the sink and wipe down the surfaces with lemon cleaner until they squeak that they’re clean enough.

There are some Garibaldi biscuits in a tin and I load everything on a tarnished silver tray and rattle it back through to the lounge.

‘Here you go, Mr Edwards.’ I pass him a cup and saucer because although there had been mugs in the kitchen I get the feeling that if Nelly were here, she’d have used the teapot, the Wedgwood.

‘Bert, please. I’m eighty-seven and whenever someone says Mr Edwards, I still look around for me dad.’

He dunks a biscuit in his tea and sucks it. ‘I’m waiting for the charity shop to come and collect all my bits and bobs.’

‘Can’t you take them with you?’

‘Nah. My room is the size of a matchbox. They give you a bed and wardrobe and whatnot.’

I’m sad as I glance around. Is this what a lifetime is reduced to? A stack of boxes that you can’t keep.

‘Me memories ain’t in there,’ he reads me. ‘They’re in here,’ he taps his head, ‘and here,’ he covers his heart. ‘Now, you wanted to talk to me about Leon?’

For a moment I’m confused and then I realise that Bert is the one who’s confused. ‘You mean Luke?’

‘No. Me old lodger, Leon.’

Leon. Is Luke calling himself a different name and if so why? Is his name really Leon Monk? Oh god, why don’t I know Luke’s surname? My mind rolls back to the first time we met. ‘I’m Luke,’ he had said and it hadn’t seemed important what his surname was. Now it feels like everything.

‘You a friend of Leon’s then?’

‘Not exactly. I think my mum contacted you about a reference? We’re renting out our spare room.’

‘Ah yes. Meryl, wasn’t it? Lovely lady.’

‘Melissa.’

‘That’s right. She wanted a character reference. Leon’s a good boy. He helped me pack all of this up.’ He nods towards the boxes. ‘It’s a shame I had to ask him to move out but I can’t keep the old house anymore. It’s falling to bits. He’s kept on top of the dodgy heating and leaky taps, been handy having a plumber living here. But I can’t get upstairs, been kipping in the dining room for the past year.’

‘Do you know where Luke, I mean Leon,’ I quickly correct myself, ‘came from, originally?’

‘Yep.’ He nods. ‘You’re gonna ask me where, aren’t you? It’s on the tip of my tongue.’ He screws his face up. ‘He posted a photo the other day on The Facebook. Do you have The Facebook?’

‘No.’

‘It’s marvellous. He made me one of those wotsits, you know, profile things so I can see what he’s up to. Now where’s me phone? I can show you.’ He pats his pockets before pulling out the largest smartphone I’ve ever seen. ‘Bet you didn’t expect a dinosaur like me to be so modern?’ His fingers tremble as he jabs at the screen. I cross the room and crouch down by the side of his chair as he slowly, painstakingly finds the app. ‘It’s such a shame he broke his leg and couldn’t move in with you, but his mum is looking after him back home while—’

‘What did you say?’ Suddenly I’m hot and cold.

‘He broke his leg last weekend. Was due to come and view your room. I thought he’d have contacted Meryl ’bout getting his deposit back? He probably feels too guilty ’bout letting her down. Perhaps he’ll be in touch when he’s better. He had to go back up north to recuperate. Ah, here he is.’ Bert’s hands are shaking as he passes me his phone. My hands are shaking too as I take it. Grinning up at me from the screen is Leon Monk’s profile picture.

It isn’t Luke.

My breath is shallow as I cast my mind back to last weekend. Luke, Leon, the perspective lodger didn’t turn up on Sunday as Mum said he would, but of course he wouldn’t have if he’d just broken his leg. Instead there had been a knock at the door on Monday.

‘I’m looking for Melissa Abbott?’

‘Sorry, she’s gone away for a few days.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘Ah. You’ve come about the room?’

‘You must be Jen, her daughter? She mentioned you. I’m Luke.’

My heart is pounding frantically. I’d assumed Luke had come about the room but he never said that, did he? He didn’t correct me either though.

Why?

Whoever he is, he knew Mum. Knew who I was.

And then, for a reason I don’t yet know, he’d moved into our house.

Our home.

Chapter 21

Four weeks ago

mel

Shyla had only been at River Street for one night when Mrs Finchley called Mel to the school.

‘He touched me. Last night.’ Shyla kept tapping her knees, agitated, as she made her accusation.

‘Who touched you, Shyla?’

‘Bob. My brothers will kill him. You have to send me home.’

Mel had heard accusations such as these before. She’d have moved Shyla immediately if she thought this was true. Although she didn’t believe her, she listened to everything Shyla had to say before calling around to River Street.

Julie’s eyes had dark circles underneath, she was pale.

‘Mel, I was going to call you later. Bob’s mum had a stroke last night and he’s been with her ever since. Of course I can hold everything down here, but we don’t know how bad she is yet or whether she might need to move in here, or us with her or—’ Julie covered her face with her hands.

Mel placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s get the kettle on.’

Half an hour later Mel left.

She was sorry for Bob and Julie, for Bob’s mum, but it was confirmation that Bob hadn’t been in the house. Not that she’d believed Shyla, but she’d had a duty to follow up on her accusations.

What was she going to do about Shyla? She needed to give her time to adjust, to settle, but she couldn’t have her damaging Bob’s reputation.

She had a difficult decision to make but then life was full of difficult decisions, wasn’t it?

On a whim, she pulled into a lay-by. She’d call Paul and talk it through. Even though they weren’t together and he wasn’t the father to the girls she’d hoped he’d be, they were still close. He’d been her best friend since the day they’d met and although he had remarried, they still talked. Not often, but some habits are hard to break, aren’t they?

Yes, he’d left them. Yes, they were divorced. Yes, he could be more active in Jen and Amy’s lives, but she knew that it wasn’t only the events of all those years ago that he felt terrible about, that made it difficult for him to see the girls as much as Mel knew he’d like. It was the way he’d behaved. Leaving them when they needed him more than ever. Mel can’t imagine how that felt. He had to face himself and his regrets every day in the mirror, didn’t he?

It wasn’t Paul who picked up his phone but Sheena.

‘Melissa.’ Her voice was cold, brittle as though at any moment she might snap.

‘Is Paul around?’

‘No. You need to stop calling. We’re under a lot of pressure right now.’

‘Pressure? Is everything okay?’ Paul had hinted that they were having problems in their relationship. ‘Married in haste,’ he had said last time they spoke.

‘It’s none of your business, and while he’s listening to your problems he can’t—’

‘We’re friends.’

‘You are not friends.’

Mel inhaled sharply. She was right in a way. They’d never just be friends. They were bound together by the girls. By more than the girls.

By …

‘Don’t call again.’ Sheena hung up.

Mel leaned forward and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

It wasn’t going to be her day.

Her legs were exhausted, heavy when she left the office. When she’d become a social worker she’d spent more time in the community, with her cases, but now more and more it was the paperwork that sucked the hours from her days.

She was the last to leave.

Taking the lift down to the underground carpark.

She hated it here. It was like something from a scary movie. Deserted. Dark. Half the lights not working, the other half flickering on and off. Her heels echoing as she crossed the concrete towards her car.

Her keys were clutched in her hand, ready to protect herself if she needed to. She’d once thought that that was the sort of thing everyone did. She didn’t realise until she’d read a sympathetic tweet from a man after a young mum was murdered in broad daylight, that only women do this.

She was almost at her Fiesta, poised to open the door, when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

‘Hello, Mel.’

‘What do you want? I … I don’t know who you are.’ She stepped back.

‘I know who you are. I’m Luke.’

Chapter 22

Thursday

jen

I’m not consciously aware of driving home but suddenly I’m pulling up to our house, yanking up the handbrake.

Marmalade is sitting in the window, surveying the garden for next door’s Tom because he thinks the danger is outside when really it’s in our home. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with us. Sleeping in the room next door.

Oh god, what do I do?

Part of me thinks it’s time to call the police. Not only to report Mum missing but also to report Luke. Surely he’s broken some laws here? Imitating someone? Identify theft? But then he’d given me his real name, never claimed to be called Leon Monk, did he?

Would they come and wait while I packed his things, be here for protection when I ask for his key back? It’s unlikely with the response times for 999 calls that they’d even show up for this.

Besides, if I want to know who he is, why he’s here, I need to ask him.

Perhaps not alone though. I could call Camilla and ask her to come. I really can’t avoid her anymore. She’s tried calling me and I haven’t picked up. She knows something is wrong.

I’m not being fair.

I toy with the idea of going to fetch her – safety in numbers – but I can’t bear the thought of leaving the house unattended. Luke going through our things.

Is he in there?

I study each window in turn for signs of movement, glad we don’t have net curtains like our elderly neighbour. There’s no sign of anyone being in. No flicker of the TV.

The advantage I have is that he doesn’t yet know that I know who he is, or rather, know who he isn’t.

My pulse skyrockets as slowly, slowly, I open the front door. There are no boots on the shoe rack.

Nothing but silence.

I tiptoe up the stairs, stepping softly on each step, wincing at the creak. Waiting, waiting, waiting for him to appear, but he doesn’t.

His bedroom is empty.

As is mine and Amy’s, Mum’s too. The sight of Mum’s neatly made bed, the pink ‘All You Need Is Love’ cushion that she tucks behind her head while she reads, tugs at my heart.

From downstairs a thud.

I freeze, holding my breath.

There’s a pitiful where-is-everyone-feed-me miaow.

I release the air from my lungs. It was Marmalade springing from the windowsill, nothing more, but it’s unnerved me.

I take out my phone. A quick glance at my screen tells me I have nine missed calls.

Mum?

While I’d been with Mr Edwards my handset had been switched to silent. Before I can check who has rung, my screen lights up. A photo of Camilla I’d taken during an Abba tribute night we went to, all bright blue eyeshadow and silver glitter on her cheeks.

‘Jen, thank god,’ she rushes out before I’ve had a chance to say hello. ‘The school rang me—’

‘Amy? Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine, she’s here. She wasn’t feeling well and I’ve been to pick her up.’ In the background I can hear Amy say, ‘Ask her’ and then a louder, younger voice, ‘My nose is crying again.’

‘Is Mason at home?’ I’d thought he’d be at nursery. Not that I could have asked Camilla to come over and wait with me for Luke anyway now that Amy is with her. I don’t want Amy anywhere near him.

‘Yes. He’s got a cold. We’ve gone through about six million tissues already. At least I hope it’s only a cold. Fuck, Jen. Amy’s told me what’s going on. Why haven’t you been in touch?’

There’s a crash.

Camilla’s voice is distant. ‘Amy, can you? Yes, I’ll ask, of course, I’ll be back in a minute.’

The background noise grows fainter, then there’s the click of a door.

‘That’s better, I’m in my room. Amy wants to know what’s going on. I want to know what’s going on. Fuck, Jen.’ Camilla’s words are strung together with anxiety. She’s panicking and I know Amy will be picking up on her panic.

‘Take a breath.’

‘Take a breath? You want me to take a breath?’ Her voice rises. ‘Amy says your mum is missing, you’ve a lodger who has torn her photo out of her yearbook. She said you’ve taken the day off to try and trace Mel and you haven’t told me any of this?’

‘It’s all happened so quickly.’ I offer a silent thanks that Amy hasn’t told Camilla I’ve been suspended. I probably do need to tell her that a photo of me has resurfaced, because it might mean that there are ones of her floating around, but now is definitely not the right time. ‘And it was really only yesterday that I became properly worried. Before that, well, it had only been a couple of days and Mum had been in touch, at least I thought she’d been in touch. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her?’ I should have spoken to her last night and asked.

‘I texted her on Tuesday and asked whether I should be worried that Mason has a temperature of 37.7 and is sneezing and she replied not to worry and to give him Calpol.’

‘Did she sound, you know, like herself?’

‘Yes. She signed off with LOL. I texted instead of called because I assumed she’d be at work. Why didn’t you tell me she was taking some time off?’

She sounds upset and I know that she thinks of Mum as hers too, herself as a third daughter, and she must feel shut out. I haven’t done it deliberately but with the trouble at school on Tuesday and then finding the camera yesterday, I haven’t been thinking clearly.

‘I was going to ring you today to talk it all through but you beat me to it.’

‘Amy said that this Luke was the last person Mel called other than you? Jen, I don’t like this at all. Where are you?’

‘I’m at home.’

‘Where’s Luke?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘You shouldn’t be there, what if he comes back?’

I chew my lip. I can’t tell her that I was calling her to ask her to be here while I confront him, not when she has Mason and Amy with her. ‘I’m standing in front of the window. If he turns up, I’ll see him.’

‘Amy says you’re trying to find Mel today. How are you doing that? Tell me everything.’

I fill her in on what’s happened so far in case Amy had missed anything out, then I move on to my visit with Mr Edwards. That Luke isn’t Leon, who was actually supposed to be our lodger.

‘Oh my god, Jen. This is worse than I thought. He just moved into your house? What a weirdo. What if he’s a psychopath? What if he’s …’

She trails off, not wanting to voice what we’re both thinking.

What if he’s done something to Mum.

I’m back in Luke’s room.

Camilla had been so fraught. I’m following her advice but rather than leaving right away as I’d promised I’m chucking his things into his rucksack, wanting every trace of him out of here. I’ll take it all to the police station with me. See what they think of it all.

His clothes are packed.

His toothbrush?

I don’t want anything of his left behind, anything he could use as an excuse to come back for.

In the bathroom, I grab his washbag and take it back into the bedroom. I’m just stuffing it into his rucksack when I realise it is the one thing I haven’t checked yet. It’s black, faux leather, multiple pockets. There’s a razor, toothpaste, a condom and then, in a zipped pocket, a piece of paper.

Part of me knows what it is. I’m steeling myself for the worst as I unfold it.

And there she is, smiling out at me, her school tie skew-whiff, hair in pigtails.

Amy.

She was right. He had torn the her photo out of her yearbook.

Bile is sour in my throat. What does he want with Amy? She’s a baby. Thirteen.

My vision tunnels. If I’d been scared before, I’m terrified now.

The thought that she is safe at Camilla’s does not calm me. I’m oblivious to everything.

Until a shadow falls across me.

My breath hitches. A rush of heat whooshing through my veins.

I hadn’t heard the front door open.

I hadn’t heard him come in.

I’m in his room, clutching the page from the yearbook.

And when I turn around, he’s there.

Unsmiling.

Luke.

Chapter 23

Thursday

amy

‘So Jen said she’s going to tell the police?’ Amy asks Camilla.

‘Yes. You’re right, she should have done that. Especially if they can trace Mel’s phone like you say. They’ll find out where she is in no time at all, you’ll see.’

Camilla tries to smile but her face is set in panic.

She’d been visibly anxious when she’d arrived at the school to collect Amy, and Amy had felt bad that she’d had to rush to pick her up, was worried that Amy was feeling really rough, bringing Mason out in the cold. If Amy had known he was sick, she wouldn’t have asked the receptionist to call her. It wasn’t as though she was ill, not really, although she was sick to the stomach with worry so she was kind of telling the truth.

‘Camilla? What else did Jen say?’

‘Nothing.’

Amy narrows her eyes. She’s known Camilla almost all of her life. She knows there’s something she isn’t telling her. She knows when someone is keeping a secret.

‘Camilla.’ She places her hands on her hips.

‘Okay, okay, but don’t freak out. Luke isn’t the guy your mum had lined up to move in. The real lodger, Leon, broke his leg and never showed up.’

‘Then who is Luke?’

‘We don’t know.’ Camilla’s pacing.

‘Where is Jen?’

‘At yours.’ Amy’s eyes meet Camilla’s. Camilla’s are wide and scared and Amy knows her own are too.

‘We have to go, what if Luke shows up and she’s on her own?’

‘I can’t take Mason and I can’t let you go by yourself. It’s okay. Jen’s heading straight to the police station, she promised.’

Mason begins to whine and Camilla hurries over to him.

Amy takes out her phone. This morning she’d told Buzz2012 everything, about her mum being missing, about thinking Luke had tried to get into Mum’s laptop.

He hasn’t replied to any of her messages.

She types another update.

- Luke isn’t our lodger, he’s some random that’s moved in, Jen going to tell police.

The box changes colour to show that he’s read it.

But still he doesn’t reply.

Chapter 24

Thursday

jen

Luke and I stare at each other. My heart is in my throat, each beat frantic, painful. He must be able to hear it, to hear how scared I am.

My gaze flicks to the door. He’s standing between me and the only exit. He steps forward, I back away.

He holds up his hands. I don’t know if it’s a gesture that means I won’t hurt you or if it means don’t fight what’s going to happen, but I will fight. I’ll fight to the death if I have to.

For me.

For Mum.

For Amy.

‘Jen, we need to talk.’

This fills me with dread. It was what I wanted, what I came back here for, but now the moment has come I’m terrified that I’m going to find something awful out about Mum or, perhaps, even worse, nothing at all.

‘You’re not a plumber.’ My voice is a squeak betraying me because I’m trying to stand tall, to be courageous, when all I want to do is fold in on myself. Beg him to leave me alone.

‘No. I never said I was. Look, shall we sit down?’

I want to sit before I fall but the only place is on the bed and I am not going near the bed.

He moves towards me. I whimper.

‘Jen, don’t be scared. I promise I’m not a bad person. I’m just picking up my bag.’ He makes a slow movement towards his rucksack. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

In the kitchen I weigh up my options. I could sit nearest the door, or at the other end of the table, closer to the knife block. While I’m deliberating Luke takes a seat; he’s nearer the knives.

Fine. I can run for the front door if I need to.

‘You lied to me.’ My voice as sharp as blades.

‘I didn’t, not really. You assumed I was here about the room and I didn’t correct you.’

‘That’s the kind of excuse one of the kids in my class would give. You. Lied.’ I’m feeling braver now that we’re downstairs. ‘Who are you? Why are you here? Do you know where Mu—’

‘You’ve a lot of questions, I get that. Shall I just talk?’

I nod. My mouth is dry with nerves anyway.

‘This …’ He leans forward and for a moment I think he’s about to take my hands which are resting on the table, but instead he gently tugs the page from Amy’s yearbook. He points at the photo, not of Amy, but of the girl on the other side of the page. ‘Is Lily. She’s my sister.’

‘Lily? Lily Cormack?’ I haven’t taught her but I know of her. She’s one of those kids all the teachers are aware of. Smart mouth. Skips lessons. Disappears for days at a time. One of the kids you go into teaching to help. Her form tutor is notoriously lacking in patience. If she’d have been in my class I’d have tried to reach her, inspire her.

‘I’m Luke Cormack.’ He rummages through his rucksack and pulls out the photo I’d found earlier of the kids on a roundabout. ‘That’s us a few years ago now. I was twelve when she was born. There’s an age gap much the same as you and Amy.’

‘I don’t understand why you’re here.’ Knowing who he is hasn’t made it any clearer.

‘Lily, my sister, is missing. Your mum is her social worker.’

I lean back in my chair as though I’ve been pushed. Mum’s missing and also one of her cases.

‘You can’t possibly think that there’s a connection there?’

‘It’s a huge coincidence. No one has seen Lily since Sunday. Nor Mel.’

‘You think someone has taken them both?’ I notice the expression on his face. ‘No. No. You think Mum has taken Lily? What, like, kidnapped her?’ I am incredulous.

‘I don’t know what I think.’

‘That’s crazy,’ I say with conviction, before I know any of the facts because nothing he can say will convince me that there is even the tiniest of possibilities that Mum could have taken off somewhere with a child.

Even if she’s done it before?

That wasn’t the same. I was her child. Flesh and blood. Me and Amy. She did what she needed to in order to protect us. That’s Mum all over. Wanting to protect everyone.

At any cost?

I have so many questions I don’t quite know where to start.

‘My mum,’ Luke swallows hard, ‘she’s, she could be cruel. She drank and she wasn’t very nice, not to me anyway. My dad was never in the picture. She was different with Lily. She never laid a hand on her. I always thought it must be my fault she was awful to me because if it wasn’t my fault then she’d have treated us the same, wouldn’t she?’ His eyes glisten. ‘Not that I wanted her to mistreat Lily, of course. Maybe she just liked Lily’s dad better even though he didn’t stick around either.’

I should feel sorry for him but I don’t. I’m agitated, knee jiggling up and down as he talks. I can’t figure out where Mum fits into this.

‘When I was seventeen Mum moved this guy, Richard, in. She stopped drinking, she was nicer to Lily and … I don’t know. I had so much resentment towards her, it was harder somehow, you know? I was so used to being yelled at every day that, I don’t know, it’s not like she started being kind to me but she treated me with indifference, as though I didn’t even exist anymore.’ He stares out of the window, lost in thought.

‘Luke, I don’t—’

‘Sorry, where was I? Yes. I wanted to leave. Not just home but this town, the UK, everything. I remember, I remember telling Lily I’d enlisted in the army. She was six and she was devastated. She cried and cried and said she hated me. Leaving her was the hardest thing I’d done but I thought Mum had sorted herself out. This chap, Richard, he was decent.’

Luke crosses to the sink and fills two glasses with water. He turns the tap off and I watch it drip.

‘Here.’ He puts a drink in front of me. I leave it untouched. As thirsty as I am, I know my hands are trembling so I keep them on my lap, wanting to project some semblance of control.

‘I wrote letters every chance I had, asking Mum to read them to Lily, help her reply, but she never did. My mate, Joel, checked in on them every now and then, let me know that they were okay. But one day, Richard had gone and Mum was drinking and, fuck.’ His jaw tightens. ‘I wanted to come home but you have to give notice, you know, and by the time I could get back here, Lily had been taken into care. She refused to see me.’

‘She was with foster parents?’

‘I didn’t, don’t have the right to know where she’s living but Mum knew where she went to school so I found her, I watched her through the fence, but she saw me and reported me to the head and, although I explained to her who I was, she said if she saw me hanging around again she’d call the police.’

‘Mrs Finchley did the right thing.’

‘I know. I didn’t go anywhere near her again because obviously I didn’t want to get into trouble with the police, get a record or do anything that might affect me seeing her in the future.’

‘And Mum was her social worker?’

‘Not at first, no. Mum told me Lily’s social worker was called Keisha. I went to her office and begged her to let me see Lily but she said it was Lily’s choice and she didn’t want to meet me.’

‘That must be tough but—’

‘Unbearable, but it made me more determined. This past year I’ve got a decent job, rented a house. I want Lily to live with me, Mum would have given her permission, but Keisha didn’t seem to care. Didn’t seem to want to help to bring us together. I’m her brother and apparently I’m not legally entitled to know where she’s even living.’

‘But those rules are there to protect the children. I’m sure Keisha does her best. It’s a stressful job and there’s a lot of demands and limited resources.’ I’m really protective of the criticism social workers can receive. I know how under pressure they are – I see it every day.

‘Hmm. Anyway, I visit Mum every now and then, more out of a sense of duty than anything, and she said a few weeks ago that Keisha had gone off long-term sick and that Lily had a new social worker.’

‘Mum.’

‘Yes.’

Under the table my fingers curl into my palm.

‘I waited for Mel one night after work and introduced myself. We went for a coffee and we talked, more than that, she listened. She said she always preferred to keep families together if she could. She checked me out of course, you know, criminal record, salary, house. For the first time I felt that someone was on my side. She asked if I’d like to be Lily’s legal guardian if Lily agreed.’

‘Did she agree?’ I want him to hurry up. Still can’t see what this has to do with Mum going missing.

‘No. Your mum talked to Lily about me multiple times but Lily just kept saying she hated me, I’d abandoned her. She was very angry. Apparently, even though Lily is a minor she had to agree to live with me.’

‘I’m sure Mum did her best.’ Is that why she’d been so stressed lately? Was Lily’s case what Rosa and Uncle Don had been referring to when they said Mum had had a difficult time at work? ‘Did something happen last week?’

‘Mel tried again to get Lily to agree to meet me, just to talk. Then she rang me last Sunday but I was at the cinema. She left a message. She said she had some news about Lily and to ring her back. It was urgent.’

‘So that’s why you were on her call log. What then?’

‘I rang Mel on the Monday but she didn’t pick up. My mum messaged later to say that she’d been told that Lily hadn’t come home after school. Her foster family hadn’t seen her since Sunday teatime. They thought she’d had an early night and had gone to school but she actually hadn’t been there either. She wasn’t answering her phone.’

A sick feeling churns in my stomach. ‘Did they report her missing?’

‘Yes. She’d run away a few times before so I was worried the police wouldn’t take her disappearance seriously, but they did. They rang social services and spoke to, um, Rose?’

‘Rosa.’

‘Yes, she said your mum had taken some personal days. I thought it was odd. I came here to speak to Mel directly.’

‘How do you even have our home address?’

A flush creeps around his neck. ‘I saw her in Tesco one evening and followed her. I was curious. There was nothing sinister in it.’

‘So, I answered the door and instead of telling me who you were like a normal person, you—’

‘I didn’t intend on lying, I’m not sure what my intention even was, but I was horribly worried and then …’

‘I invited you in.’

‘It seemed like fate somehow. If you think back I didn’t jump at the chance to move in. I just wanted to leave a note but then on the first page was “Help Lily Plan” and I wondered if Lily disappearing had been part of some plan.’

I think back to that day, to Mum’s scrawl on the pad. Help Lily Plan. Three words. Three words that lacking in punctuation could have multiple meanings.

Help for Lily, or Mum needs help because of Lily.

A plan for Lily. A plan because of Lily.

‘If Lily disappearing is some kind of plan, and I don’t for a second think it is, then I don’t know anything.’

‘But somebody must.’ Luke leans forward. ‘Two people don’t just vanish into thin air. I noticed the photo of Amy in her school uniform, realised that she was at the same school as Lily, the same age. I wondered if they were friends. If she might know anything.’

‘I can’t believe you moved in thinking—’

‘I wasn’t thinking, not clearly anyway. I’m still not. God, I can’t believe I even moved in. It’s been a tough couple of days pretending to be someone I’m not. It doesn’t help that I think you and Amy are great but—’

‘You do what you have to, to protect the ones you love.’

‘You’d do the same for Amy.’ His gaze meets mine.

‘I’d do anything for her.’ I pause, holding onto the meaning behind my words ‘you hurt her and I’ll hurt you’. I believe what Luke is saying, I can sense his distress, but I still don’t trust him.

Help

Lily

Plan

I’m reading so much into this. Was a plan needed because of Luke? Does he have an ulterior motive to wanting to find his sister? Is he the one she is hiding from? Is he dangerous?

‘You went through Amy’s room.’ I don’t phrase it as a question, it isn’t.

‘Yes. I found the yearbook. I’d never seen it before. Lily looks so … hopeful. That “when I leave school I want to be a nurse”. I never knew that about her. I’ve missed so much.’

‘What were you expecting to find in this house?’

‘I don’t know. I thought your mum might have physical records, something that would help me find Lily. To see if she had a favourite place or something.’

‘You tried to get into Mum’s laptop.’ It explains why it had become locked after the wrong password had been entered three times. Not Mum’s perimenopausal brain fog but Luke.

‘Yes. And I found the key and went through the filing cabinet. I’m not proud of it. If you’d known where Mel was, then none of it would have happened. What I wanted more than anything was to talk to Mel directly.’

‘It was you at the university? You followed me there?’

‘No. I didn’t know you were going. When I took Amy for a milkshake she told me that Mel was staying with Don and that he worked at Kirkcombe Uni. I went to see if I could speak to him but he wasn’t there and the staff wouldn’t help me find him. Find your mum.’ He looks as despairing as I feel. ‘Where is she, Jen? Where are they?’

‘I really don’t know. I’m worried but I don’t see any reason why Mum would have disappeared with Lily. If you think there’s the slightest chance that Mum is somewhere with Lily then why haven’t you told the police?’

‘I have now. I’ve been to the station this morning. I’d have gone yesterday but I wanted to make sure I’ve been through everything thoroughly here because I knew once I told them they’d come and speak to you and reveal who I was. I’d have to move out.’

I stand. ‘I need to make a phone call.’ I don’t tell him to whom.

He nods. ‘I’ll wait here.’

From the lounge, I call Rosa.

‘Rosa, it’s Jen. Jen Abbott. Look, there’s a guy here. Says he’s the brother of one of Mum’s cases. Lily Cormack?’

‘Luke? He’s been here a couple of times this week.’

‘He thinks …’ I can hardly bear to say it. ‘He thinks that Mum might have taken Lily somewhere.’

‘She wouldn’t have done that.’

‘Is there any reason that Mum might have thought Lily was in any danger?’

There’s a beat. ‘Rosa? Please, you don’t have to name names but I’m really worried about Mum.’

‘You know how client confidentiality works, Jen. Please don’t put me in that position.’

I’m close to tears. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t … if I wasn’t …’ I squeeze my eyes closed to stop myself from crying. ‘Please, Rosa. If there’s anything you can tell me, it wouldn’t go any further, I promise.’

‘Jen, I can’t.’

‘Please. This is … it’s Mum.’

There’s a beat. Another. ‘Okay. This is just between us, Jen. If you tell anyone, I’ll deny I ever told you and I’m only doing this because I’m really fond of Mel and I know if you’re worried, then perhaps you have reason to be. The home Lily is in, one of the other kids, Shyla, has made an accusation against the foster father but we believe it’s unfounded.’

I’m not overly shocked by this. Although Mum never discusses cases by names, I know it isn’t uncommon for kids to make things up, to lash out at those trying to help them.

‘Mum didn’t remove her though? Lily?’

‘No, and you know she would have done straight away if we’d thought there was any truth to it. I can’t see a connection.’

‘When you spoke to Mum on Tuesday did she give you any clue where she might be? Was there any background noise?’

‘Oh, when I said I spoke to her that was just a figure of speech. She emailed me from her phone.’

My blood runs cold.

Mum’s only form of communication has been through texts and emails.

Not one person has actually spoken to her.

It’s clear that someone is using her phone.

But is it her?

Chapter 25

Last Friday

mel

The text, when it came, unfurled the dread that had always been there in the pit of Mel’s stomach. The dread she carried from living a lie. The constant fear of being found out.

Of being found.

7 days. You have 7 days or I’ll ruin your life like you ruined mine.

Mel’s heart galloped as she tried to calm herself with deep breaths. The problem with running away is that you never stop running, not mentally anyway. There’s always a small part of you on high alert, adrenaline ready to force fight or flight.

Ruined lives.

Is that a bit extreme? Has she ruined lives? Her own life could have been ruined, Jen’s, Amy’s, but she did what she had to do to save them all.

Has Andy found them? It’s always her first thought, always her first reaction. The shadow lurking on the corner of the street. The breathing down the phone line before a voice said hello.

She’d never been able to forget what she did, always known that her fabricated world could be blown apart at any moment.

Painfully aware of what she might lose.

The price to pay, the highest price of all.

7 days

To do what? Perhaps it wasn’t meant for her. A prank. She tried to push it from her mind. Focus again on her work. Her case.

Lily.

Over the past couple of weeks, Luke had proved to Mel who he was, how much he cared. Keisha’s notes hadn’t mentioned him at all and this annoyed her. If there was a way to place a child with a family member then, in her opinion, that was always the best option.

‘Lily, have you had a chance to think some more about meeting Luke?’

She broached the subject again with Lily after school.

‘I told you I don’t want to see him. I hate him. Why do you keep bringing him up?’

Mel could see by her expression that her hate was fuelled by love. She had obviously adored her brother and been immeasurably hurt when he’d enlisted and left. Kids often felt they’d been abandoned even if this wasn’t the case. Parents separating, circumstances changing: it was easy for them to believe they were the cause, the catalyst, reinforcing their belief that they must be unlovable.

‘I don’t want to push you.’

‘Well, you are.’

‘I’m not asking you to agree to live with him or even see him regularly. But if you could listen to what he has to say.’

‘Nobody listens to what I have to say.’

‘That’s not true. I’m here to listen to you.’

‘Well, you don’t seem to be hearing that I don’t want him in my life.’

‘He seems like a good man.’

‘Good men don’t leave their families.’

Mel felt a pang as she thought about Paul, her marriage. She knew this not to be true. There were all sorts of circumstances that could drive a family apart.

‘Tell me something about Luke that you remember.’

Lily shrugged, picked at a stray thread that was hanging from her jumper.

‘We used to play games.’

‘What sort of games?’

‘Twister was my favourite. My arms and legs were too short but I loved flicking the spinner. We didn’t have many things but someone gave it to us, I think. He’d let me win.’

‘That’s a nice memory. What else?’

‘He used to take me to the train station. I know it sounds boring but we’d take our sandwiches and sit on a bench and watch the trains.’

‘I don’t know much about trainspotting. Is there a number or something you record?’

‘No. It wasn’t like that. We’d make up stories about the passengers. You know, who they were, where they were going. We’d create all these adventures for them. I guess because we couldn’t afford to go anywhere ourselves.’

Mel didn’t probe any further. It was a good place to end things today. Lily was thinking, not about Luke leaving, but what came before. The good times. Hopefully wondering whether there could be good times again. Open to the possibility at least. It wouldn’t be a quick process if Luke were to become Lily’s legal guardian, but one meeting, that would be a start.

Mel said goodbye to Lily, was just leaving the house in River Street when Shyla opened the front door, her face lighting up.

‘Have you come to take me home?’

‘No. I’ve come to see Lily today.’

‘But. You have to.’

‘No, Shyla. I’m sorry but I don’t. There isn’t anything you can do or say right now that will make me change my mind.’

Shyla’s face crumpled and Mel felt horrible, horrible but she really believed it was the safest place for her right now.

For Lily too.

Mel hadn’t been back at the office long when Julie from River Street called.

Shyla had tried to take her own life.

Mel rushed over to the hospital to see her. She ran frantically through the winding corridors until she found the right ward. Outside the door was one of Shyla’s brothers, texting. He looked up as she approached.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘I just want to see that Shyla’s okay.’

‘She’s not fucking okay and you’re not getting anywhere near her. She said that the man supposed to be looking after her had touched her and she told you and you did nothing. This is all your fault. You’ll fucking pay for this.’

All the way home Mel carried a sense that she had let Shyla down, questioning whether there could even be some truth in her allegation because you have to be so desperately unhappy to try to take your own life.

Bob had been at the hospital with his mum that first night Shyla spent at River Street, but what time had he left? Could he have been there for part of the night? Had Mel been thorough enough? She usually had a really good gut instinct when people were lying to her, and she was lied to often.

At the forefront of her mind was concern for Shyla, for Lily still at that house, but she was also worried for herself.

What could the repercussions be if she’d got it wrong?

‘You’ll fucking pay for this.’

Chapter 26

Thursday

jen

There were consequences to everything, and Mum disappearing has led me to one place I thought I’d never be.

The police station is too warm, too intimidating, too everything. I can’t believe I’m here. Even the sight of the uniform brings back memories of Andy. I’m trying to hold it together but my hands are tight around the seat of my chair. I feel as though I’m made of paper, one gust of air and I’ll float away.

Luke is at the desk, giving our names and explaining why we’re here. I’ve steeled myself for a long wait because when I googled earlier I learned that someone disappears every ninety seconds in the UK.

Every ninety seconds.

How many families does that equate to? Scared. Confused. Wondering if they could have done anything differently. This is something I think about frequently. If I’d asked Mum more about work, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in marking homework. ‘If’ is perhaps the cruellest word.

‘Jen?’ Luke breaks through my thoughts. ‘They’re ready to see you now.’

‘You’re coming too?’

‘They want to see you on your own first.’

The saliva dries in my mouth.

The interview room is windowless. The walls a sludgy grey. I sit and rest my hands on the table in front of me before putting them in my lap and then back on the table. I try to slow my breathing. Remind myself that I have done nothing wrong, I am not a suspect. It doesn’t matter where my hands are, but still I feel the officer’s eyes on me, forming an opinion before I have even spoken. He leans over and switches on a tape. Gives the date and time and our names before he turns his attention back to me.

‘Jennifer, I’m PC Patel and this is PC Johnson. We understand your mum is missing?’

‘I think so.’ I lick my lips. Clear my throat. ‘Yes. I don’t know where she is.’

‘And from the information we’ve gathered so far from Luke Cormack and Rosa Garcia, she disappeared on Sunday?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you haven’t reported her missing until now?’

My hands are back on my lap, elbows squeezed against my side because I can feel the sweat under my arms and I don’t want them to see the damp patches on my shirt. I don’t want them to think I’ve anything to hide.

‘I’d had some texts from her number. At first I thought she was at her brother’s.’

‘This is Donald Knightley?’

I nod.

‘Can you answer for the benefit of the tape, please.’

‘Yes.’ I can’t believe how much they already know.

‘But it’s out of character for her to suddenly take time off work?’

‘Yes.’ My voice is growing fainter. I clear my throat. ‘It sounds bad I haven’t come in but I saw her Sunday and it’s only Thursday and I really thought that she was just having a break. She isn’t on medication, doesn’t have any mental health issues, she isn’t high risk. I didn’t think you’d look into it so quickly.’

‘You’ve clearly been watching crime shows.’ They exchange a glance with each other.

‘Amy’s a fan. Amy’s—’

‘Your sister, we know. We’ll need to speak to her of course, along with anyone else who knows your mum. We’ll be calling in to see you at home later. You’re right that on her own Melissa wouldn’t be classed as high risk, but Lily Cormack is only thirteen and—’

‘You can’t seriously think that Mum—’

‘We’re open-minded at this stage. Exploring possibilities.’

‘Luke said Lily has run away several times before.’

‘She has, but we can’t assume that’s what’s happened here.’

They fire questions at me. Wanting to know Mum’s routine. If there’s anywhere I think she might be. Anyone who might be helping her.

‘Helping her kidnap a thirteen-year-old?’ I’m exhausted, voice cracking.

PC Patel leans forward, stretches out his arm as though to comfort me before noticing the glare from PC Johnson and pulling it back. I raise my eyes to his. They are full of sympathy. I notice for the first time how young he is. I wonder how long he’s been on the force. If this is his first missing-persons case and, if so, if that’s a good thing because he’ll be hungry to find Mum or whether his inexperience will hinder the investigation.

‘I’m going to find her,’ he says quietly, determinedly and in that moment I believe him.

‘Now,’ PC Johnson continues, ‘we’ve already contacted Melissa’s network provider. Her mobile is currently switched off but we’ll be notified immediately if it’s switched on again. We’ll have copies of her texts soon.’

‘How can you access texts if you don’t have her handset?’

‘The phone companies can read data, listen to voicemails and see what someone has been looking at on the internet.’

I’m thrown. I thought everything on a phone was private. ‘How have you done this so quickly?’ On TV everything is done within an episode, but from news reports I thought these things took days, weeks even.

‘We can obtain phone information within an hour if it’s a high-risk case.’

He’s referring to Lily again.

‘The data will take a little longer to come through because the phone is off but it’ll be with us soon. We also know that Melissa withdrew five hundred pounds from a cashpoint in Briarhill midday on Monday. Do you know anyone in the village? Any reason she might have been there?’

‘No. It’s about halfway between here and Uncle Don’s.’ Was she coming home when she stopped to use it? ‘Is there CCTV? Did you see her?’ A thought occurs to me. ‘What if Lily has hurt Mum? What if she stole her card and—’

‘We’re not ruling anything out. We haven’t had any footage through yet but it’s been requested. CCTV isn’t always the golden egg people think it is though. An image can only be as good as the camera.’

‘What about her car? Isn’t there a camera that can trace numberplates?’

‘Yes, ANPR. We’ll be piecing together Melissa’s movements from the images, but in this area there are only cameras on entry and exit of main roads. In Briarhill there wouldn’t be any at all. There’ll be a marker put on her car though, so if she goes through a camera we’ll be notified immediately.’

The interview is wrapped up. I agree on a time they can come to the house and talk to Amy and have a look around. Then I’m back outside, dragging air into my lungs as though I’ve been underwater, and that’s how I feel. Everything is muffled. Loud and bright but muted at the same time. I feel really, really strange.

‘Here.’ Luke guides me to a low wall, sits me down and pushes a bottle of water into my hands. ‘Are you okay?’

‘She’s missing. She’s really missing.’ I can’t quite believe it.

‘Did they have any theories?’ Luke asks once I’ve taken a drink.

‘None they’re sharing with me. It was all “we’re open-minded and looking at possibilities”.’

‘So you didn’t learn anything new?’

‘There was one thing.’ I tell him about the cashpoint.

‘But you don’t know anyone in the village?’

‘No. Shall we go and take a look around?’ I’m compelled to go to the last place that Mum was, with or without Luke.

I call Camilla to update her, ask her to keep Amy there.

Briarhill is quintessentially English. There’s a village green with a duck pond. I bet it’s really pretty in the summer, families sprawled on tartan picnic blankets, wicker baskets laden with sandwiches and flasks of tea. For now though, it’s dank and dull.

We find the bank easily on the high street. I’m surprised there’s still a physical branch here.

Inside I explain to a bewildered-looking cashier who I am, what I want.

‘We can’t let you view the CCTV.’

‘Can we speak to a manager please?’ Luke is calm, charming, but the manager won’t be charmed.

‘I’m sorry. Only the police can request the CCTV and they have to fill out the appropriate forms.’

‘The police told me they’ve requested it. It is concerning me so—’

‘Even so, I can’t give you any information.’

Frustrated, I show him a photo of Mum on my phone but he barely glances at it. ‘Sorry, I don’t recognise her.’

I’m discouraged as we traipse back outside. I don’t know what I’d expected coming here. Mum waiting with open arms and explanations?

We wander around for a while, showing everyone we meet Mum’s photo, but nobody has seen her.

‘Shall we grab a sandwich and head back?’ Luke asks.

We buy dry cheese and ham baguettes from a small newsagent next to the bank. The guy who serves us is too busy checking out my chest to look properly at the photo of Mum. I’m annoyed as I stomp outside. We’re unwrapping our lunch when Luke elbows me.

‘Look.’ He nods at a CCTV camera on the wall.

‘It might cover the cashpoint.’ I’m excited.

‘Let’s go and ask.’

I grab Luke’s arm, as he’s already heading back inside. ‘You wait here,’ I say.

Instinctively I know that if he asks to view the footage, the answer will be no. I undo another two buttons on my shirt as I hurry back to the counter.

‘Please can you help me.’ I bend my knees a little so I’m gazing up at the guy, helplessly. ‘The bank have just rung to tell me that someone withdrew some money from my account using the cashpoint outside on Monday, around twelve. It wasn’t me.’

‘Maybe it was your boyfriend.’ He nods outside towards Luke.

‘Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have one. Luke is my cousin.’

‘Right,’ the guy stands a little straighter, ‘I don’t see how I can help.’

‘You’ve a camera outside. If I could view the recordings from around noon on Monday I could perhaps see who it was. My ex is, well, he wasn’t a good person, it could have been him. I’d be really grateful.’

‘Oh yeah. How grateful?’

‘Very. I’d buy you a pint after work?’ I smile.

I’m expecting him to spout something about data protection, or him not being allowed, but instead he lifts part of the counter and gestures me towards a small back room.

‘Take a pew.’

I sit on a chair with a broken arm in front of a small monitor.

I can smell stale smoke and salt and vinegar crisps as he leans over me to locate the right time period. He leaves the tape paused while he says pointedly, ‘I finish in an hour.’

‘Great.’ I force a smile. ‘I noticed a pub round the corner, The Coach and Horses? Meet you there?’

He narrows his eyes.

‘We could eat too. Do they do food?’ I gaze at him unflinchingly.

‘Yeah, the pie and mash is good.’

‘My favourite.’ I brighten my smile and he presses play on the video.

Grainy figures come and go. The timestamp moves past noon to 12.15, 12.25. Nobody has stopped to use the cashpoint. Just when I think the police have got it wrong, that I’m wasting my time, a figure stops onscreen. They’ve appeared from the left so it’s impossible to see their face but they’re wearing a cap.

An F1 cap from a trip she and Dad made to Silverstone years ago.

Mum’s cap.

Luke and I head straight home, I’d no intentions of meeting that creepy guy at the pub. While we drive we speculate about what it might mean if Mum had withdrawn the maximum amount of cash.

I don’t share all my theories. I don’t tell him anything personal. Despite everything he has told me making sense, I still don’t trust him completely. How can I when our relationship started off with a lie? Until Mum comes home, I can’t really trust anyone.

I drop him back in front of a smart semi where he actually lives. It isn’t too far from our house.

Back at home, I’m half-heartedly looking through the fridge even though Amy tells me she isn’t hungry. Neither am I.

‘We can get some chips after the police have come and spoken to you.’ We might not have an appetite but I empty a pouch of Whiskas into Marmalade’s bowl.

Officer Patel when he arrives is sombre, only briefly meeting my eye. I know before he speaks there is news. That it isn’t good.

‘Shall we go and sit down?’

This in itself brings panic.

‘We’ve located your mum’s car. It was in the carpark of the Holiday Inn on West Street.’

I wait, sensing that isn’t all he’s about to say. Amy’s hand has found its way into mine. I squeeze her fingers.

‘We’re waiting for forensics. We’ve found something in the boot. A silver necklace with a heart and what looks like a piece of, um, bacon?’

‘That’s Mum’s.’ Instinctively I finger the identical one I wear around my neck. Then I catch sight of his expression. ‘What? What else did you find?’

‘Blood.’ He pauses. ‘We’re not sure who it belongs to. We’d like to take your mum’s toothbrush today for DNA purposes.’

Amy gives a small cry.

Blood? They’ve found blood in the boot.

Whose blood?

Chapter 27

Thursday

amy

Blood? There’s blood in Mum’s car.

Amy has the sensation of spinning around faster and faster, upside down and back to front, a fairground ride that gathers in speed. She becomes aware of Jen kneeling in front of her.

‘Amy, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Mum’s hurt,’ she says.

But what does it mean? Mum couldn’t have hurt anyone, could she?

Amy thinks back to the last time she was in that car, coming home from the picnic. What happened after that? It seems to be the last moment they were all together.

All happy.

Chapter 28

Thursday

camilla

Camilla sinks to her haunches after she had spoken to Jen. She had been halfway to the kitchen but now she cannot physically support her weight.

They’ve found Mel’s car.

There’s blood in the boot.

She begins to cry. It’s hard not to let her imagination run riot. She’s glad Mason is napping, his cold zapping his energy, she’d hate for him to see her like this.

She’s shaky as she drags herself to the couch. She needs to be with Jen, with Amy, but there’s no one to look after Mason. Her entire world consists of four people. Mason and the Abbott family. What would she do without them?

She pulls the throw from the back of the sofa over her knees. She keeps the flat warm for Mason but she’s shivering, her teeth clattering together.

What must Jen be thinking?

The worst.

They all are.

Camilla’s gaze is drawn to the end of the sofa. The last place Mel sat when she was here, Saturday evening after the picnic. Was that really only five days ago? She remembers how Mel had come home with her to help settle Mason and after he’d finally fallen asleep, after umpteen stories, they had talked.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mel had asked gently.

‘I could ask you the same. There’s something on your mind?’ Camilla saw through Mel’s smiles today. Noticed the worry in her eyes.

‘Just work stuff. There’s a case who’s ended up in hospital. I’ve let her down.’

‘I don’t believe you’d let anyone down. You’re a good person, Mel. Look at what you’ve done for me.’

‘All the more reason to let me help you now. This is more than Mason not sleeping, isn’t it? You look so troubled.’

‘It’s all such a mess. I don’t think I can afford to stay here but don’t want to uproot Mason again. We’ve only been here a few weeks.’

‘Oh, Camilla, I’m so sorry. You know you can always move back in with us.’

‘But you have a lodger lined up?’

‘I haven’t committed. He hasn’t even seen the room yet. You’ll always come first, you’re family.’

‘I know but … I’ve loved living with you, it hasn’t all been about saving money but because it’s been so overwhelming being in charge of a child.’

‘You’re a great mum, Camilla.’

‘Thanks. You know how worried I was because my childhood, well, it’s not one I’d want to recreate. I want Mason to have a good role model. It’s why I keep trying to build up the jewellery business. So he can see dreams can come true. I want him to have a loving, stable home and family.’

‘He already has that.’

‘Not if we have to keep moving.’

‘I thought business was doing well with it coming up to Christmas? People are definitely spending less than they used to, but your income is topped up with benefits, isn’t it? There’s no shame, you haven’t let anyone down.’

‘It wasn’t only my income and benefits covering our living expenses. It’s …’ Camilla knows the story she is about to reveal is a very different narrative to the one she’s always spun. She can’t look at Mel as she admits, ‘Mason’s father, well, he was helping financially, but he isn’t paying maintenance anymore, talk about bad timing, and we can’t afford to stay here without him.’ She keeps her eyes trained on the floor.

‘Mason’s father?’

‘Yeah.’ Camilla’s stomach flips over. She can’t take it back now. She looks at Mel.

Confusion flickers across Mel’s face. ‘I thought it was a drunken one-night thing and you didn’t know who he was?’

Camilla opens her mouth to explain before clamping it shut again. She chews the inside of her cheek, don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it. Tastes blood.

They sit in silence, the ticking clock the only sound in the room. Time marching on. Time running out.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mel says eventually. ‘I’m sorry you’ve never felt able to share this with me before.’ Her voice is thick and Camilla thinks she is trying hard not to cry. ‘You know you can tell me anything?’

‘I know. It, well, it isn’t you.’ She doesn’t add ‘it’s me’ because it’s lame and Mel deserves better. She takes her hand. ‘You’ve been like a mum to me and I think it’s natural that we don’t want to let our mums down, isn’t it?’

Tears pool in Mel’s eyes. ‘You’re like another daughter to me. Sorry, I’m not trying to make this about me, my feelings, I’m just surprised. You’re entitled to your privacy, of course you are.’

‘But it feels like a betrayal?’

‘No.’ Mel sandwiches Camilla’s hand between her own. ‘You could never betray me. I know that. Do you want to tell me about it? About him?’

‘Not much to tell. He didn’t want anything to do with Mason, he was good about paying but now … I really don’t know how I’m going to cope.’

‘There are organisations that can help you get the maintenance you’re entitled to.’

‘I know. I don’t want to cause any trouble though.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Forget I said anything.’ Camilla felt the emotion closing her throat. She shouldn’t have said that but she was so tired and so despairing. She’d do anything to give Mason the childhood he deserved but she was getting everything wrong.

‘I can’t. What do you mean about causing trouble?’

‘Please, Mel. Let’s just pretend—’

‘Camilla.’ Mel lets go of her hand. ‘If Jen or Amy said something like that then I’d want to know what it was. To help. It’s the same with you.’

‘I can’t talk about it. It was all so … so …’

Camilla can’t gather herself.

Mel passes her a tissue. ‘Look, I’m so sorry if this is painful but, god, did he rape you?’ Mel’s voice cracked.

‘It wasn’t like that. He was married though.’

‘So he didn’t force you?’

Camilla inhaled deeply. Thought about that night for the millionth time. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t say no.’

‘Not saying no isn’t always saying yes,’ Mel says gently. ‘It isn’t giving consent.’

But she’d wanted it, hadn’t she? Wanted him? At least at first.

‘I don’t know.’ Camilla’s whole body is heaving. She’d tried to block out that awful night not just because of what happened but because it had been crushing and confusing.

‘Sweetheart, tell me about it. About him.’

‘I …’

‘Please don’t say you can’t. You can tell me anything.’

Camilla knew that Mel believed that, but how could she tell her who Mason’s father was? And yet she’d carried this alone for such a long time and it was all coming back with painful clarity.

‘It’s … It’s Don.’

‘Don? My brother Don?’ Mel’s eyes had widened, mouth hanging open.

‘I’m so sorry. I really like Carol and I didn’t mean to.’

‘Camilla.’ Mel seemed to force her name out and she didn’t speak again for a good few seconds. Camilla knew she was trying to formulate her words. ‘Don was in a position of responsibility, a professor, you were a vulnerable young woman, a student, living alone for the first time. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘He wasn’t my lecturer though.’

‘That’s irrelevant. He should have known better.’

Camilla ran through it again. How vulnerable she had felt when she’d knocked on his office door, explained what she and Jen had done. Begging him to help retrieve the photos Harvey had in his possession. The relief after he’d messaged to say the photos had gone, Harvey too.

The embarrassment she had felt the following night when he’d been the one to knock on her door, knowing he had seen parts of her she normally kept hidden.

‘Is Jen around?’

‘No, she’s studying with a friend from her course. Do you want to come in?’

He stepped inside. Was that making the first move? Inviting him in? She didn’t know.

‘I wanted to see if you were both okay after yesterday.’

She’d nodded but her bottom lip was trembling and he wrapped her in his arms, holding her gently, stroking her hair. She knew she should have let go of him but it felt so good to be held.

It was she who’d raised her face to his, not sure what she wanted, her eyes flicking to his mouth, wondering.

‘Camilla.’ He had breathed her name, brushed the hair from her face.

As she told Mel she touched her chin lightly, remembering the roughness of his stubble on her face as he had kissed her so softly.

‘We can’t.’ She had pulled away. ‘You’re married. Your wife is lovely.’

‘Carol is but she doesn’t understand me. Things have been difficult for a long time. We’re not really together in the traditional sense.’

He had traced her cheekbone with his thumb. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

He kissed her again and she’d yielded, softening her body against his. And then his kiss had morphed into something more urgent. Hard.

Her fingertips travelled to her lips, the lips he’d bitten after kissing her with such force that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. The taste of blood on her tongue. But she’d taken his roughness for passion. An indication that he wanted her so deeply all the rules had gone out of the window. He’d run his hands over her body, squeezing, pinching and it seemed that he needed her so badly he’d never be able to live without her again.

‘You want this, don’t you?’ he’d growled, not waiting to hear her reply that didn’t come. She’d panted, hot and sticky, not voicing out loud that, yes, she did want this. What she’d really wanted was to be held. To feel loved. This … this was something else entirely. But this was their first time. Next time, she told herself, would be different.

Better.

Gentle.

But she hadn’t said no, had she? She’d let him do what he wanted with her, all the time desperately hoping that it meant that he loved her.

She moaned, not with longing but because, honestly, she had been scared.

Scared of the things he was doing to her. The force he was using. But, more than that, she was scared that if she asked him to stop he’d walk out of the door, out of her life and – she loved him. She had fallen for him little by little every week when they went for Sunday lunch. When he talked to her as an equal about her course, her ambitions.

He cared for her. He must do to have got rid of the photos. To have come here tonight.

She wanted it to be good for him. She wanted to be good for him.

She’d raised her hips as his teeth sank into her breast. Pulled at his hair as he’d whispered into her ear, ‘You’re a fucking, fucking whore, getting your tits out for the camera.’ Squeezed her eyes tightly shut to contain the tears.

When he said, ‘This is what all the men who would have looked at your filthy fucking pictures would want to do to you,’ something inside of her broke.

‘Slut.’ He pounded into her, over and over, and when she cried out perhaps it had been with fear not with pleasure. He hadn’t just caused her physical pain but emotional. She recalls how confused she’d felt when this man – the man she admired and trusted to look after her – called her a fuck-toy.

She remembers how utterly worthless she felt.

How empty and exposed she was as he’d rolled off her and began to dress.

She’d sat up, the sheet wrapped around her, and he’d actually patted her on the head as though she were a dog who’d performed a new trick.

‘Are you … are you leaving?’ she had asked. Hating herself for the neediness in her voice but unable to mask it anyway. ‘You could stay?’

‘I’ve got to get back to Carol.’

He had no shame in mentioning his wife.

‘But I thought … I thought you weren’t together anymore. You said she didn’t understand you?’

When he laughed it was cold and hollow and she pressed the sheet tighter against her chest. Felt the pounding of her shameful heartbeat against her hand.

‘Nobody’s wife understands them,’ he said. ‘But you,’ he appraised her, ‘you understand men. You know how to fuck.’

The bottom dropped out of her world as he strode towards the door but, still, she felt a smidgeon of hope as he turned to her. ‘Best we don’t tell anyone about this. Jen and Mel, well, they wouldn’t get it, would they?’

Somehow, she managed to hold it together until he left.

Jen and Mel wouldn’t get it? She didn’t get it.

For weeks Don had been giving her that secret smile. Listening to her, really listening to her. Okay, so she knew he was married, and she took no pride that she’d still coveted him, but she’d believed him when he’d said – implied? – that his relationship with Carol wasn’t intimate. She’d never once seen them touch each other, kiss, so yes, she had believed it was purely functional, empty.

It was she who felt empty now.

There was the sound of footsteps outside. She wiped her tears just in case it was him, but they passed by the door and then she knew, absolutely, he was never coming back. He’d got what he wanted.

Her heart shattered along with her dreams. She was stupid, stupid, stupid to have ever thought that he would – could – love her. Even her own parents hadn’t loved her enough to stay. What did she know about forming healthy relationships? A family?

‘You know how to fuck.’

That was all she was good for.

She must give out some sort of invisible sign that she was damaged. That was why nobody ever asked her out.

She buried her face into the pillow.

‘You know how to fuck.’

The words left a sourness in her mouth even though she hadn’t been the one to say them.

That night had changed her. Don had discarded her, and she’d felt the same sense of abandonment she’d felt growing up, in and out of foster homes. That feeling had never left her since.

‘Oh Camilla.’ Mel didn’t look at her with disgust or any sort of judgement. Instead, with love and this was enough to make Camilla break down into sobs.

‘I’m going to go and see my brother tomorrow.’

‘No. Please.’

‘I won’t tell Carol and I won’t tell Jen, not if you don’t want me to. But he needs to step up. To look after you and Mason financially if nothing else. I need to make sure this was a one-off and that he hasn’t been abusing his power with other students.’

‘What if there are others?’ Camilla asked. Camilla remembered Rochelle’s reaction when they’d mentioned Don’s name.

‘Then he needs to be stopped.’

Chapter 29

Thursday

jen

Amy had shut herself in her room after we learned about the blood in Mum’s car. I wanted to comfort her but she’s still keeping me at arm’s length after the naked photo, which we still haven’t talked properly about because of, well, everything. It’s a lot. I’m shellshocked and scared and Amy must be feeling the same way.

We need each other. I climb the stairs to her room, open her door.

It’s empty.

Where is Amy?

I ring her but there’s no reply. I’m frantic after the police found Mum’s car with blood in it.

On Amy’s desk is her laptop. Can I trace her phone with it?

I hesitate, aware there’s a line I’m about to cross but knowing that I’m going to step over it anyway. My stomach churns as I lift the lid on Amy’s laptop. Computers hold all of our secrets, don’t they? Our entire lives. Calendars. Photos. Journals. Messages. Our innermost thoughts. Our search history. What we want to know. Dreams. Desires.

Everything in one silver metal rectangle.

I push the ‘on’ button and feel the power in it. Know that however savvy we think we are, however secure we’re convinced our files might be, the things we want to keep hidden can end up being shared.

Photos intended for the eyes of one person only, taken from their digital cloud, downloaded, made public.

However smart Amy thinks she is, she isn’t safe.

Nobody is.

The screen illuminates. Her background picture is one taken last Christmas. We’re sitting on the floor in a circle, Amy, Mum, Camilla and me. Behind us is the straggly plastic tree we’ve had as far back as I can remember. Mum suggests replacing it every year, but Amy and I always protest. It’s part of the family almost. Part of us. Gold tinsel is twisted around its middle. Coloured lights in red, green and yellow, which in reality fade in and out but captured here they are forever shining. Mason had helped dress the tree so all of the baubles, the ornaments are bunched around the sagging lower branches. We’d intended on spreading them out after he’d gone to bed but none of us had the heart to when he’d painstakingly chosen each and every place – ‘You go here, Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, next to your friend Mr Snowman.’

Mason is in the middle of us all, his face glowing, smile bright and wide. He’s an island surrounded by a sea of crumpled glittery wrapping paper. He’s raised a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine slippers high above his head, triumphantly like they’re a trophy. We’re all gazing at him with such love, such affection. Wondrous that such a small gift could bring that much utter joy. Grateful we haven’t reached the time when iPads and PlayStations will replace toy cars and colouring books on his present list.

The laptop is password-protected. This in itself rings alarm bells. Amy has never felt the need for one before. It was a condition of her having a phone, Instagram, that Mum could check anytime, we both could, but we’ve been lax with it lately. The accounts Amy follows, naughty cats and adorable puppies, have all seemed so mundane. So normal.

But now Mum is missing, I’ve been suspended, and nothing seems normal anymore. I’m reeling with it all.

Amy isn’t in the house but still I glance over my shoulder before I sit at her desk. I feel as though I’m doing something wrong, because I am, even though I have my reasons. I tell myself I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t desperately worried about Amy, about everything. But however much I wrap what I’m about do as being in her best interests, tying it neatly with a bow of good intentions, I can also see it for what it is.

A horrible invasion of privacy.

Still my fingers fly over the keys, tapping in a combination of our names, birthdays, but frustratingly all of my guesses are wrong.

I drum out a rhythm on the desk with my fingertips, think-think-think, and then I remember our picnic in the forest. Who am I? Amy’s scrawl on a Post-it note.

Zeus and Apollo.

‘I knew you’d never guess two names.’

I type the dogs names into the box and press ‘enter’.

And then I’m in.

Both scared I’ll find something and scared that I won’t.

Find My Phone is disabled. I have no way of knowing where she is unless she’s made arrangements to meet someone and I can find out where.

It’s her emails I go to first. There’s hardly anything in her inbox. A few newsletters from a wildlife charity she adopted a penguin from with her birthday money. Acknowledgements of Change petitions she’s signed to save the polar bears, save the planet. Like Mum, Amy wants to save everything.

There’s a flicker of pride before I remind myself that I’m meant to be saving her. Mum. A quick scan of her junk and deleted emails don’t unearth anything untoward.

I open up her Instagram and click on the messages.

There are threads between Amy and Camilla and then another with a name I don’t recognise.

Buzz2012.

The second I see his name something uncoils deep inside my stomach and slithers up into my throat. I have such a deep, instant knowing that this is it, the reason Amy has been so secretive, that I almost can’t look but I need to.

I have to.

I click open the messages and the last one written by Amy causes my blood to run cold.

- I need you.

This, whoever this is, is not a casual acquaintance.

I check out his profile, his photo is of a football. His grid contains a few nature photos. He and Amy follow each other. Who is he?

Quickly I go back to the messages, scrolling up, holding my breath, please don’t have sent nudes – but although she’s sent photos, she is fully dressed, mostly holding Marmalade. If he’d tried to coerce her into anything else, it hadn’t worked.

I hope.

Leaning in, I begin to read the messages right from the very first one. A ‘hi’ and a waving hand emoji sent by him.

- Good time at the gig?

She must accept the request because she replies,

- Sorry you must have wrong person.

- My bad. Wotuup2 anyways?

They begin to chat, her offloading about school, and, in turn, he says all the right things to make her think he understands but he doesn’t actually say he’s at school too, does he? He doesn’t say how old he is.

The messages get deeper, more meaningful, as time moves on.

I want to get to know you, he says in one. I can’t imagine my life without you now, in another. Tell me about your family.

She tells him that she lives with me and Mum and Marmalade.

- I always wanted a sister. What’s your sis like.

- She’s 13 years older than me but she’s cool. She’s a teacher at my school.

My stomach clenches with each little piece of information Amy gives away.

- What’s ur mum like?

- She’s cool too. She works really hard. We’ve never got enough money; I don’t think my dad helps much since he left.

She tells him about Camilla and Mason. No longer using abbreviations but our real names.

She thinks he’s her friend.

- Mum says we might get a lodger

- How do you feel about that?

- It’d be good. It’s too quiet without Camilla and Mason.

And then after Luke moved in, Buzz2012 probes her on whether she likes him.

Yeah. She doesn’t say much else, instead asking to meet him and he’s promising her soon. My jaw tightens, I can feel the frown deep in my forehead. My brow furrowing further when Amy tells him:

- There’s this photo going around of my sister. I hate her. HATE HER. Everyone at school is laughing at me. EVERYONE.

My throat swells, the space closing until it’s hard to swallow.

Amy confides in him. Her messages growing darker, more serious.

- Mum has gone away … No one understands me … I don’t want to be here.

His advice, when I read it, sucks the breath from my body.

- Go to Nita’s have one of those strawberry milkshakes.

How does he know she loves Nita’s? The strawberry milkshakes?

My armpits are prickling with sweat as I scroll back up the chat history, already knowing that I haven’t missed her mentioning Nita’s.

So how does he know? And if he knows she goes to Nita’s then he knows where she lives. Perhaps not this street, this house, but certainly this town because Nita’s isn’t a chain.

Amy hadn’t picked up on this, she carries on chatting, either not noticing or assuming she’s mentioned Nita’s before, which proves just how much she trusts him because she’s always been clued up on online safety. It’s been drummed into her age group at school. Never share anything personal because you can never be certain who you’re talking to.

Then there’s a string of messages about Mum going missing, Luke not being who he claimed to be.

Are you still there? she asks when he hadn’t replied.

- OMG - I had to take a few minutes to process that. Are you safe? What’s going on? Tell me everything you know about this lodger. Update me about your mum.

The penultimate message she sent was earlier about Mum’s car being found, the blood in the boot.

Can we talk properly, she asks. Please.

And then I’m back at the place I began. The very last message.

- I need you. Can we meet?

He hasn’t replied since she’d begged him to meet her but looking back at their message history, he sometimes takes hours to get back to her so that doesn’t seem unusual.

But this one is marked as read so, why hasn’t he replied?

Who is he? Why is he so interested in Mum being missing unless he has something to do with it and he wants to stay one step ahead of us, of the police? But why hasn’t he replied to that message? Have they switched to a different method of communicating? SnapChat? WhatsApp? Do they even have each other’s numbers?

Is she with him right now?

My knee jiggles up and down, up and down.

Think.

Think.

Think.

I can’t think of what else to do so I send a message to him.

- hey

After a few moments the dialogue box changes colour and I can see my message has been read. I wait for a reply but it doesn’t come.

Does he know this isn’t Amy? And if so, how? The only way he could know is if he was with her.

Oh god, where is my sister?

I can’t think of a way to draw information out of him so I ask directly.

- Do you know where Amy is?

There’s a reply in seconds.

- Who is this.

- Amy’s sister, Jen. Who is this.

The reply, when it comes, turns my blood to ice.

- Andrew Golding.

He’s found us.

Andy.

Chapter 30

Thursday

amy

Amy doesn’t know what she expected to find in the carpark of the Holiday Inn. Mum’s car, obviously, and Mum. That’s what she’d hoped for. Mum to appear, keys in hand – oh, I’d forgotten where I parked – like she’d fallen into some weird time portal.

She hadn’t told Jen where she was going because, well, Jen doesn’t tell her everything, does she?

Obviously. Just look at that bloody photo.

Mum hadn’t been there of course, her car wasn’t either. Amy thought there’d be a forensic team, a white tent perhaps. Life, she is learning, like crime, isn’t like it is on TV.

Where is her mum? Amy is desolate as she climbs the stairs to her room. Why has she just … vanished. Why hadn’t Buzz2012 replied straight away when she knows he’d read her message? Is she that unlovable that everyone she knows is leaving her?

Amy’s bedroom door is open. Sitting at her desk, hunched over her laptop, shoulders rounded, is Jen.

All the hurt Amy has been feeling, the anger, the confusion, she scrunches into a ball and hurls it at her sister.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Jen rises to her feet, turns around, her face milk-white.

‘Amy, I—’

‘You’ve no right to be in here. No right.’ Amy glances at her laptop. Sees that her messages are is open, taunting her bright on the screen.

His rejection.

Her humiliation.

‘That’s private.’ She barges past Jen, and slams the laptop shut.

‘Amy, I was just—’

‘Spying on me. You had a go at me for the cameras in Luke’s room and you, you—’

‘I was worried—’

‘Why?’ Amy feels the fury in her words. They are red-hot and sharp on her tongue. ‘Afraid I’d be sending nudes? Scared I’m as fucking stupid as you?’

‘We need to talk about that photo properly.’ Jen is trying to contain her anger but Amy is out of control. She cannot filter her words.

‘You might be a slut but that—’ She stops as Jen grabs her by the shoulders.

‘Will you just listen to me? There are things you don’t know, about Mum being missing, and I wanted to check that—’

‘You don’t get to check. If there’s something wrong just tell me what it bloody is. I’m not a child.’

‘Yes, you are. You’re thirteen and when you got a phone and laptop, one of the conditions was no passwords, that we could see them any time we wanted.’

‘No.’ Amy shakes herself free of Jen’s hands, furious. ‘Not we. You are no example to me. You don’t get to police me. Just Mum. You are not my mum.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ Jen shouts, holding Amy with her eyes. ‘I am your mum.’

Chapter 31

Thursday

amy

‘I am your mum.’

Jen’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away as she repeats herself. She’s not shouting anymore.

It’s like some unknown force is lifting Amy, raising her higher and higher until dizziness engulfs her and she is so light-headed she doesn’t really know where she is.

Then she’s slammed against the wall, all the breath leaving her body until there’s such a tightness in her chest she can’t actually breathe.

‘I am your mum.’

What. The. Fuck.

Chapter 32

Thursday

jen

‘I am your mum,’ I say again quietly. My words thick as though my tongue has swollen and I can’t form the shape of the truth. ‘And the person who has been messaging you is Andy, not a teenager but—’ Oh god, I cannot bear to say it out loud, but I have to. ‘He … he’s your biological father.’

In front of me, my baby, not baby sister but daughter, shrivels. She opens and closes her mouth, grappling for something to say, her eyes pleading with me to backtrack. To tell her that I made that up to hurt her, that of course the woman she’s called Mum for all these years is her mother, but I cannot tell her that because it just isn’t true.

Instead, I’m going to tell Amy everything because I can’t carry on like this. Because somehow Andy has found her, found us, and even if he hadn’t, I’m sick of being scared that every knock on the door will be him wanting to whip away parts of the narrative upon which I have built my life, as though the world I have created is just a game of Jenga. He has the power to cause it all to come tumbling down. It is the lie that has trapped me and I have to believe it is the truth that will set me free.

Amy sinks heavily onto her bed, wrapping her arms around herself, the magenta unicorn duvet that she is too old for crumpling beneath her. This is the pivotal moment everything changes. Her innocence lost.

I sit next to her, reach for her hand but she snatches it away from me. Before I can begin to explain, she’s crying because although she, rightly, believes I lied in class about the photo, this she knows is true. The photo has confused her and she may feel she doesn’t know me right now, she knows that I have not, would not, make this up. I wipe my cheeks with my fingers, feel my tears. I hadn’t realised I was crying. It’s as though I have broken free of my body and am watching us from somewhere high above.

I need to pull myself together. Say something.

Because, more than anything, I do not want to lose her. I wish that her childhood could have remained unbroken because, despite our unconventional set-up, we have been happy, haven’t we? Me, Mum, Amy. But this revelation was always going to come and I’ve run it through my mind a million times, a trillion, observing it from all angles, second-guessing what her reaction might be.

But from the look on her face I’ve been kidding myself that although she might not be exactly thrilled to find out I am her mum, she wouldn’t be repulsed either. Acceptance, I think, is what I’d been hoping for, a path that could eventually lead to something good. But the revelation I had hoped might pull us together is pushing her away.

‘I know this is a huge shock.’ There’s a saying that a mum is only ever as happy as her unhappiest child, and right now I feel everything she is feeling. All of it.

‘It isn’t.’ Her voice strangled as she wraps her arms tighter around herself. ‘I mean, I didn’t know that you were … that Mum isn’t … but I know you’re a liar, so.’ She tries to sound nonchalant but over the sound of her flippancy I can hear her heart breaking.

‘I was your age, Amy. A child really and …’ Oh god, this is so hard. ‘I had a friend, Andy. We used to play together all the time and we were messing about and …’ I don’t know what to tell her. All children want to believe they were created through love, don’t they? But the truth is, she wasn’t. That night had been so ordinary. Andy trying to teach himself ‘Lego House’ on his guitar, me singing. Then we had switched on the TV. ‘We’d watched a film and there was a couple on there having sex and we thought it was really funny. We began acting it out, you know, copying what they were doing, and … and … we didn’t really understand. We were both curious, I suppose. It was awkward and clumsy and it never happened again and I—’ I swallow down the lump in my throat but it immediately rises again. ‘I’d started my period but they weren’t regular and when I began to put on weight I thought …’ I hesitate. Where is the perfectly crafted speech I’d been practising in my head for years? The one where I skimmed over the details but left Amy with a feeling that although she wasn’t planned she was wanted and oh so very loved. But that isn’t entirely how it happened, is it? And Amy. My beautiful, funny, brave daughter needs – deserves – to know it all. ‘It was Mum—’

‘Your mum,’ she says pointedly.

‘Mum who noticed. She got me a test and … I couldn’t process the magnitude of it, not at first. I was going to have a baby.’

‘Did you think about, you know, getting rid of me?’ Amy’s voice is small.

‘Yes.’ It pains me to say it now. ‘I was so young. Mum and I talked through all the options. I thought about it but I couldn’t go through with a termination. I think it’s right that women get to choose, and for some that is absolutely the right decision, but it wasn’t for me.’ I don’t add that regardless of what I wanted, it was too late by the time I found out to do anything about it. About her.

‘But you didn’t keep me? Not really.’

‘I …’ The sweat on my back is making my shirt stick to me. This is the most difficult conversation I have ever had. ‘I wanted you to be adopted. Go to a family with two parents, perhaps siblings, but Mum wasn’t keen. I don’t know if it was the things she’d seen through her job or whether it was because if you were out there she’d always be wondering about you, but—’

‘You must know.’

‘Honestly, that time is really blurry. I know we had many talks. Many tears. I was assigned a social worker of my own because I was so young. Mum didn’t pressure me.’ Did she? It seems crazy to say I can’t remember the most pivotal moment of my life, but shock and perhaps the passage of time have blocked it out. With the passing of the years I had almost convinced myself I was Amy’s sister. That was until I came to leave her to go to university for the first time. Then I’d fallen apart. Deferred my place. It was Mum who persuaded me to take it up the following year. ‘Remember what you’re doing it for,’ she had said. Amy. I was doing it for Amy.

‘But she came up with the idea of raising me as hers?’

‘I think so. Yes, yes, she must have. That wouldn’t have occurred to me.’

‘And Dad?’ Amy’s face screws up in pain. ‘I don’t mean the guy I’ve been messaging but …’ She trails off and I know it’s because she doesn’t know if she has the right to call him ‘Dad’ anymore, but she can’t exactly slip into ‘Grandfather’, can she? God, we’ve all fucked up. Fucked her up.

‘Dad was …’ I don’t quite know how to convey it. He couldn’t look me in the eye. He was civil but he’d walk out of a room when I entered. Stopped calling me ‘Jenny Wren’ after his favourite Beatles song, addressing me as ‘Jennifer’ instead, as though I’d done such a grown-up thing I needed a grown-up name. I hadn’t realised that ‘Jenny Wren’ came from the Dickens novel Our Mutual Friend until I read it years later, and when I did, it nearly broke me remembering how we used to be. How I used to be. ‘Supportive, I guess.’

I’m not sure if ‘supportive’ is the right word, but he moved with us under the cover of night and he tried, he really did. He’d get up in the early hours with Amy to feed and change her and the expression on his face as he cradled her to him was heartbreaking. He loved her, that much was clear, but he was conflicted. She was his granddaughter and he couldn’t cope with passing her off as his daughter. It wasn’t only the lies, he had never wanted another child after me. Didn’t want the sleep deprivation and everything else that came along with a baby. He left before Amy was even six months old.

Looking back, I’m surprised he stuck it out that long.

‘No wonder he treats us differently,’ Amy says.

‘It was difficult for him, for all of us.’

There are sounds, smells that transport you back to a moment in time. For me it’s the scent of talcum power. The Bob Dylan song ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’. Mum would sing it as she gently dried Amy after her bedtime bath, although she’d sing ‘how many seals must a white dove sail’, rather than ‘seas’ and the imagery of a bird, wings spread, gliding through the ocean on the back of a seal always made me happy. But then, I’d heard the song years later at uni and it made me infinitely sad. I’d missed out on so much with my daughter, not because I was pushed out but because I stepped away. Not feeling I had the right to ask to be the one who gave her a bath. Not feeling confident enough to hold a slippery baby in the water. Not believing I could keep her safe.

I’d always hoped that somehow, some day, we’d have a close mother/daughter relationship, but now she is looking at me with utter disdain.

‘Am I supposed to feel grateful now to you and Mum for sticking around?’

‘You can feel however you want to feel but we did our best, both of us, and I’m sorry you found out like this.’

‘Yeah.’ Amy glares at her computer with contempt. ‘Looks like the old man is full of shit too. Must run in the family.’

‘I’m not sure how Andy found us bu—’

‘You mean he didn’t know where we were? Is that why we moved here? You kept him from me?’

‘It wasn’t like that. Andy’s dad, Kevin, was, well, he’d have made life impossible if we’d stayed.’

‘Impossible, how?’

I stare into my lap, picking at my nails.

‘If you’re thinking up a different story then don’t bother.’

‘I wasn’t, I just—’

‘Don’t. It doesn’t matter really, does it? You can’t time-travel back and alter the past.’

‘I wouldn’t want to. Not all of it anyway.’ I’m crying as I try to take her hands, which she snatches away from me again. ‘You are the best thing. The best—’

‘So great I’m not even deserving of the truth?’

‘If there’s anything you wan—’

‘There’s one thing.’

I wipe my cheeks. Noticing hers are dry. Chalk white.

‘I want you to fuck off, Jen.’

‘No. We have to talk about this. I know …’ I trail off because I don’t know at all. I don’t know anything.

I have deceived her and I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I’ve turned everything she thought she knew upside down. The twist in one of her mystery stories. The darkness that leaches onto the pages of the book of fairy tales I used to read to her.

The truth is always hidden inside the lie, isn’t it? The Wicked Queen presenting Snow White with an apple that may look perfect on the outside, but the inside is riddled with maggots, rotten.

I’ve presented her with my truth – our truth – and I can already feel that she’s slipping away.

I cannot bear the anguish in her eyes. I cannot bear that I have caused it.

‘Fuck off,’ she says again.

This time I stand, my legs are pipe-cleaner fragile, shaking-shaking-shaking. She’ll have questions later, but for now she wants to be alone and I need to respect that.

I leave her room and head for the bathroom, dropping heavily to my knees in front of the toilet because I fear I might be sick. I’m still hot, sweating, and after a few minutes I stand and splash cold water on my face. Raising my guilty face to the mirror.

I’ve aged fifty years this past week.

More than ever I wish Mum was here. I wish I knew where she was.

Panic grips me. I can’t do this alone.

Andy clearly wants to form some sort of contact with Amy. I don’t know what to do.

I was always fearful of what might happen if he found us, found out where Amy is. Not only because I was scared of the truth blowing Amy’s world apart, although that was a huge part of it, but because I was scared of Kevin Golding, his dad.

I still am.

Chapter 33

Friday

amy

It’s all such a mess. Since Jen had found the messages on Amy’s computer yesterday and revealed who she was to Andy, he’d messaged Amy nonstop, begging her to talk to him. To call him. Could he call her? He’d explained that he hadn’t quite known what to do when she’d told him Mum was missing, asked to meet him. He wanted to reply, to support her, to meet her if she needed him, but he was figuring out the right thing to say.

Amy had ignored him at first but there was this gnawing desire inside her to see him. To look him in the eye and tell him that she never wanted anything to do with him again. So first thing this morning she’d sent him a time and a place and now she is sitting in Nita’s café, waiting to see if he shows up. Otherwise she’d just be sat at home, going out of her mind, waiting for news about Mum. Jen doesn’t know what she’s doing, she thinks Amy is in her room, in a mood. She’d have a fit if she realised Amy left angry music playing but isn’t actually there but, whatever. Basically Jen had done pretty much what she wanted all these years. Now it is Amy’s turn. Besides, she had left a note on her bed telling Jen to call her immediately if there’s any news about Mum.

The bell tings as the door is pushed open. Her stomach plummets into her shoes because undoubtedly this was him approaching her table. Her biological father.

‘Amy?’ he asks tentatively and she glares at him in response. Even if he hadn’t seen photos of her, she has his heart-shaped face. His nose is crooked though. Has she seen him before or does he just seem familiar because they’re related? Anyway, aside from photos and similarities, he should just know who she is, shouldn’t he? She has his blood running through her veins.

He looks completely different from her dad, the man she always thought was her dad. He is younger. Dressed casually in a black jumper and jeans, sleeves rolled up. Amy notices the dark hairs on his arms. His bitten-down nails. She notices everything.

‘You found the café then?’

‘I’ve been here before. I’ve seen you here, with a guy. God, this isn’t a good start. I sound like a stalker.’

‘You’ve been following me?’

‘Not exactly.’ His cheeks flame red. ‘But it’s a small town. I saw you in Tesco once with Jen. I even almost ran into your mum, near the bank. Anyway. Sorry, I’m rambling. Thank you for meeting me.’ He perches on the edge of the chair awkwardly as though he’s sat in front of the head teacher about to be told off. At the thought of her teachers, her school, a lump swells in her throat as she wishes Jen were here for support, but then she remembers that Jen is also a liar and the soft space in her hardens once more.

‘Did you follow me here?’ She remembers ordering drinks for her and Luke, feeling eyes on her.

He doesn’t answer, glances around, self-consciously, noting the other customers.

‘They can’t hear us from over there,’ she says.

‘It’s just very public here, shall we go for a walk somewhere quiet?’

‘You want me to go somewhere remote with a strange man?’ she says dismissively, wanting to hurt him. ‘A grown man who befriended me on the internet and pretended to be a teenager.’

‘I didn’t claim I was a teenager.’ He takes a deep, noticeable breath. His shoulders lifting and dropping.

‘Your name was Buzz2012 like 2012 was your year of birth.’

‘That was just a suggested username. I never pretended to be anything I wasn’t.’

‘A father is what you are but you didn’t tell me that, did you?’ She can’t bring herself to say ‘her father’. She just can’t.

‘No. But everything I said was the truth. I love Paul Mescal films and Maisie Peters, the same as you.’

‘You are not the same as me. You’re a liar. Both of my parents, as it turns out, are liars.’

Amy is furious in a way she hasn’t ever been before. She had been angry with Jen, of course, raging, but the anger had been muted by shock and disbelief and an infinite sadness that her life would never be the same again. Now, the fury she feels is further flamed by the sting of humiliation that she had been chatting to him for weeks without knowing who he was. Her hands are balled tightly in her lap, her nails digging painfully into the soft skin of her palms.

She will not cry.

‘Don’t be too hard on your mum. She was just a child, we both were, and she’s had a rough time of it lately.’

‘Because her mum’s missing, you mean?’ The mere suggestion that Amy might not have the right to feel as upset makes her stomach tighten painfully. ‘How did you find me?’

‘A friend of mine, a teacher, sent me a link to a fundraiser your school had put on. Spy ring? I was looking for something different for the school I teach at. I recognised Jen and asked him about her and he confirmed her name and said she had a thirteen-year-old sister, Amy, at the school. He said you were in the photo too. I recognised you immediately because … because you look like me and I worked back the dates and realised that you likely weren’t Jen’s sister after all, but her daughter. Our daughter. I honestly didn’t know about you until that moment. Then I found you on social media and sent you a message. I wanted to get to know you so badly.’

‘You asked me for photos. What if I’d sent … you know.’ She can’t look at him.

‘I asked for one with your cat, your family, everyday photos. There was nothing explicit or suggestive in any of my messages. I’m so sorry. Really.’

Amy’s eyes fill with tears. Maybe he senses she’s about to lose it completely because he leans back and picks up the menu as though this is a casual lunch date.

‘Shall I try one of these famous strawberry milkshakes you like so much? Get some cake?’

He might as well have shoved her hard in the chest. The reminder that he knows so much about her, that she had opened herself up entirely to him, makes her feel vulnerable in a way that she hates.

She will not cry.

‘Whatever.’ She shrugs.

He strides over to the counter to place the order and she studies him. Does she swing her arms like that when she walks? Does she talk with her hands too? He smiles at the barista, she hadn’t seen him smile before, not properly, and the skin around his eyes crinkle. He looks friendly, normal, and perhaps, under any other circumstances, she would have been pleased to meet him.

Not now though. Not after what he’s done to her.

She’d only come here to tell him what she thinks of him but the fact that he’s buying her a drink, ordering cake, feels like a small victory. Perhaps she’ll throw her shake over him, smoosh the cake in his face as though they are clowns at the circus because that’s what she feels like, a fool.

She will not cry.

Back at the table he unloads the tray.

‘So.’ He pulls his milkshake to him, he’s probably only chosen it because it’s what she’s having. As though they have some common ground. She is reminded of the time she came here with Luke. He also lied about who he was but at least he had the balls to order a coffee, not copy her as though they were friends.

It’s pathetic.

Andy’s pathetic.

Does everybody lie? Pretend to be someone they’re not? In Luke’s case she can understand it. He was driven by fear, a desperation to find his sister. This man sitting in front of her though, she doesn’t understand him. She doesn’t even want to try to.

‘Shall we start again? I’m Andy. I’m twenty-seven and I’m your father.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she mutters. It’s a statement more than a question but Andy takes it as a challenge.

‘Okay. Well. I like watching detective shows—’

‘You just can’t help it, can you? If you can’t be real then—’ Amy scraped her chair back.

Andy rises to his feet. ‘Please don’t go. You’re right. I … I’m trying to impress you because …’ He pushes his sleeves further up his arms. ‘Because I’m out of my depth here and the last thing I want is to lose you again. Not when I’ve only just found you.’

Amy feels his despair, she feels the same. Although she’s come here today to tell him to sling his hook, there’s a small part of her that wants to cling onto him because she’s lost Mel and Jen. Not entirely, but they are not hers in the way she had thought. She is not theirs. Not Mel’s daughter. Not a sister. Strip away the titles and she doesn’t know who is left, but love? Love is still there. As much as she wants to hate Jen, she can’t. As much as she wants to shrug and say she doesn’t care that Mel is missing, she is terrified she will never see her again. Never be able to say to her, thank you. Because among the hurt and confusion there is a gratitude that Mel raised her. Her childhood had been happy, up until now.

‘I was almost fourteen when I found out that Jen was pregnant,’ Andy says in a low voice. ‘Still a child really. We weren’t even—’ He lowers his head, cheeks red. ‘Jen and I were friends and we, god, we’d seen this film and—’

‘You don’t need to explain my conception.’ Amy is as mortified as Andy looks. ‘But what came after.’

‘Right. Yes.’ Andy picks up his glass. Amy sees the tremor in his hand. ‘It was a shock when we found out. It was one stupid, I mean not stupid – you’re here and that’s wonderful – but, I mean, we didn’t think, it was—’

‘Jen says your dad lost his shit?’ Amy isn’t taking pity on him but she wants him to cut to the chase.

‘Yeah. That’s an understatement. I was a footballer. I’d been scouted from our county’s league and I was taken for a trial. It was such a surprise but then I was offered a place—’

‘As much as I’m sure your life story is fascinating, what about me?’ Amy feigns a nonchalance because really she thinks it is pretty cool that Andy was almost a professional footballer but she’s already googled and learned that his promising career was in tatters by the time he was sixteen because he’d done something to his kneecap.

‘Sorry. Of course. Well, my dad was in the force because his dad was in the force. My great-grandfather had been too but Dad always wanted to be a footballer. From a young age I was always playing, always training. I don’t think he realised that he was pushing me in the direction he wanted, the same as his dad had pushed him. When Mel came round and told him Jen was pregnant, well, you’d have thought the world had ended.’

‘He wanted Jen to get rid of me.’ Amy already knew but it’s still painful.

‘No. No.’ He can’t quite meet her eye. ‘He just didn’t want you to—’

‘Exist.’

For a minute neither of them speaks. He puts his straw to his lips but Amy can see that he’s not really drinking. He’s taking the time to gather himself, but she doesn’t push him because she needs a moment too.

‘Jen was, well, she—’ He pushes his plate away. He hasn’t touched his cake, neither of them has. ‘She thought that adoption was the best thing but Mel, I guess she’s seen a lot in her line of work, she offered to raise you. All Dad could see was a baby ruining my future. Obviously you weren’t really real to us then.’

‘Why?’ Jen had told her but she wanted to hear it from him.

‘Because he thought you’d be a distraction. I needed to be focused to play premiership. It wasn’t about the money you’d need but the time. He thought, even if Mel raised you, you would always be on my mind. That I’d want to spend time with you.’

Amy knows what’s coming next.

‘They fought, Mel and Dad. A lot. He …’ Andy hangs his head. ‘One night he threatened Mel. I overhead him. Some of the kids, well, they accuse adults in the system of a lot because they’re hurt and angry and, I don’t know, because I’ve never been in that position, but it happened. Dad was always going out to cases, runaways, sometimes kids hurting themselves, others. He went to court a lot. He said he could make an accusation against Mel stick. That she wouldn’t only lose you, she’d lose Jen, her job, I don’t know what else, probably end up in jail herself. The next day I went to see Jen after school and she’d gone. Mel had moved them away in the night. She must have been frightened.’

‘But surely your dad could have traced her? Wait.’ Amy has a stomach-churning thought. ‘Is Mel even her real name?’

‘Yeah. She didn’t change her identity or anything. Stayed in social care clearly. But I think the fact she was gone reassured Dad that she wouldn’t be a problem to us. Wouldn’t ask us for anything. Then, one day, Dad said he’d had a phone call from Mel to say you’d been born and they’d decided to have you adopted. That unless you wanted to track down Jen or me when you were eighteen, you were gone.’

‘Were you upset?’

‘Of course.’ He gives a small, sad shake of his head. ‘It’s honesty you wanted, right? I was relieved too. I didn’t want to be a dad. I was too young.’

‘Too young to love me?’

‘No. Not that. Never that. It felt overwhelming, all the nappies, and crying and all that baby stuff.’

‘So it was the looking after me? Not actually me.’

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘That’s it.’

‘So you were too young to be responsible for a child but not too young to make one? I know Jen says that you were copying some couple on TV, but you must have known what you were doing?’ Amy wants to challenge him, hurt him in the way that she’s hurting.

‘I didn’t think of the consequences. It was … I really am sorry.’

‘Sorry I exist?’

‘No. I’m very glad you’re here.’

‘So even though you were too young, did you think about me over the years?’

‘No.’ There is regret in his eyes. ‘It wasn’t until I saw the online article that I realised that Mel had lied in saying you’d been adopted.’

‘Or maybe she had never called and your dad just lied to you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Anyway, I didn’t know what to do. It was clear that you thought Mel was your mum. Jen was your sister. I didn’t want to blow your world apart but I wanted to get to know you. Messaging you, well, it wasn’t ideal.’

‘It was fucking stupid.’

‘Yeah.’ He gives a weak smile but Amy doesn’t offer one in return. ‘I didn’t even think really that you might be … that you might get the wrong impression about my intentions. You’re so young and—’

‘I didn’t fancy … the person I thought I was speaking to. I just, I guess I just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to.’

‘You can talk to me.’

‘How can I? You’ve lied to me.’

‘I didn’t lie, not really. Okay, I might not have told you the truth about who I was but I never said I was your age, at school.’

‘It’s still fucked up.’

He hangs his head. ‘I … I can see that it’s upset you and I’m sorry. I saw an opportunity and I—’

‘I’m not an opportunity. I’m your fucking daughter.’

‘I know. I know.’ He raises his head and holds up his palms but Amy doesn’t want him to surrender, she wants to keep firing bullets.

‘You didn’t want me when I was born.’ Amy pauses to give him time to dispute this, but he doesn’t of course because it’s the truth. ‘And it seems like you didn’t want to commit to being a dad now. Not until you knew whether I was worth knowing.’

‘Oh, Amy. Of course you’re worth knowing. I know I’ve gone about it all the wrong way.’

‘It basically feels like you were satisfying some weird curiosity about me before you went back to your own life. What would you have done? Ghosted me?’

‘No. Never. I’m not heartless.’

‘Aren’t you? Because what you’ve done feels pretty cruel.’

‘That was never my intention. Look, I thought I’d never get the chance to get to know you.’

‘Because of your dad. Not because of my family. Jen isn’t a psychopath. You could have just, I dunno, spoken to her like a normal human being.’

‘Even if Jen was okay with me meeting you, Mel wouldn’t be. She’s always been like a lioness protecting her cubs.’ His face screws up as though Mum’s name – Mel’s name – is sour on his tongue. ‘I knew I wouldn’t get near you while Mel was around.’

‘What … what do you mean “while she was around”?’ Amy stands up. Her blood hot but her skin somehow suddenly cold.

‘I mean, if I had just rocked up on your doorstep she’d have told me to get lost. Getting to know you online was … Okay, it wasn’t the best idea but at least we could chat without anyone else being involved.’

The sadness, the confusion, everything that was jostling for prime position inside her has been sent away by a tsunami of fear.

‘I knew I wouldn’t get near you while Mel was around.’

But she isn’t around, is she?

Is Andy the reason why?

‘I’ve got to go.’ Amy grabs her bag and her coat.

And runs.

Chapter 34

Friday

jen

I run for my phone when it begins to ring.

Mum?

Typically, I’d had it in my hand pretty much constantly but had left it in the kitchen while I went upstairs to use the loo.

By the time I reach it, I’m breathless.

It isn’t Mum or the police but Camilla. I feel a pang of guilt as I answer it. I hadn’t replied to the texts she sent me first thing.

There isn’t much to update her on regarding the search.

‘I’d better go. I don’t want to tie up the phone.’

She’s close to tears as she says, ‘I wish Mel was here. I can’t stop thinking about her.’

‘Me neither. But just in case she’s trying to get through.’

‘I need …’ Camilla’s voice is barely a whisper.

‘What is it?’ I brush away the impatience that we’re tying up the line and the police might be trying to reach me because this is my best friend and I can feel her pain from here. ‘Camilla? Tell me.’

‘I …’ She speaks so quietly, I press the handset closer to my ear. ‘I’ve found a lump.’

I don’t need to ask where.

‘Oh, Camilla. When?’

‘Earlier this week.’

‘Is that why you got drunk on your own? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You’re dealing with enough and Mel, well, if she was here, it would be different, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, because she’d have whisked you off to the doctor straight away. Have you even made an appointment?’

‘No. I haven’t told anyone yet. You know what I’m like. Stick my head in the sand and hope it all goes away.’

‘I’ll take you to the drop-in clinic. I can be with you—’

‘No, the waiting time there can be ridiculous.’

‘This is important, Camilla.’ I’m choked up. ‘You’re important.’

‘But you need to be at home in case there’s news. I’ll go but don’t worry about coming with me.’

‘Is Mason at nursery today?’

‘No, he’s still got a sniffle and they won’t take him.’

‘Let me look after him then. You don’t want him tearing around the waiting room. You can take your Kindle and at least try and relax until it’s your turn.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Her voice is thick with tears.

‘You’ll never have to find out,’ I vow, knowing it is an empty promise because people they … they can just disappear from your life, can’t they? Get sick. Die. Or something else entirely.

Where is Mum?

My emotions are misplaced and mistimed. I know this when I yell at Amy, ‘How could you be so stupid?’ I beckon her out of the room, aware that Mason is sprawled on the sofa, mesmerised by the Thomas the Tank Engine movie as though he hasn’t seen it umpteen times before. ‘You met Andy without telling me?’ I try to lower my voice as I close the kitchen door, giving us some privacy.

Of course it isn’t her I’m angry with. I’m furious with myself for not realising she’d gone. Anything could have happened to her.

Anything.

And of course, unfairly, there’s a tiny part of me that’s angry with Mum for not being here even though I know it isn’t her fault. I guess if there’s a part of me that is pissed off, then it gives me a break from the endless crying and worrying.

‘I’m stupid?’

I cut off whatever Amy’s about to follow that with by wrapping her in a big hug, which she tries to resist. I don’t let her go and, although she’s stiff in my arms, she stops struggling.

‘Sorry,’ I say into her hair. The hair I’d watched Mum trim, carefully combing her fringe before snipping the ends off with scissors so sharp I’d never have dared to do it for fear of cutting her. ‘I love you and I worry about you, and with Mum—’

‘Yeah, well, that’s what I’m trying to tell you if you give me a chance.’

Amy wriggles free and repeats what Andy had said to her about knowing he had no chance of getting near her while Mum was around.

She’s looking at me with huge eyes that used to be full of trust and now aren’t, but she’s still seeking reassurance. Reassurance I can’t give her.

‘I don’t know.’ I sit down at the table, drumming my fingers against it, thinking. My gut instinct is that Andy wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Mum. He was gentle and kind. But then I haven’t known him for thirteen years. People change, don’t they? And not always for the better. Is he so resentful that he’s been kept from his daughter that he’s lashed out at the person he feels is responsible for separating them?

But it wasn’t Mum’s fault really, was it? It was Andy’s father’s.

At the thought of Kevin, my stomach tightens.

Andy might not have it in him to hurt Mum, but Kevin? If Andy has told him that he’s found Amy, that Mel has raised her, he’d be raging. He’s never liked being disobeyed, made a fool of.

But how furious would he be?

Enough to hurt her?

Possibly. He always was a nasty piece of work.

Mum wouldn’t have wrenched me away from my home, my school, moved us here, if she hadn’t been frightened of Kevin. If she hadn’t believed his threats to be credible.

I had felt trapped inside four unfamiliar walls as I recovered from my C-section. Traumatised by the birth, by the amount of blood I’d lost afterwards, thinking I must be dying as I changed another soaked-through maternity pad, not believing it was normal.

I’m shaking as I pick up the phone and call PC Patel and tell him everything, giving him Andy’s phone number. He tries to sound calm and professional but there’s an excitement in his voice as he promises to look into it right away.

I hang up but within seconds I’m ridiculously tapping on my phone, lighting up my screen to check that I haven’t missed his call. I pull my eyes away from my handset when I hear the stomp, stomp, stomp of Amy clomping up the stairs.

Fleetingly, I look in on Mason, he’s mouthing the words along with the engines, before I follow her, tapping on her door, expecting her to tell me to get lost.

‘Yeah,’ she says. Not exactly welcoming but, perhaps, more than I deserve.

She’s sitting on her bed, legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her eyes are bloodshot, glistening with tears, and she looks so young, so lost, my heart actually aches for her.

I settle myself next to her, moving slowly while I think of what to say. She doesn’t need another lecture but she does need something from me or she wouldn’t have invited me in.

Is parenting always this hard? Mum has always been able to second-guess what I feel, what I need. The weeks following the birth of Amy must have been so tough for her, moving us all away under the cover of darkness. Coping with a baby, sleep deprivation while her marriage was under enormous strain. Finding a new job, settling me in a new school. Still, she found time for me, giving me the space to express myself in my own words, in my own time, however fraught she was.

‘Sorry.’ For a moment I rest my head on her shoulder, pulling away when I feel her stiffen. I’m not sure what I’m apologising for. Keeping the truth from her? Yelling at her downstairs? Probably all of it.

I wait, wanting her to lead.

‘He wasn’t what I thought he’d be. I mean, not that I’ve had much time to think about him at all. On account of, you know, the whole not-knowing-he-existed thing.’

I nod. I have no defence.

‘He seemed, I dunno, weak? It’s pretty lame using the “I was thirteen” excuse because,’ she wipes her cheeks with her sleeve, ‘because you were too and I know you had Mum but, I mean, if I had a kid, and I absolutely don’t want one, but I’d want to know, for sure, where it was, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d want to know they were safe and well looked after.’ It isn’t the same as knowing where they were because there was a time I thought I wanted Amy to be adopted. The time for lying has passed, I know what Amy needs from me now.

Honesty.

‘I don’t think he ever even tried to find me. Once he was older and had a job he could have hired a private detective.’

‘You’d know all about that.’ I give her a weak smile and, to my surprise, she returns it.

‘Yeah, I guess. I guess he just didn’t care?’

‘I don’t think that’s true. It sounds like he wants to get to know you.’

‘Maybe. Do you think he did something to Mum?’

I give it some thought. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t be certain because I don’t know him anymore but …’ I shuffle around, crossing my legs. She mirrors me and for the first time we’re facing each other. ‘That trait in him you call weakness – I think, to a degree, you’re right but it’s perhaps more about compliance, wanting to please everyone because his dad was a nasty piece of work and you didn’t want to cross him. Sometimes passiveness is really self-preservation.’

‘Do you think his dad, Kevin, might have hurt Mum?’

She’s crying and I feel my own shoulders shaking as tears engulf me, because the thought that anyone might have hurt our kind, beautiful mother is unendurable.

Honesty.

‘I don’t know.’

She lowers her head and I do the same. Our foreheads touch.

‘Aunty Jen? Aunty Jen? I’m hungry,’ Mason calls.

‘You’d better go. You know how he gets when he’s hungry. Where’s Camilla anyway?’

I hesitate. Amy is so young, but …

Honesty.

‘She’s gone to the doctors.’ I tell her why.

‘Will she be okay?’ Amy asks.

‘I don’t know, but a huge amount of lumps are benign. I think eighty or ninety per cent, something like that. It’s probably a cyst but she’s doing the right thing getting it checked.’ I nod, affirming to myself that yes, of course she’ll be okay.

Amy begins to unfold herself from the bed. ‘I’ll come down and play with Mason.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘What else am I going to do? If I sit here and think anymore, my brain will literally explode.’

I know what she means.

Once Mason has eaten his sandwich with the crusts cut off, I call Luke, explain that we might have a lead on Mum but I can’t see any connection to Lily. Before I can elaborate, he tells me that he’s only around the corner and will be with me in two minutes.

The second he’s through the door he asks if I’m okay. There is such concern in his eyes, I find myself breaking down again. I’ve gone from someone who rarely cries to someone who can’t seem to stop. Thankfully I hear the clatter of Mason’s toy box being tipped out in the lounge, Amy asking him what he wants to play with.

Luke leads me to the kitchen and pulls out a chair for me and when I’m sitting, he flicks on the kettle, spoons coffee into mugs.

When my hands are wrapped around my hot drink, he asks me gently, ‘What’s happened?’ He’s horribly worried about Lily but it’s me he’s focusing on and there’s a part of me that wants to crawl onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck.

I stare at the steam coming off my coffee because I can’t meet his eye. It is with a degree of shame I explain that Amy is my daughter not my sister. He asks open questions, giving me the space to talk as much or as little as I want, but it all spills out. The whole sordid mess. Eventually, I look up, not sure what I’ll see in his eyes, but there is no judgement there. He isn’t judging me the way I did with him.

‘Do you really think this Kevin could have hurt Mel?’

I nod. Biting my lip to prevent myself from dissolving into tears again.

My phone rings.

PC Patel.

‘I’ve spoken to Andy and he’s been away in Scotland for the past week with work. He only got back this morning when he met Amy. I’ve confirmed it with his company and the hotel, I sent them a photo of him and they’ve identified him as a guest. We’ll check the CCTV in due course but Andy attended all the meetings he was supposed to. Sorry, Jen. I really don’t think he had anything to do with it.’

‘What about Kevin?’ Something slithers in my stomach as I speak his name. I hadn’t really thought Andy had anything to do with Mum’s disappearance, but Kevin?

‘He passed away ten years ago. I have his death certificate.’

There’s a ringing in my ears as I cut the call. At first I think it’s shock, perhaps a little guilt that we needn’t have kept Amy and Andy apart all these years, but then I realise the noise is real, it’s Luke’s phone.

‘Yes,’ Luke says into his handset as he rises to his feet. ‘This is Luke Cormack. Yes, I’m Lily’s next of kin.’

Chapter 35

Friday

jen

Luke has taken his phone into the hallway for privacy but I can’t help following him. He closes the door on me and I press my ear against the wood, listening to his voice raise in volume – anger or shock? – before it drops again. I can’t quite make out what’s being said.

Suddenly the door wrenches open and I practically fall into his arms.

‘Was that about Lily?’

‘Yes.’ He’s dazed. Face drained of colour. ‘It was the hospital.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But she’s, I mean, she’s alive?’

‘I don’t know. I asked that but they wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone. They’ve told me to get there as soon as I can.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No.’

‘But she might know where Mum is.’

‘Look, I know how worried you are about your mum but … I need to do this.’ His voice wobbles. ‘I need to be with her or confirm it’s her,’ he takes a shaky breath. ‘I want to be alone.’

‘Okay.’ I don’t like the idea but I understand.

‘But as soon as I can I’ll call you.’ He’s already rushing away.

Mum won’t be his priority. Understandably. But she is mine. Lily has to be okay, doesn’t she? If she’d died then surely the police would have come and told him face to face? I’m not sure how it works but I have to believe she’s all right. That she has information.

It’s so frustrating that Luke doesn’t want me with him. What Lily has been through might be completely unconnected to Mum but Mum is still missing and, perhaps I’m joining dots in the wrong order, drawing lines where there shouldn’t be any, but it seems too much of a coincidence that they both vanished at the same time.

Doesn’t it?

I’m itching to go to the hospital myself. Demand answers. But Lily might be the only person who knows where Mum is and I don’t want to spook her. Frighten her.

If she’s even alive, that is.

I push the thought away. I can’t bear to think about it but I can’t think of anything else. I need to move. Pace. Run. Do something. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

I check my watch. Camilla hasn’t been gone too long. I bet she’s sitting around, waiting, likely playing Candy Crush on her phone. I text her, Lily has been found. I need to talk it through, but not here, not in the house where Amy might overhear. I’m seeking reassurance that she won’t be able to give.

Of course Lily will be alive.

Of course she’ll know where Mum is.

Of course everything will be fine.

Instead of messaging me back, Camilla calls me. I answer but before I can say hello, she begins to cry. Huge racking sobs.

‘Camilla.’ But she’s already hung up. I call and call again but she doesn’t answer.

Chapter 36

Last Sunday

mel

Mel didn’t know how much more she could take. Shyla trying to take her own life on Friday was something she was still trying to come to terms with. The sense she had let her down. She couldn’t help questioning whether there was any truth in Shyla’s allegations against Bob and although she knew in her heart there couldn’t have been, still she blamed herself. She knew how desperate Shyla was to return home.

Besides, although it saddened her to think it, Shyla would be just as unhappy somewhere else.

Was everyone always experiencing some degree of unhappiness?

She, herself, felt really uncomfortable in her own skin right now.

She thought she’d seen Andy.

She’d almost dismissed the ‘7 days’ text as an empty threat. There had been no follow-up. No instructions on what was expected of her.

But then she had been hurrying through town, towards the bank, head down, rain dripping from her hood when it had happened. His profile, same crooked nose. Her heart had stuttered. She’d wiped the drizzle from her eyes, and when she looked again he had gone. She’d toyed with the idea of telling Jen but she hadn’t wanted to worry her, not when Mel wasn’t entirely certain.

She’d been extra vigilant after that but she hadn’t seen him again. She’d tried to convince herself that he had been on her mind after the text, but even if it had been him who sent it, what did he want?

7 days

For her to tell the truth?

Her shoulders were so tight a pain radiated around her neck as though someone had a hold of her throat.

There had been some respite yesterday with the picnic but learning last night that Don was Mason’s father was a punch in the stomach. Her own brother. How could he? He knew Camilla was like a daughter to her. She’d entrusted him to keep an eye on her and Jen.

She had told him that much, and more, when she had confronted him.

‘It’s disgusting. You’re old enough to be her dad.’

‘It was a one-off. A lapse in judgement.’

‘And Carol knows, does she? About this “lapse in judgement”?’ Her eyes flicked to the door of his study. Carol was in the kitchen. Could she hear them?

‘No,’ he hissed. ‘Keep your voice down.’ He made a frantic downward motion with his hands.

‘And you don’t even have the decency to keep on paying maintenance?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve paid every month.’

‘Until last month.’

‘I’ll start again when I can.’

‘You can’t pick and choose when to support your own child.’

‘Shut up.’ Don took a step towards her but she stood her ground. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. ‘Carol will hear you.’

‘Well, perhaps she should. She might think that—’

‘I can’t pay right now.’

‘Then I’ll be helping Camilla go through the proper agency to get her money.’

‘Mel, don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Think about Carol. This would destroy her.’

‘It isn’t my job to think about your wife.’

‘Look, I’ll pay when I can. I promise.’ Sweat beaded on his brow.

‘Why can’t you?’ She crossed her arms.

‘Because, because I’m not working at the university right now.’

‘What? When? You told me when I arrived that you were marking papers?’

‘Yes, well, Carol doesn’t know.’

‘How can she not know?’

‘Because I leave the house at the same time every day and come home as though I’ve been at work.’

‘Why can’t you tell her?’ Mel saw how pale he was. ‘You’ve been fired?’

He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed down and up again. ‘No.’

‘Don?’ There was a warning in that word.

‘I’ve been suspended without pay pending an investigation.’

‘Why? Oh.’ Mel shook her head. ‘What have you … oh. You’ve been sleeping with other students, haven’t you?’ Of course Camilla wouldn’t have been a one-off.

‘Inappropriate behaviour.’ Don couldn’t look at her. ‘It’s a misunderstanding. Don’t tell Carol.’

Mel glared at him.

‘I mean it, Mel, ruin me and I’ll ruin you.’

She couldn’t look at him as she left.

At Camilla’s she relayed what had happened.

‘Sorry, I can’t see him being able to pay you for a while. Do you want to come back with me and pick up Mason?’

‘Okay.’ Camilla felt desolate. ‘Does Jen know where you’ve been?’

‘Yes. But she doesn’t know why. I must message her and tell her I’ll be back soon, I haven’t been in touch all day.’ But before she could text her daughter her phone trilled with an incoming call.

Lily’s name flashed up on the screen.

‘I have to take this,’ she said to Camilla. ‘Can you drive?’ She pressed the keys into Camilla’s hands before she hurried around to the passenger side, saying hello to Lily as she climbed into the car.

‘I want to see Luke.’

‘Really?’ Mel felt her shoulders lift.

‘Yeah. This thing with Shyla trying to off herself, it’s made me think. Can we meet?’

‘Yes. I can speak to him tomorrow and—’

‘I want to do it now. Before I chicken out.’

‘I’ll try and get hold of him and arrange somewhere. I’ll come and pick you up.’

An immense wave of relief unknotted some of the muscles in Mel’s shoulders. Lily was finally trusting her.

Luke would be overjoyed. She couldn’t risk Lily getting cold feet, running off again. Luke would look after Lily, his love for her was apparent.

Imagine if she could reunite them tonight?

It was damp and dark but it wasn’t late, not too late to meet.

She’d need to speak to Lily’s foster parents, call Luke. She didn’t want to wait until the morning. Didn’t want Lily to feel rejected, trapped. Shyla was, again, present in the forefront of Mel’s mind.

There wouldn’t be any harm in going to Lily right now, would there?

Mel didn’t know then, of course, that this would be her biggest mistake.

Chapter 37

Last Sunday

camilla

When Mel pressed the keys into Camilla’s hands and asked her to drive, Camilla had tried to protest but Mel was engrossed on her phone, not listening.

She should have been firmer. Admitted that she’d had some wine, anxiously drinking because Mel had been with Don and she just couldn’t cope with the thought of what they were talking about. But who knew how long Mel would be tied up on the phone, and Camilla was longing to see Mason. Besides, Mel’s house was only minutes away and it wasn’t as though she was drunk.

What could possibly go wrong?

Driving conditions were atrocious but they were almost there.

It was dark. The sky a black sheet draped over the stars. The moon barely a sliver. Most of the streetlights were switched off and each time they passed one that was lit, a whisper of mist rolled across the orangey light.

Camilla indicated. In a couple of minutes she’d be pulling onto Mel’s driveway. Mason would wrap his chubby arms around her neck and the unsettled feeling she’d been carrying for the last twenty-four hours would evaporate, she hoped.

In the passenger seat, Mel was still talking into her phone, her voice soft. Camilla was familiar with this tone. Mel had used it on her countless times since she’d taken Camilla under her wing all those years ago. Had used it on her again last night when Camilla had told her about Don. Her words carried a reassurance that somehow, everything would be okay.

‘Lily,’ Mel said, ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

Mel hung up, turned and smiled at Camilla, tucking her phone back into her bag. ‘Change of plan.’ The weariness she’d previously worn appearing to lift. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Lily Cormack to meet her brother for the past couple of weeks. She’s finally agreed. I said we’d go and get her.’

‘We?’ Camilla felt the sweat prickling under her arms.

‘You don’t mind, do you? The sooner we’re with her, the happier I’ll feel. She’s changed her mind so many times before. Anyway, there’s been an incident involving another girl from that home. I’m sure the foster parents are really good people but, I don’t know, it’s shaken me. If there’s a chance I can connect Lily and Luke, I need to take it. It’s River Street. We’ll cut through the industrial estate. Take the next left.’

Time suspended as though the universe knew that this was a pivotal moment. Camilla ran her tongue over her dry lips, tasting the wine on them. She needed to tell Mel that she could not drive across town to Lily’s. That she shouldn’t be driving at all, but then she’d have to tell Mel why. Watch her expression change as she realised that all this time she had been wrong. Camilla had been right. She wasn’t responsible enough to be a mum. Wasn’t ready. Wasn’t …

Enough.

As she fumbled around in her mind for excuses to offer Mel, a reason she wanted to carry on to Mel’s, why Mel should drive herself to Lily’s – a headache, a stomach ache, a deep desire to see Mason – Camilla acknowledged that these were not excuses. Her head was pounding. She was nauseous. Desperate to be with Mason.

‘Mel, I’m going to pull over. I can walk from here to yours.’

‘No, don’t stop. It’s okay.’

‘Lily won’t want me there, she doesn’t know me. Honestly—’

‘I need to call her brother, so you carry on driving. Lily won’t mind.’

Mel was lightly bouncing up and down on her seat, excited, eager, to reach Lily.

Mel had done everything, everything, for Camilla and this one thing Camilla could do for her, couldn’t she? Besides, it wasn’t as though she wasn’t seeing straight or anything. A couple of glasses, three at the most, that was all. They might have been a little larger than the measures you get in a pub but she’d finished the bottle an hour ago, if not more. She was okay.

Wasn’t she?

Camilla’s hands gripped the steering wheel. Rain was sheeting down and as fast as the windscreen wipers swish-swish-swished it away, fresh fat drops splashed down, obscuring her vision. She leaned forward. Her hot breath misting the cold glass. She focused on the music so she wasn’t thinking too much. Elton John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’ playing from the radio.

On the seat next to her, Mel was leaving a voicemail for Lily’s brother. Camilla had already forgotten his name in her panic.

She turned the heater up. Incredulous that just yesterday they were picnicking in the woods. Sprawled on blankets in the unseasonable warmth of the autumn sun. Now it was as cold as winter again. Her jeans still damp from the dash from her front door to the car.

Lukewarm air blasted into the car carrying the smell of dust, and this turned Camilla’s stomach.

From the radio, Britney Spears now sang ‘Toxic’ and Camilla felt that one word summed her up perfectly.

Toxic.

She’d slept with her best friend’s uncle. Caused a rift between Mel and her brother.

Lied to Jen.

Now she was driving over the limit.

Secrets. There had been so many secrets.

Reaching Lily before she changed her mind was an atonement of sorts, wasn’t it? Helping another foster child the way that Mel had helped her all those years ago. She knew what it was like to feel lonely, confused.

Unwanted.

Besides, the quicker they reached her, the sooner she’d be back with Mason. Warm. Dry.

Safe.

The houses thinned out as they reached the industrial park. Factories and offices, shadows lining either side of the road.

She leaned forward in her seat again, squeezed down on the accelerator, wanting to get there faster.

Chapter 38

Last Sunday

mel

They were going fast, too fast. There wasn’t any other traffic. The industrial estate would bloom into life again tomorrow morning but here, now, on a dark, damp Sunday evening, it was deserted.

The heat in the car oppressive, the radio too loud.

Luke wasn’t answering his phone. She placed her handset on her lap, she’d try him again in a minute.

‘Slow down.’ Mel glanced at Camilla. A sheen of sweat glazed her forehead. 

‘Camilla?’

But Camilla was deep in her own thoughts, the car lurching forward.

Windscreen wipers squeaking manically against the fogged glass.

It happened almost simultaneously.

The small figure, unable to wait at home now she’d made the decision to reconcile with her brother, jogging to meet them. Recognising the approaching car as Mel’s, stepping off the kerb, waving her arms to flag them down.

Mel screaming at Camilla to stop.

The screeching of brakes.

The car turning sidewards, sliding, sliding, sliding.

Chapter 39

Friday

camilla

Lily has been found.

Again, the letters on Jen’s text blur in and out of focus, hop and skip and jump until they rearrange themselves into something else entirely.

You’re going to prison.

Does Jen know? Everything? All of it?

Part of Camilla thinks she can’t. The police haven’t come to arrest her.

Yet.

She looks at the text again. Can’t stop bloody looking at it. Camilla peeks out of the window. Dread unfurling inside her. Expecting to see a barrage of officers storming down the path, handcuffs at the ready.

But it looks so … ordinary out there. Same street. Same sky. Same black cat sitting on the wall of the house opposite.

And yet, nothing will ever be the same again, will it?

She had fabricated a breast lump because she wanted Jen to take Mason so she could go to Mel and sort everything out, she really had intended to, but instead she’d come home and stuck her head in the sand, again.

If Jen doesn’t know the full story yet, then she will soon.

Everything is closing in on Camilla. She only knows one thing with certainty. She needs to get out of the house while she can, while she’s still free.

She pounds into Mason’s room and begins stuffing clothes and toys into a rucksack. Her heart aching as she dumps the contents of one of his drawers onto the bed, covering the Thomas the Tank Engine duvet cover he loves so much. It’s often the best part of Camilla’s day. Snuggled beside him, Camilla draping one arm around him as she reads a story, putting on voices, silly accents, for all of the other engines. Staying in his room long after he’s fallen asleep. Marvelling that she had created this perfect, perfect boy.

She doesn’t want to break him.

Is that what she’ll be doing if she wrenches him away from everything he knows? His preschool, Jen, Amy, his home here. Can she really subject him to a life on the run? False names. Always looking over their shoulders. Never getting close to anyone in case they inadvertently let something slip.

But she cannot bear to leave him.

She packs hurriedly, haphazardly. Scanning her own room, not sure what to take. She rifles through her bedside cabinet for her migraine tablets. She can feel one forming behind her eyes. She stuffs them into her handbag, and as she does she touches something cold and hard.

The multitool Mel had bought her the first time she took her camping.

She runs her fingers over the engraving. A Promise.

Before her emotions can swamp her entirely, she throws everything she can carry into the boot of the car. She’s gripped with fear as she drives towards Jen’s house. Fear that Jen will know everything, that she won’t hand Mason over. Or that Jen won’t know anything but will take one look at her and just know, somehow, what she has done. Demand ‘tell me’ and Camilla would let it all flow out of her.

Camilla runs through what she thinks is every possible scenario in her mind. Every which way the conversation could possibly go.

What she stupidly hadn’t counted on is that when she gets there, when she pulls into the road, the first thing she notices is the car parked outside Jen’s house.

The police car.

Chapter 40

Last Sunday

camilla

Camilla had seen the figure stepping off the kerb.

She had seen them.

But it was a fraction too late.

She slammed her foot on the brake with such force, her body was flung back onto her seat, arms locked. She tried to drag the steering wheel towards her as hard as she could as though, perhaps, this might somehow grind the car to a halt.

The whole thing was over in a few seconds, but it wasn’t so fast that Camilla didn’t see it all. Feel it all.

The girl’s face, illuminated by the headlights. Her eyes wide. Mouth in a wide ‘o’. Putting her arms out in front of her like she could protect herself from the impact, stop it even, but not moving her feet.

Why didn’t she move her feet?

Run?

Mel screaming ‘stop’. Did she really think Camilla didn’t know what to do? What was going to happen?

She knew it all.

She knew they were going to hit the girl.

She knew her life was never going to be the same again.

If she hadn’t had a drink, if her reflexes had been sharper, if the road hadn’t been wet, if the windscreen hadn’t been fogged, it could all have been so different.

If.

If.

If.

The back end of the car had begun to spin. Camilla grappled with the steering wheel. Blind panic forcing out the sounds of Mel shouting, the squealing brakes, the girl screaming, the rain clattering against the roof until all she could hear was a roaring in her ears. A sense that she was no longer in her own body. Instead, observing herself, her reactions.

She didn’t think she surrendered. She’s almost certain she tried to regain control of the car. But there wasn’t enough time to untangle the things she knew from the things she didn’t. Were you supposed to steer into a skid or away from it? Keep the brake to the floor or pump it?

Too late.

A thud. The girl flying into the air. Smacking down onto the tarmac.

Mel falling silent.

The wheels stopped spinning. Rain was illuminated in the headlights against the backdrop of a tree, twisted branches snaking towards them in the wind.

‘Toxic’ still streaming from the speakers.

How could the same song be playing when it felt like a lifetime had passed?

Mel fumbling with her seatbelt – Lily? Oh god. Lily! – not even looking at Camilla as she shouldered open the door. Almost falling into the night, regaining her footing as she scrambled towards the girl.

Towards Lily.

But Camilla couldn’t move. Her brain screamed at her to get out of the car. To help. But she just … couldn’t.

She couldn’t let go of the steering wheel, her fingers locked around it. She couldn’t stop her teeth from clattering together, tasting the blood that trickled from her tongue.

She couldn’t face what she’d done.

Because the girl – Lily – was motionless and Camilla was scared.

Absolutely fucking petrified that she’d killed her.

Chapter 41

Last Sunday

mel

Mel’s knees were shaking so hard she folded in on herself, collapsing, rather than crouching, on the concrete next to Lily. The force of the impact had flung her back onto the path. Her body landing, not at unnatural angles, but as though she was just having a lie-down. As though she could spring up at any moment, dust herself off – the way they did in movies sometimes – rising to their feet after being slung over the bonnet of a car and sauntering away as though it was nothing.

But this wasn’t nothing. This wasn’t a film and Lily was not moving.

Already, Mel was drenched. Rain dripping from her hair onto Lily’s face as she studied it, willing her eyes to open, her mouth to speak, groan, something, anything, while she pressed two trembling fingers to Lily’s neck.

She couldn’t feel a pulse but she couldn’t be certain whether that was because there wasn’t one, or because her fingers were shaking so much she wasn’t in the right place, or perhaps it was because she was numb with cold, with shock.

Perhaps there was one, but it was too faint to locate?

Mel tried again. She was sweating. Her terror a furnace, her panic feeding the flames. She lowered her head to Lily’s chest, pressed her ear against the place she desperately wanted to hear, to feel a heart beating.

Nothing.

She glanced back at the car. Through the open passenger door she saw Camilla still clutching the steering wheel.

‘Camilla!’ The wind ripped the name from her throat, whipped it away. ‘Camilla!’

Mel hesitated, knowing she needed to administer CPR but also knowing that an ambulance needed to be called. She patted her empty pockets, remembering that her phone had been on her lap when they’d crashed.

Helplessly, she looked left, right, desperate for the sight of approaching headlights. Whether it was the vile weather trapping everyone indoors or the fact the industrial estate only led to one small cluster of houses didn’t matter.

There was no one to help.

Mel somehow rose to her feet, stumbled towards the car.

‘Camilla,’ she shouted as she patted the footwell of the vehicle for her phone.

As though she’d been slapped, Camilla snapped her neck around. Staring at Mel with wide, frightened eyes.

‘I’m sorry’ streamed from her lips over and over again.

‘Fuck. I can’t find my phone. Call an ambulance. I don’t think she’s breathing.’

Mel rushed back to Lily. Dropped to her knees, trying, one last time before she’d have to start CPR, to find a pulse.

Chapter 42

Last Sunday

camilla

Camilla’s head felt empty and yet at the same time full. Full of words, Mel’s words. ‘I don’t think she’s breathing.’

Again, that detached feeling as though she wasn’t in her body. The body that now moved of its own accord, slowly, lumberingly, a marionette on strings being controlled by an amateur puppet master. Movements slow and cumbersome.

‘I don’t think she’s breathing.’

Camilla watched her own hand as it yanked at the handle, opened the door. Her body half-falling onto the road. Her palms on the tarmac but unable to feel whether it was cold, hot, rough or smooth. Pushing herself back onto her knees as bile rose in her throat. Vomit splattering onto the ground. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Wondering whether that would mean the alcohol was out of her system or not, but knowing deep down that it was still there, in her blood, which was racing around her body, everything moving fast, too fast. Her heart. Her thoughts.

Thinking of herself.

Hating herself for it, but then there wasn’t just her to consider, was there?

There was Mason.

Mason who’d be in his pyjamas by now. Percy, the red engine, or Henry the green. She couldn’t remember which pair she’d left at Jen’s—

‘Camilla?’ Mel’s frantic voice broke through thoughts of Mason, his image breaking into pieces and scattering, the same way that pieces of her heart were scattering.

She couldn’t go to prison, she just couldn’t, and if she called for help that was exactly what would happen. The ambulance crew would notify the police. She’d be breathalysed and …

‘I don’t think she’s breathing.’

She’d killed someone.

‘Camilla!’

‘I’m just on to the ambulance.’ The lie slid from her mouth before she’d thought it through properly.

Now what?

Chapter 43

Last Sunday

mel

The solace that Camilla was speaking to the emergency services wasn’t enough to loosen the tension that every single one of Mel’s muscles was clinging on to, but she could have cried with relief that help was on the way.

That she wouldn’t have to deal with this on her own for much longer.

She hadn’t even checked that Camilla was okay but she remembered from her first-aid training that you always, always attend to the quiet ones first. Those who are making a noise are, at least, alive. Breathing.

She wasn’t sure Lily was alive and as much as she adored Camilla, loved her like a daughter, Lily was her priority right now.

For the last time before she started CPR she pressed her fingertips into Lily’s wrist and this time she felt it.

A weak but rhythmic pulse.

Now, tears flowed. She brushed Lily’s wet hair away from her face. Felt a grin break through her sobs as Lily’s eyelids flickered, opened.

‘Shh. It’s okay,’ Mel whispered, soothing her. ‘You’ve had an accident but an ambulance is on the way.’

‘Luke …’ Lily licked her lips. ‘Can you tell Luke—’

‘You can tell him yourself,’ Mel said gently. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

‘Don’t leave me.’ Lily’s voice was faint.

‘I won’t leave you, sweetheart. I promise I won’t let you down.’ Mel’s throat was swollen with emotion. She could barely speak.

‘You … you’ve never let me down. Or Shyla. She made it up. About Bob. You did nothing wrong. She was desperate for you to move her. She even sent some text so you’d be scared of her brothers and let her go home.’

‘Text? Was it “7 days. You have 7 days or I’ll ruin your life like you ruined mine”?’ She shouldn’t be pushing Lily, but if that text had been from Shyla then it was nothing to do with Jen. Andy. Even if she had seen him near the bank.

‘Yeah. I think so.’ Lily’s eyes closed again but she was breathing.

Breathing.

Lily was going to be fine.

She was going to be fine. She hadn’t let Shyla down. The relief was immense. She gripped Lily’s cold hand, silently thanking her for telling the truth. For easing her guilt.

Lightning whipped across the sky.

She glanced up the road. Hopefully the ambulance would arrive any moment.

They’d done nothing wrong. It was an accident, that’s all.

It was all going to be fine.

Wasn’t it?

Chapter 44

Friday

jen

PC Patel wipes his feet on the doormat as he steps inside, although his shoes are dry and clean. The relentless rain we’ve had since Sunday finally stopped a few days ago.

The fact that he’s here fills me with both hope and dread. I lean against the wall, knowing that I’ll need support if he tells me something awful, but still I can feel the floor gently swaying beneath my feet.

Before he can speak, Amy sticks her head out of the lounge. Like a magnet she springs to my side, clamping herself against me. Despite all that has happened between us, we are united in this at least, a desire for Mum to come home safely, soon. Everything else pales in significance.

Mason runs up and down the hall – ‘Nee-naw, nee-naw’. One hand a clenched fist above his head. He spreads his fingers, before he curls them into his palm again, mimicking a flashing light on a police car.

‘Have you found Mum?’ Amy asks.

‘No, sorry.’ PC Patel has an apologetic expression on his face as he says this as though he’s failing somehow and I wonder if this is how all young officers start out. Linking every dead end to a failure on their part somehow, although surely they can’t feel this, can they? It would drive you mad.

Amy pulls away from me, the space where she’d been instantly cooler.

‘Come on, Mason.’ She leads him back into the lounge and closes the door.

‘Drink?’ I ask.

PC Patel nods and we head into the kitchen. The routine of filling the kettle, spooning coffee into cups is soothing. The anchor to reality I acutely need because right now I feel as though I’m floating away. Detaching from everything.

Everyone has a breaking point, don’t they? I fear I’m reaching mine.

‘We’ve found Lily.’

‘I know. Luke told me. Is she … Is she—’

‘She has a head injury.’

The relief that floods through me isn’t enough to relax my knotted muscles but I’m thankful that Lily is alive.

‘Has she mentioned Mum?’ I gaze at him, questioningly.

‘No. She was found in Morlington sleeping in an empty shop. There are so many squatters in—’

‘Why was she there?’ She’s so young to be on the streets. Not that there’s ever a right age, a right time, but, thirteen. I can’t imagine. How different my life might have been if Mum had turned her back on me when I fell pregnant with Amy. Not everyone has a mum, do they? And even if they do, they’re not always supportive, are they?

‘Is Lily okay, though? You mentioned a head injury?’ It’s important I know this before we circle back to Mum.

‘She’s conscious and alert. She hasn’t spoken, though.’

‘About Mum?’

‘She hasn’t said anything at all.’

‘Do you think?’ I blink back tears, not sure what I’m asking. ‘I mean, with Lily hurt.’

‘It isn’t necessarily connected to your mum. It doesn’t mean she’s hurt too.’

But the blood in Mum’s boot tells a different story.

I’m pleased that Lily has been found safe, of course I am. But the fact that she’s injured, traumatised, strikes terror in my already quaking heart.

‘What if,’ I begin, considering something I hadn’t thought of before. ‘What if Lily has done something to Mum?’

I rise to my feet, chair legs scraping across the floor.

‘You can’t see her,’ PC Patel says, second-guessing me, motioning with his hands that I should sit back down.

But I’m too agitated. Instead I pace.

‘Mum had been trying to persuade Lily to see Luke.’ I list all the things we know so far. ‘What if Lily snapped?’

‘I think it’s unlikely.’

‘But then … what?’ I turn to him helplessly, my throat swollen with so much emotion I can’t contain it. I wipe the tears that begin to fall.

‘We can’t assume that Lily’s disappearance is linked to your mum going missing. I know, I know, it seems like too much of a coincidence, but in the force we deal in facts not speculation.’ He straightens his spine, proud of his chosen career.

‘But how will we learn the facts if Lily won’t speak?’ My hands ball by my sides. If she was in front of me right now I’d try and shake the truth out of her. It scares me how quickly my anger flares. Lack of sleep and permanent anxiety have turned me into someone I don’t recognise. Everything I feel is intensified, heightened. ‘Do you think her injury has caused some sort of amnesia?’

‘Possibly but the doctor thinks it’s likely trauma. Selective mutism. We need to give her time to feel safe, to open up.’

Our eyes meet. Neither of us says it but both of us know. Mum might not have time.

Chapter 45

Last Sunday

camilla

Camilla heaved until her stomach muscles ached and now there was nothing left inside of her. She was straddling the line between good and bad. Right and wrong. She was aware of that but Mason was firmly on one side and she had to cross over the line to be with him.

Didn’t she?

Think.

The rain was still lashing down. Camilla rocked back on her heels and raised her face to the dark sky. Raindrops danced on her lips, her tongue. They tasted of the freedom she stood to lose if she called for help.

What if she never splashed through puddles again with Mason? Never slipped his yellow wellington boots onto his small feet and watched as he fed soggy bread to the ducks at the park?

Who would take care of him?

Don didn’t want Mason.

Mel? Mel would hate her after this. She had killed a child. Not just any child but Lily. One of Mel’s foster kids.

Is that where Mason would end up? In care? Raised the way she had been?

Stumbling through life feeling like she had, unwanted and unloved. Her basic needs taken care of, always, fortunately treated with kindness by her foster parents, but never having a sense of family. Of belonging. Not until Jen and Mel came along, but she had ruined all of that now. Mason would forever remind Mel of this terrible night.

The terrible thing Camilla had done.

No, Mel surely wouldn’t want him, wouldn’t want to have to remember Camilla after this because although Camilla knew that right now, if she went to Mel with her fears, she’d be sympathetic. Reassure her that the weather, the darkness, the way Lily just stepped out in front of them all conspired to create a horrible, tragic accident, her feelings would change once she knew the truth. That Camilla was knowingly over the limit. Had knowingly broken the law.

The panic in her chest morphed from an out-of-control flutter into a beast, beating against her rib cage with hard fists.

She was going to go to prison unless …

Unless.

Think.

She glanced over. Mel was hunched over Lily, not giving Camilla a second thought because Mel always did what was right.

Always.

She wouldn’t cover this up.

‘Camilla?’ Mel called to her again.

She was running out of time.

She just needed more time.

Think.

Before she consciously realised what she was doing she had risen to her feet. Had walked to the boot and pulled out the jack.

The rain, the rumble of thunder, deep and low, masked her footsteps as she crept behind Mel. She didn’t want to hurt her, she really didn’t. She just wanted to knock her out, to buy some time.

Some quiet time.

To think.

She raised the jack and for a split second willed Mel to turn around. To see Camilla – really see her – all of her thoughts, her fears.

To reassure her that she wouldn’t go to prison. That she wouldn’t lose Mason.

But of course, she would be convicted. She had driven drunk. Killed a child.

She didn’t want to frighten Mel, injure her, but she wanted a little time, to figure out what to do.

To figure out what was best for Mason.

That was all.

Tears were pouring down her face as she brought the jack down on the back of Mel’s head.

She was retching as she heard the crack.

Felt the shock waves travel up her shoulders, her neck. She’d used more force than she’d intended.

She was sobbing as Mel toppled forward, covering Lily.

Camilla was alone now. Alone in the dark, in the rain.

She had time to think.

But she still didn’t know what to do.

Chapter 46

Friday

camilla

When Camilla had seen the police car in front of Jen’s house she was consumed with the same level of panic that had gripped her that awful night.

Lily must have told them everything.

Her instinct was to flee but Mason was just a few short steps away and she was torn in two, her self-preservation instinct kicking in – run! – but her maternal bond not allowing her to contemplate a life without her son.

If she had to, she’d kill for him.

There was the whisper of an idea. She could storm inside and take him, by whatever force was necessary, but she didn’t allow the thought to fully form.

Whatever, whoever she is – and she was not entirely sure right now – she was not violent. Not a killer.

But she was scared, so very, very scared.

She needed to get away from the house, the street, at least for a while.

She needed time to think.

Pulling away from the kerb, she had no clear plan, no sense of where she might go. She couldn’t risk being seen at the flat, but then she was driving down the main road, Ashwood on her right and … and it was as though she could never go anywhere else.

Returning to the scene of the crime.

One of the crimes, anyway. There had been too many.

The car trundled down the track. A few days ago this road would have been too waterlogged for the tyres to grip it but everywhere has dried out.

She parked and climbed out of the car. Lost, not literally but metaphorically speaking.

Alone.

Days ago the thought of Ashwood brought nothing but happy memories. Picnicking on a tartan blanket as a teenager with Jen, Amy and Mel. Biting into cheese sandwiches, pieces of Branston pickle spilling out between the slices of thick white bread. Paddling in the lake on a hot summer’s day, the sun sparkling on the water.

And then, more recently, the joy of bringing Mason here. Recreating those times with her own family. Batting a shuttlecock over a makeshift net, never attaining a decent volley. Laughing, laughing, laughing.

Driving the five minutes across to Wakefield Woods if they needed the toilet. Refreshments. Cardboard takeaway cups brimming with hot chocolate, whatever the weather. Paper bags stuffed with crumbly shortbread, gooey brownies.

Returning to Ashwood to consume their snacks. Marvelling at the stillness. Wondering why anyone would prefer Wakefield when they had this serenity, this solitude.

Because there were no signposts to Ashwood. No proper carpark. No facilities.

This was a special place that felt like theirs and theirs alone, but now it didn’t feel special. It was tainted. Forever ruined. And yet, as Camilla headed towards Mel, she felt a kind of peace. With time and distance from the events of those nights, she could think of a million things she could have done differently.

The first one being not getting behind the wheel when she was over the limit.

She is here to say sorry. To tell Mel that she knows she has let her down. That in the future she will try harder. Be better.

It is too late, for whatever promises she makes, but it is imperative that she make some sort of peace with what she’s done because it is all coming to light now, isn’t it?

Lily has been found, and Camilla is glad she’s alive but she is so, so frightened.

Frightened she is going to prison.

Her heart breaks at the thought that Jen and Amy will know by now that Camilla had hit Lily with Mel’s car.

Or would they?

She pauses, a thought occurring to her.

What exactly has the policeman told them?

At what stage did Lily regain consciousness? Did she even know Camilla was there? That she’d hit Mel and stuffed her in the boot as though she was nothing?

There is a flutter of something in Camilla’s belly. Hope? Excitement.

Could she be in the clear? Remain in the clear?

Perhaps.

As she walks, her phone begins to ring and she answers it on autopilot before realising it’s a dangerous thing to do. Jen is either ringing to tell her she knows what Camilla has done, or to tell her something else entirely.

The second she hears Jen say ‘hello’ it is as though there’s no air. Camilla can’t breathe. This could be it. The definitive moment Camilla finds out whether Lily knows anything, or doesn’t.

Could Camilla possibly be free of blame? Be able to return to her own life, her own flat with Mason? The hope is too much to bear. Camilla tries to speak but Jen’s name comes out of her mouth wrapped in a strangled sob, and in the pause when Camilla tries to pull herself together – to act normally – her signal drops off and Jen is gone.

Camilla doesn’t backtrack and try to call Jen because if no one knows she was involved then she has a decision to make. She has to deal with Mel, somehow, now, before it’s too late.

Chapter 47

Last Sunday

camilla

Now she had hit Mel over the head Camilla didn’t know what to do. Could she somehow persuade Mel when she woke that they’d crashed and Mel had banged her head, had been knocked unconscious? Must have imagined that they’d hit Lily?

Could she place Mel in the driver seat? Convince her when she regained consciousness that she had been driving? That she must have a concussion if she thought otherwise.

It wasn’t like Lily could tell anyone what had happened, was it?

Every scenario she examined from all angles, dismissing them all as ridiculous.

And yet … what was the alternative?

Tell the truth.

The whole truth.

And nothing but the truth.

Mentally, she skimmed through the charges. Drink driving, running over Lily, whatever the official term for that was and now this.

Mel.

Assault.

Camilla balled her hands into fists, her spine straight and stiff. Let her head fall back and she roared. Her chest heaving. Ragged breaths leaving her light-headed.

For a second the sky illuminated and her heart jumped into her mouth.

It wasn’t headlights, though, just another crack of lightning.

She needed to make a decision.

To move quickly because, although this road was never busy at the weekend, there was always a chance someone could come along and find her.

She had come too far to get caught now.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. She muttered under her breath as she looped her hands under Mel’s armpits and dragged her backwards. Mel’s head lolled, away from Lily. Blood was running from the gash Camilla had inflicted into unseeing eyes.

Mel was … dead?

No!

‘Mel. Mel!’ Camilla screamed her name as she dropped to her knees, shaking the woman who’d been more of a mother to her than anyone else she knew. ‘Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.’

But it was too late.

Those blank eyes stared at Camilla accusingly.

Mel would never wake up again.

Chapter 48

Friday

jen

Camilla doesn’t pick up the phone when I call her back. My hands are shaking as I ring the clinic instead. My voice too.

‘Hello. My friend is there, Camilla. Camilla Hernandez? She’s just called me, crying. I think she might have got some bad news.’

‘I can’t tell you confidential information about a patient.’

‘I’m not asking you to divulge her results, but she came in about a lump, she’s on her own. She called but she was too upset to speak. Could someone check if she’s okay, please?’

There’s a beat. Two.

‘Please. She’s all alone.’

‘What was her name?’

I repeat it and hear the tap-tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard.

‘She isn’t here.’

‘Oh, she left already?’

‘No. There’s no record of her. She hasn’t been here at all today.’

I’m confused as the receptionist hangs up. Google to double- check I’ve called the right number, the right clinic.

Where is Camilla and why did she lie about where she was going?

I think back to the call. The anguish as she said my name. The silence either side, but there wasn’t silence, was there?

There were sounds.

Not the sound of a busy waiting room but wind, birds. Snapping twigs? She was definitely outside.

I have to find her. I’m not sure whether it’s because I have a deep, unsettled feeling, a knowledge that something is wrong, or whether perhaps I’m fabricating that feeling because I need something, anything, to occupy my mind, my time. Otherwise I’m driving myself crazy second-guessing what caused Lily’s injury, trying to predict if, when she’ll decide to speak. To tell the police what she remembers, if she remembers anything at all.

I don’t think I’m imagining that Camilla’s in trouble, though. There was something in her voice, in the way she said my name. I haven’t heard her sound like that before, lost, diminished somehow as though the world had grown too large around her, or she was shrinking.

Disappearing.

And there’s no way I’m letting anyone else disappear. Literally or otherwise.

Where is she, though?

I think of the sounds again. The sounds of nature.

Nature?

Ashwood Forest?

It might be a long shot but I have nothing else to go on right now.

I pull on my coat – the weather has turned – and slip my feet into my boots and then head into the lounge to tell Amy I won’t be here for a while. I’m not completely comfortable leaving her alone with Mason, but she’s responsible and it’s not as though she hasn’t watched him before.

She’s kneeling on the floor, pushing wooden trains around, making choo-choo noises. Mason’s giggling is usually infectious and although I muster a smile, it’s forced.

‘I’m just nipping out.’

‘Where?’ Her demeanour changes as she looks up at me, her tone hard. She hasn’t even begun to forgive me but she needs to know where I am because she’s scared that I’ll vanish too, like Mum, leaving her all alone. I know this because this is the way I feel. That our world is unstable, unpredictable in a way that it hadn’t been before.

My face freezes as I try to keep my expression neutral. I should have thought ahead, prepared an excuse. If I mention Camilla then Mason will want to come and I can’t exactly say they have to stay home because I think something is wrong. Amy has had such a lot to worry about as it is. More than any thirteen-year-old should.

‘Um. I’m going—’

‘Don’t bother,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘I’d say I always know when you’re lying but we both know that isn’t true, is it?’

It is me who looks away first. Unable to hold her accusing stare.

‘What did PC Patel want? Is that why you’re going out?’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with him.’ That much at least is true. ‘He was just passing and wanted to check in. I won’t be long.’ I scurry towards the door.

Not knowing that I was heading towards the unimaginable.

The unthinkable.

Not knowing how much danger I would be putting myself in.

Chapter 49

Last Sunday

camilla

There was a numbness that Camilla had never experienced before. Self-preservation kicking in. She’d never thought she’d cope well in a crisis, had never really had to, but she moved swiftly, methodically. Not viewing Mel as Mel, the only mother she had ever really known, but as a problem she had to solve. A situation to deal with.

The pain, the anguish, the crushing guilt would come later, she knew that, but overriding all of those feelings was an image of Mason, grinning his toothy grin. His pudgy arm stretching towards her, offering her a posy of weeds he had picked from the garden.

Although she couldn’t yet begin to process losing Mel, she knew, on some level, that she had lost her. She couldn’t lose Mason too. Nor Jen or Amy.

She rose to her feet. Her legs were shaking so hard but they held firm as, again, she looped her hands under Mel’s arms and tried to drag her towards the car.

But she couldn’t.

She stopped, panting, sweat already sticking her clothes to her skin, not only from exertion but from fear.

Mel was shorter than her, slighter, but Camilla could barely move her.

She tried again.

Again.

Progress was painfully slow.

She gently laid Mel back down on the road, ran to the car and manoeuvred it closer to the body.

Bodies.

The boot was still open. Somehow, Camilla managed to heft Mel’s upper body over her shoulder, and with one last gargantuan effort at last shoved her into the boot. She wiped her brow with her sleeve, not sure whether she had the energy to move Lily too but she had to.

Only, when she turned, the space where Lily lay was empty.

Lily had gone.

Camilla gnawed on her thumbnail, trying to make sense of what was in front of her.

Nothing was in front of her.

Nothing.

How could Lily have just … disappeared?

She was dead.

Wasn’t she?

Camilla crouched down and touched the path. Her fingertips coming away wet. She rubbed them together, using the torch on her mobile to examine them. Rain had diluted the blood so it was pale pink.

Mel’s blood?

Lily’s blood?

What exactly had been wrong with Lily?

‘I don’t think she’s breathing.’

Camilla could still hear the panic, the desperation in Mel’s words.

I. Don’t. Think.

But Mel must have been wrong in her assumption, mustn’t she? Because it wasn’t as though another person had come along, another vehicle, and whisked Lily away.

She was alive.

The implications were so horrific. So unimaginable Camilla began to weep.

She’d killed Mel, accidentally, but killed her nevertheless to buy her some time to decide what to do about Lily. But Lily was alive.

Had Mel known?

Camilla thinks back, Mel had her back to her, hunched over Lily, talking softly. Camilla hadn’t seen Lily’s face. Thought Mel had been begging her to wake up.

But maybe she’d already regained consciousness, if not then, certainly now.

‘Lily?’ Camilla called tentatively, standing, craning her neck, peering amongst the trees that lined the road. ‘Lily?’ she called, louder now. ‘We need to get you checked out. Get you to hospital. Please come back. I’m worried about you.’ She could hear the wobble in her voice, the lie, Lily probably could too. ‘Mel’s hurt,’ she shouted. ‘She’s okay but we need to get her help. I can’t do that until you come back.’ She waited.

A movement? There, in the trees to the left. Camilla jogged over to the other side of the road. ‘Lily?’

Light.

Headlights.

Camilla swung around, panicked. A lorry pulling into the lay-by farther up the road. The driver probably intending on resting for the night.

She couldn’t let them see her.

Terrified, she ran back to the car. Her stomach roiling as she caught sight of Mel before she closed the boot with both hands.

Sorry.

Back in the car her hands shook as she switched on the engine. Wondering whether it was more suspicious to drive away without lights so the trucker couldn’t identify the make and model of the car. Decided that it would be another stupid thing in the long list of stupid things she’d already done tonight.

She didn’t want another accident, did she?

Camilla drove too fast. Too slow. Not wanting to draw attention to herself by doing either, she studied the speedometer as the tyres sloshed through puddles, the needle hovering on exactly thirty miles per hour. All the time, keeping one eye out for Lily. How far could she have got? Hurt. Disorientated. Frightened.

And what would Camilla do when she found her?

Chapter 50

Last Sunday

camilla

Camilla’s thoughts were fast and frantic.

She needed a plan.

She left the industrial estate behind her, with one last long, lingering look in her mirror, wondering if the torrential rain would wash away the blood.

What am I going to do?

She couldn’t drive around aimlessly all night, not with a … not with … Camilla pulled over, opened the door and vomited again. It was torturous to think of Mel in terms of being a body, but it was equally painful to think of her as Mel.

Happy, smiling, loving Mel.

Shakily, she closed the car door.

What am I going to do?

Find Lily before she called the police. Try to reason with her? Bribe her? Threaten her? There’s a split second where Camilla wondered how far she’d go if Lily wouldn’t keep quiet. She isn’t thinking of herself, not solely of herself anyway.

She couldn’t go to prison. She couldn’t be without Mason. Wouldn’t let him grow up without her. In care, she had always vowed that her life would be different. That when she had her own family it would consist of a loving husband, two children, a roses-around-the-door-white-picket-fence kind of existence. She had failed on so many levels but she wouldn’t leave Mason without a mum or a dad.

Determination tightened in her stomach.

Lily lived in River Street, she remembered that was where Mel was originally directing her to until Lily had stepped out into the road and tried to flag them down. Momentarily Camilla felt a real surge of anger. Why hadn’t the girl just waited at home? She deserved everything that was coming to her. Camilla ran that through her mind once more.

Lily deserved everything that was coming to her.

But she didn’t, did she? Camilla couldn’t quite convince herself that she was forced into a corner. That she didn’t have any other choice. Everyone has a choice, don’t they? Free will? It was just that Camilla was stuck between prison and a life of freedom, bringing up the child she loved with all of her heart. Perhaps not here, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to face Jen and Amy again. Already she was aware that the guilt that gnawed at the inside of her stomach was something that she was going to have to live with forever.

Camilla pulled into River Street and cut the engine. Although it was dark, it was still early. The blue light from TVs glowed through gaps in curtains, pushed through the slats of blinds. She got out of the car and locked it. Stood in the pouring rain, dazed and scared, with no idea what she was going to do or say when she found Lily. Slowly she made her way up one side of the street, peering into windows where she could, unsure which house was actually Lily’s.

For a moment she was reminded of that scene in Love Actually where Hugh Grant was trying to find Martine McCutcheon, knocking on every door asking for Natalie. Longing to make amends.

The memory of watching that film every single Christmas Eve floored her to the point she actually had to stop walking, to put her hands on the low garden wall in front of her to steady herself. The image of Mel, Jen, Amy and her in new Christmas pyjamas, huge bowls of buttery popcorn on their laps, was so evocative she could smell just-popped corn, feel the warmth of the fleecy blanket that covered their legs, hear their boos and jeers as Alan Rickman lies to Emma Thompson.

She would never, never experience any of those things again.

Not just her but any of them.

Mel would never experience anything again.

Tears came, achingly, wrenchingly. She stumbled back towards the car, not even venturing across the other side of the road to check the houses there, for even if she found Lily, what could she say?

Sorry?

It wasn’t enough.

Camilla found herself outside her flat. She’d driven here on autopilot, not knowing where to go, who to turn to.

There was no one she could turn to.

She longed to rest her head on the steering wheel and weep, but already she was glancing around furtively, wondering whether anyone would notice her here in Mel’s car if they were asked about it later. If they would remember it, remember her. But the pavements were empty, saturated with the rain that still teemed down, streaming down window panes where chinks of light pushed through closed curtains and blinds. Everyone was inside, cosy.

She didn’t have time to waste.

Quickly she climbed out of the car, pulled her coat up over her head, not to keep herself dry but to hide her face. She sprinted to the door, a plan already forming in her mind.

Chapter 51

Last Sunday

camilla

Once inside her flat, the place she thought she’d create a home with Mason, build a business designing jewellery she loved, she assembled the things she needed to flee and within minutes she was back on the road, heading towards the only place she thought she’d be safe.

Ashwood Forest.

The tyres slip-slid as she crawled down the track, terrified the car would get stuck and then what would she do?

The trees crowded in on her, branches tap-tap-tapping on the roof.

Killer.

Killer.

Killer.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to contain both her tears and the memories of the last time she was here.

Mason sitting in his cart, clutching his football as she dragged him towards the clearing, towards the space she knew Mel, Jen and Amy would be. Sprawled on the threadbare tartan picnic blanket they’d used as long as she could remember.

Now she had brought Mason’s cart along again, but for an entirely different reason.

She couldn’t take it home again after this. Mason would be devastated to lose it. How could she explain it? But then she thought of what else Mason had lost tonight – Mel – and then him losing his favourite toy didn’t seem so terrible. This would be his first experience with loss. She had intended on getting a small pet so he’d learn about the cycle of life, but she kept putting it off because no one in their circle was that old. She thought she’d had time.

How wrong she’d been.

She parked the car, yanked the handbrake up. She left the headlights on, illuminating the rain, which looked so solid as it passed the light, so tangible it was as though she could reach out and touch it, but it was an illusion.

Fake. Just like Camilla would have to be for the rest of her life. Pretending that she hadn’t killed one of the most important people to her. Dumped her body like it was nothing.

Camilla dragged the cart from the back seat and opened the boot. Retched again. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand while giving herself a pep talk. She could do this.

She had to.

She grasped a bunch of the fabric of Mel’s coat in one hand, her jeans in the other and rolled her out of the car. It was easier than it had been getting her in, but Camilla hadn’t been able to fully support Mel’s weight and the heavy thud she made as she fell into the cart made Camilla fear it had broken, the wheels buckled, but a quick check showed her the cart was intact. Just as she was about to slam the boot closed she caught sight of the picnic blanket and lifted it out of the car, covering Mel with it.

A screech.

A rustling to her left.

Camilla began to shake. What if someone was here? But that was ridiculous. It was late. Dark. Freezing and wet. There were no other vehicles. The forest was teeming with wildlife. It was an animal she heard, that’s all, but still she had a horrible sense of being watched. She turned off the headlights, pulled the keys out the ignition.

Darkness was a deep velvet cloak draped over her, snatching her breath for a moment.

Fumbling for her phone, she switched on her torch. When she used it at home, to find one of Mason’s toys that had slid under the sofa, the bed, the brightness was dazzling. Here, the thin beam of light was swallowed up by the bushes and trees and another screech that made her jump.

She checked her battery: she had enough power to get to the lake and back.

She hoped.

There was a coil of rope in the footwell of the passenger seat she’d brought from home. She had got it to construct a swing in Mel’s garden for Mason but she hadn’t got around to it yet. She looped it over her head, over one shoulder, before remembering Mel gently chiding her when they had been walking Mel’s elderly neighbour’s Jack Russell one day and Camilla had done this with his lead.

‘Don’t make it easy for a potential attacker to grab you. Look.’ Gently she had slipped the lead upwards from Camilla’s shoulders to around her neck, demonstrating how easy it would be. ‘Sometimes to stay safe you have to think like the bad guy.’

Camilla was thinking like the bad guy now.

Although she knew she was alone here, she moved the rope over her crooked arm instead and grabbed the handle of the cart, her phone awkward in one hand, making it hard to grip.

She pulled.

And pulled.

Nothing.

She tugged it again. For a second it didn’t move and then there was a jerking motion as the tyres bumped over something, a stick or a stone, and Camilla’s heart leaped into her mouth, convinced that Mel was going to fall out.

But she didn’t and then they were trundling slowly down the track towards the lake.

In Camilla’s mind this had been – not easy – that was entirely the wrong word, but the cart had travelled as smoothly as it usually did with Mason in it, but Mel was a literal dead weight, and despite trying to angle the torch so it lit the area in front of her, Camilla couldn’t see properly to avoid obstacles.

They were stuck again and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t move the cart. She dropped to her knees, bile rising in her throat as her hair brushed against Mel’s face as she swept the area around the wheels with her hands, smoothing out the roughness, fingers closing around a large stone. When she prised it out of the mud she found it was shaped like a heart. Mason would have wanted to take it home, paint it.

Gently she tucked it next to Mel and carried on. Through the clearing where they’d usually picnic. Past the decrepit wooden hut that used to be used by a forest school before they went out of business.

It usually took around fifteen minutes to walk to the lake but it seemed to take hours.

The water was black. Rain bouncing off the surface.

Camilla let go of the handle of the cart. Stuffed her phone into her pocket and flexed her fingers to encourage the blood to flow freely. Mud was caked under her nails. Splattered over her jeans. She rotated her shoulders. Every muscle aching.

The air caressed her cheeks with freezing fingers but underneath her coat Camilla was sweating, her breath coming fast. She imagined the alcohol seeping out of her pores and for one moment she wanted to plunge into the lake. Wash herself clean. Cleanse her soul. But she would never feel fully clean again.

She didn’t deserve to.

Focus.

She retrieved her phone and swept the torch around the bank.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

Panic rose as Camilla jogged forwards, and then back on herself, before heading in the opposite direction. There had always been large stones here.

Always.

Mason loved to clamber over them, Camilla poised, arms outstretched in case he fell. Where had they gone? Was it possible erosion had worn them down, the weather sweeping them away?

Camilla began to cry, not for Mel this time, but for herself. Self-pity and exhaustion burst out of her in wracking sobs that trapped the air in her lungs. That made her sit on the slimy ground as she grappled for breath.

Could she even have done it anyway? Tied rocks to Mel to weigh her down, stuffed them into her pockets, her hood, inside of her clothes, and sent her plummeting to the bottom of the water? She’d seen it on crime films, bodies dumped in canals, and it had seemed, not easy, that bloody word again, but feasible … but now …

Could she somehow drag Mel out into the middle of the lake?

Did bodies float? They must do, otherwise in films they wouldn’t weigh them down, would they?

Think.

She was surrounded by trees. There must be fallen branches, logs, but she didn’t have long. Already the sky was growing lighter. She must have been here for hours.

Camilla formed a list of things she needed to do.

Hide Mel’s body.

Dispose of her car perhaps somewhere amongst other cars. Hiding in plain sight – a carpark?

Fabricate something to explain her disappearance?

Shower and change before Jen dropped Mason off.

Time was running out.

Chapter 52

Last Sunday

camilla

Think.

Camilla had abandoned her lake plan. Could she bury Mel instead?

She kicked herself for not bringing a shovel, but she had been so sure her hastily thrown-together plan would work.

Could she dig a hole with her hands? The ground was soft from the endless rain.

Quickly she crouched and tested her idea. The soil was saturated but then, under the surface, although there was a dampness to it, it was hard with cold.

She’d never be able to dig deep enough with her hands, even though, right now, she felt as though her life depended on it.

Another screech. This time she saw an owl swooping over the trees.

She’d seen owls here before. They’d brought Mason out after dark once on a bat walk. Mel had brought flasks of hot chocolate and a packet of Bourbon biscuits and when it had begun to rain they’d sheltered in the old hut and …

The hut!

She felt she couldn’t possibly go on, though. Everything ached, her bones, her muscles, her heart, but she began to drag the cart – and Mel – back the way they had come.

The hut, when she reached it, was padlocked, the chain rusty, but Camilla didn’t want to go inside. She wanted to go underneath.

There was a storage area where the forest school used to keep canoes. Over time and lack of use, the soil had built up against it but Camilla burrowed furiously, hands clawed, until she reached the shutter. There was another padlock here too. She tried to pull it open, tried to pull the chain apart. It was fruitless but then she had a thought.

Something else she had seen in a film – although nothing she had seen on screen seemed to work in real bloody life, there was nothing left to try.

She dug her multitool out of her pocket. Mel had taken her camping after Camilla had expressed how sad she was that she’d never had the chance to be a Brownie or a Girl Guide. Jen and Amy had belonged to both, and the tales they told had been full of fun and camaraderie. Mel had brought her here, just the two of them, and performed a little ceremony. She had taught Camilla the Brownie promise, the three-fingered salute. And then she’d given Camilla the multitool – ‘Be Prepared’. Mel had engraved the side with A Promise.

‘A promise that I’ll always be here for you, Camilla.’ She had hugged her tightly. They’d both cried. And then, using the knife from the multitool, Mel had taught her how to strip off the damp bark and make a fuzz stick, how to make a fire.

‘Then, if you break a nail doing that.’ Mel flicked open the emery board. ‘And of course, when you’re older this is imperative.’ Mel laughed as she lifted up the corkscrew.

‘I promise too.’ Camilla had rested her head on Mel’s shoulder as they kept warm in front of the crackling fire. ‘I promise to always be the best I can be.’

‘You are enough, you know.’ Mel had dropped a kiss on top of Camilla’s head. ‘Exactly as you are.’

Camilla jogged back to the hut, knife in hand, trying to push the painful memory away.

‘I promise to always be the best I can be.’

If she twisted that around, Camilla could almost convince herself that what she was about to do was the best for Mason.

Almost.

She held her mobile phone between her chin and her chest, leaving both hands free. She lifted the padlock towards the light and then tried to stuff the knife from the multitool inside.

It was too thick.

Frustrated, she attempted to use the screwdriver instead. The Phillips head was too wide, the flat head too thin.

No. No. No.

Dawn was beginning to break. She had to make this work. Otherwise she’d have to put Mel back in the boot because if she left her out in the open there was a chance that someone would discover her.

She worked her way through all of the attachments but it was the head of the scissors that slipped into the lock. Unsure what to do, she slowly angled it around, and when nothing happened she jiggled it.

Whether it was beginners’ luck or because the lock was old and cheap, there was a click as it sprang open.

Camilla crawled inside the narrow storage space. Thankfully, it was empty. Camilla wondered why anyone had locked it at all.

It stank. Rotting leaves and damp and something unidentifiable that Camilla didn’t want to think too deeply about.

It wasn’t ideal but it would have to do until Camilla could think of something better, something more permanent.

It took a gargantuan effort to manoeuvre Mel’s body under the hut. There was a danger of Camilla becoming trapped because there wouldn’t be enough room to climb over Mel to get out. Each time she moved Mel further inside she had to twist herself around her body so she didn’t get stuck, like some kind of macabre dance.

When Mel was fully inside, Camilla stuffed the cart next to her. Then she retrieved the blanket from the cart. It wasn’t as though Mel could feel the cold, as though she might need the comfort but, still, Camilla tucked the blanket around Mel just as Mel used to tuck the covers around Camilla when she’d woken after a nightmare.

Just as they both did with Mason.

Chapter 53

Friday

camilla

The wooden hut is innocuous. It looks the same as it has always looked. Moss coating the faded slats. The roof skew-whiff because one of the stilts had sunk into the ground over the years, rendering the whole structure lopsided. Still, Camilla recoils at the sight of it, knowing the horror that lies underneath.

When she’d come here a few days ago it had been dark, she hadn’t really noticed how decrepit the building was.

Now she notices everything. The disturbance in the soil that had rested against the entrance to the storage area until she had dug it away. The smell, which is even stronger.

Camilla’s stomach spasms. She swallows down the saliva that forms quickly in her mouth. Tries to tell herself that the stench is just rotting leaves, nature, and it may well be. She has no idea how long it takes before a body begins to decompose. She thinks that perhaps the cold snap will slow things down, but it is going to happen eventually, and then what? How long will it be before a dog sniffs around? Although it has been impossible to think of anything but this – Mel – she still hasn’t thought it all through, and she needs to deal with it, today. Now.

Should she try to move her?

But then she had been too heavy before and what if rigor mortis has set in? When does that occur? She’d found it difficult to manoeuvre Mel when she’d been soft. Pliable.

Oh god, just thinking about it all sends bile rocketing back up her throat.

Camilla needs to know details like this but she is too scared to google. Having seen how easily the police can examine phones, she doesn’t want to do anything that will incriminate her because there is still a smidgeon of a chance that Lily had been unaware of the car that hit her. Of the conversations she had had with Mel while Lily had supposedly been unconscious.

She stares at the shutter leading to the storage area so intently she feels light-headed. She can’t go under there. She just can’t.

She can’t leave Mel either, not now she is here.

Instead, Camilla climbs up the rickety steps and reaches the front door. The chain around the padlock is aged but secure. She shakes it and flecks of rust flake off onto her fingers.

Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her multitool. The small metal file slips into this lock. She wriggles it around, feeling for the give, listening for the click, and then there it is.

The lock opens and she is creaking open the door.

Inside, the hut is cold and damp. Mildew hanging in the air. The windows are boarded up from the outside with criss-crossed planks so Camilla leaves the door open to let in the light, the damp air.

On the walls are peeling posters identifying species of birds, trees. There’s a table surrounded by plastic chairs waiting for visitors that will never come.

It’s so sad that funding has been cut and the forest school that used to occupy this space has gone out of business.

Droppings of some animal or other litter the floor. Rats? There’s another lurch in Camilla’s belly as she envisages wild animals crowding around Mel, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing.

Her knees buckle and she sinks to the ground. She’s keening, rocking backwards and forwards, a sound she’s never heard before coming from deep within her.

There’s the screech of birds, a mass fluttering of wings as they leave the safety of the trees outside the shed and fly high into the sky, startled by the terrible sound spewing from Camilla.

She cannot stop herself.

Anguish spasms her stomach again and again. Her arms wrap around herself as she jerks back and forth, back and forth before doubling over completely. Her head on her knees. Breathing in, not the damp floorboards, not the earth and leaves of the forest, but the acrid smell of death. The smell that will never fully leave her.

Her cries are growing fainter but tears continue to flow.

Tentatively, her fingertips run over the floor, gently.

‘I’m sorry. Sorry.’ The word spills from her over and over but it is too little.

Too late.

Eventually her sobs turn to whimpers, not because she isn’t still feeling the visceral pain that’s as sharp as a blade but because she’s exhausted. Bone tired in a way she hasn’t been before. Not even when Mason was a baby and barely sleeping.

But then she hadn’t been alone then, had she?

Mel had often got up in the night. Cradling Mason to her as he greedily sucked on the teat of the bottle of expressed milk.

She had never been truly alone since Mel had ushered her into their family and treated her like a daughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, not whispered this time, but clearly. She straightens up. Runs her hands over the boards, knowing what lies underneath but still, in a way, numb to it. Unable to believe that Mel is dead even though she is the one who killed her.

Camilla wipes her cheeks, ashamed. Who is she crying for? Herself? Mason? It is Mel who deserves her attention, her focus right now.

She brushes the dirt from her palms, her jeans, feeling the lump in her pocket.

Camilla pulls out the penknife, flicks open the blade.

A Promise.

The engraving taunts her.

A Promise.

Camilla has broken all of the vows she had made: to be the best mum in the world, to be a kind and loyal honorary daughter, Mel leading by example.

To always tell Jen the truth.

How can she ever tell her … this? She’d rather die.

Camilla works the tip of the blade into the floor and begins to carve out a shape. Mel can’t have a headstone, not here, and it’s not as though Camilla can leave her here really, but she wants to mark the spot somehow, out of respect, and even as she thinks this she recognises the irony in it. Over and over she scrapes until she has formed almost a heart, but the ends of the point don’t quite meet and it looks as though it is broken.

Camilla adds an ‘MA’ in the middle, tears clouding her vision.

Her head jerks up when she hears a sound.

A car.

Someone is here. The police?

Her fingers tighten around the knife.

Chapter 54

Friday

jen

Mist swirls around the car, dampening the windows with long fingers. Tap-tap-tapping – let me in – as I bump down the rutted track. There are some branches hanging low and they scrape against the roof. That’s why everyone goes to Wakefield Woods rather than here. The tarmacked, brightly lit carpark. Much as I love this place, right now it resembles something you’d see in a horror film. You know, the kind where you’re screaming ‘Turn around, turn around!’ at the unsuspecting driver, seconds before the killer jumps out from behind the tree with an axe.

I’m freaking myself out, awash with an intense feeling of foreboding. My gut warning me that I should leave.

But then the trees thin a little and Camilla’s car is right in front of me.

My instincts were right and if they were right about her being here then they’re likely right that she is in trouble.

I have a deep-rooted feeling that this is more than a breast lump.

It’s okay. I take a deep breath, not sure why I feel so shaky, but I do.

It’s okay.

There’s nothing to be frightened of here.

Nothing that can hurt me.

Still, I keep my keys gripped tightly in my hand as I walk.

Heart inexplicably racing.

Chapter 55

camilla

Camilla hears her name being called.

Jen.

She looks around wildly for somewhere to hide but there’s nowhere and, anyway, Jen will have seen her car by now.

How has she found her?

Why is she here?

Camilla listens as Jen shouts her name again, trying to pick out the emotions that wrap themselves around the letters. She doesn’t think there’s anger, none of the fury she knows Jen would unleash if she knew.

Before she can stand and go to find her friend, Jen is already in the doorway, rushing towards her. Camilla flinches, half-expecting fists to rain down on her, but Jen envelops her in a hug.

‘I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘Sorry.’ Camilla tries to hold it together but it’s all there, in that one word. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, tears spilling down her cheeks.

‘Is this about the breast lump? I called the clinic and they had no record of you. Were you to scared to go alone?’

Jen strokes her hair, the way Mel had stroked her hair the night she had told her about Mason’s father. The night that was, she thinks, the catalyst for everything. Drinking too much after reliving it. The cause of every bad decision she has made.

‘How did you find me?’ Camilla wipes her cheeks with her sleeve, wriggling out of Jen’s grasp.

‘I picked up on the background noise on the phone and,’ Jen shrugs, ‘I just know you, I guess.’

This sets Camilla off again, ugly tears she can’t contain because Jen doesn’t know her, not really. Not anymore. She doesn’t really know herself.

‘Camilla, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.’

Their eyes meet and for a moment Camilla wants to tell her everything. Lay it all out on this dirty, rotting floor and beg for forgiveness, but of course there wouldn’t be any forgiveness.

Some things are not forgivable.

Camilla lowers her gaze.

‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ Jen pleads. ‘Why are you here? It’s freezing and,’ she sniffs, ‘it smells weird.’ She holds up her palm. ‘Tell me.’

‘I wanted to feel close to your mum.’ That much, at least, is honest.

‘That’s not the only reason you’re here, is it?’ Jen’s brow creases as though she’s thought of something, as though she’s putting it all together.

‘What … what do you mean?’ Camilla can feel herself shrinking, she draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms tightly around them, wanting to make herself as small as possible.

‘It’s the way you’ve been behaving around Amy and me. I should have figured it out sooner.’

Camilla’s heart pounds so furiously it’s painful.

‘Look.’ Jen gently takes Camilla’s hands. Rubs some warmth into them. ‘You have just as much right as Amy and me to feel upset. Worried. I know how much you love Mum, and she loves you like a daughter. You know that. You don’t have to hide your feelings away as though they’re not important.’

‘I don’t know how to act around you,’ Camilla says, taking her hands away, because that part is real.

‘Hopefully, Mum will be found soon. Lily has turned up, so—’

‘What’s she said? Lily?’

‘Nothing yet. I don’t know whether she’s traumatised or whether she doesn’t know anything, but Luke will do what he can to encourage her to talk. If Mum did run off with Lily then perhaps she’ll come back now but …’ Jen picks up a small stone and begins to rotate it through her fingers, agitated. ‘I don’t know, am I kidding myself? There was blood in Mum’s boot. Is it hers? I can’t … I can’t stand the thought of her hurt somewhere. Scared. What do you think happened to her, Camilla?’ Jen pushes the stone through a small gap in the floorboards and then picks up another one.

Camilla wants to launch herself at Jen. To wrench the stone from her hand before she pushes it through the floor, but of course she can’t. Jen doesn’t know that her mum’s body is inches away. That she is sitting on top of Mel’s final resting place.

‘Shall we go home?’ Jen sighs. ‘We can talk properly in the warm?’

Camilla glances at the floor, shakes her head. ‘I’m not quite ready.’ She cannot leave but then she cannot stay. She needs to decide what to do. Run away with Mason. Leave on her own. Confess. Keep quiet and hope for the best. Her lip begins to tremble.

‘How about a hot chocolate first?’ Jen offers her some time to gather herself. ‘I can nip over to Wakefield and see if the shop is still open? Some shortbread or a brownie?’ Jen nudges Camilla with her shoulder.

It feels like a betrayal that Camilla’s stomach rumbles but she can’t remember when she last ate anything. ‘Okay.’

Jen stands, wipes the dirt from her knees. ‘Have you got any cash? I’ve only got my phone and you know what the signal is like over there when you try to pay contactless.’

‘Yeah, there’s some in my purse.’ Camilla nods towards her bag heaped in the corner. She doesn’t have the energy to reach it herself. Perhaps a sugar boost is just what she needs. A little space to figure out a plan.

To formulate another lie.

It’s as though she is watching Jen in slow motion as she walks across the hut towards the truth. Her brain figuring out what’s going to happen seconds before it does but she’s unable to think fast enough to stop it. To stop her.

There is no lie that will get me out of this.

Chapter 56

jen

Although I’m eager to get home to Amy and wait for news about Lily, another twenty minutes won’t make too much difference and Camilla obviously needs the time and space. I’m kicking myself for not considering her throughout all of this. Forefront and centre of my mind have been Amy’s feelings, my feelings. Of course Camilla is struggling with it all. She’s part of our family but perhaps, at times like these, she doesn’t fully feel it.

I crouch down in front of her bag. Lift out her purse. It’s the navy blue Mickey Mouse one that Mason chose for her for Mother’s Day when Amy and I had taken him shopping.

I unzip it. Put my fingers inside to pull out some coins and that’s when I feel it.

Something cold and hard. Thin. Plastic.

A bank card.

I pull it out so I can reach the cash underneath, barely glancing at it, but that fraction of a second when my eyes do fall upon it is enough.

I see it isn’t Camilla’s bank card at all.

It has Mum’s name on it.

The walls of the hut seem to slide in on me, the brown slats squeezing the air from my lungs.

I shake my head, confused. Hold the card nearer to my face.

Lloyds Bank.

Mum’s bank.

Melissa Abbott.

Mum’s name.

Her cash card.

Her only cash card.

The one that withdrew five hundred pounds the day that she disappeared.

Chapter 57

amy

It’s as though someone has dumped a bucket of freezing water on Amy. The cold so sudden it takes her breath away.

Goose bumps spring up on her arms and there’s a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. Amy looks over her shoulder, nervously, but there’s nobody there.

Something is wrong.

Mason’s oblivious to her turmoil as he pushes his trains endlessly around the track. The carriage Amy is holding is clutched tightly in her hand.

Something is wrong.

She’s heard of hunches before, a sixth sense, a gut instinct. All the best police shows have a character who suddenly knows something they haven’t been told. Although Amy is swamped with the same feeling, she has no idea what it means.

Is it Mum?

‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ she tells Mason. She goes and checks her mobile. No messages. No missed calls.

Surely if Mum had been found, someone would contact her?

Unless she’d been found and …

No. Amy won’t think like that.

What, then? If not Mum.

Jen?

Where is she anyway? Amy hadn’t thought too much of it when she went out. Things have been so tense between them lately she figured they both needed the space, but something is causing this nagging, gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She bet neither Cagney nor Lacey would ignore it.

She calls Jen. It rings and rings and rings, and just when she thinks Jen isn’t going to answer she hears her voice, thin and quiet as though she is a million miles away. ‘Hello.’ And then there’s an echo. Jen has put her on speaker.

‘Where are you?’

‘Just running a few errands. I won’t be long.’

‘But where are you?’

‘I’m just … Amy, I’m picking up some bananas. See you soon. Love you.’

The dial tone whirrs against her ear. The edgy feeling doesn’t dissipate. The phone call was weird.

Mum is missing, although she isn’t her mum, is she? The man she thought was her dad isn’t. She has a dad she never knew existed. Jen has revealed herself to be a liar. Everything is fucked and yet she’s out there picking up some bananas.

Picking up some bananas.

Something clicks into place. The crime games she used to play with Jen.

‘We’re partners but we have to split up and investigate.’ A much younger version of herself had handed Jen a walkie-talkie. ‘If you see any baddies radio me.’

‘But they might hear me telling you I’ve spotted them and then I’ll be in trouble.’

‘We need a code. All the best detectives have a secret language.’

‘What about … I’m picking up some bananas.’

Amy had burst out laughing. ‘You’re bananas.’

‘Ah. But nobody would guess the hidden meaning, would they? That one of us needs help.’

Jen.

Amy doesn’t know where she is. Who she’s with. But she’s definitely in trouble.

Jen needs her help.

Chapter 58

jen

Everything is happening so fast I can’t make sense of it. I found the bank card – Mum’s card – in Camilla’s purse.

My mouth had instantly dried. I opened it and closed it but I couldn’t get any words out because I couldn’t think of what to say. What to ask. Perhaps on some level, I didn’t want to know.

I felt dizzy. Sick. Afraid.

My phone began to ring.

‘Ignore it,’ Camilla had said.

Ignoring her, I had drawn it out of my pocket, but then suddenly she was in front of me, brandishing a knife.

A knife.

Dear god. What was happening here?

‘It’s Amy,’ I said helplessly.

Camilla shook her head but I couldn’t ignore my daughter.

‘What if something’s wrong with Mason?’ Camilla’s weak spot.

‘Answer it,’ she jabbed the knife towards me, ‘but put her on speaker and don’t say anything stupid.’

Warily, I connected the call. The second I heard Amy’s voice I wanted to tell her I was sorry for everything. Emotion swelled in my throat. I wanted to rewind time. Go back to when she thought I was her sister. When Mum was cooking garlicky chicken on a Sunday and I’d play with Amy. Always detectives.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I remembered the code we used to use.

As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it. The last thing I wanted to do was put Amy in danger, but it’s not as though she could find me, come here. She’d figure it out though, she’s a smart girl. She’ll tell the police I’m in trouble and then they can trace my phone.

Then they’ll come.

Won’t they?

Chapter 59

amy

PC Patel has finished his shift, gone home for the day. Amy tries to explain to the policeman she’s been put through to but they’re not listening.

Not understanding.

‘Jen is in trouble,’ she says again, speaking slower this time. ‘My sister.’ Even now she cannot call Jen her mum. ‘She needs help.’

‘Because she left the house less than an hour ago and you’ve just spoken to her and she’s buying some bananas?’ He can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

‘Picking up some bananas was our code for when one of us needed help.’

‘And Jen – she’s twenty-six, right – still uses this … code?’

‘No. But she would if someone was preventing her from talking. What if the same person who took my mum has taken Jen?’

‘Look,’ his voice softens, ‘I’m aware that your mum is missing and you must be feeling very scared but—’

‘Please. Can’t you trace Jen’s phone?’

‘We’re stretched as it is. We can’t just—’

‘Please.’

‘I’ll tell you what. If your sister isn’t back in a couple of hours, call me again and I’ll see what we can do.’

Amy hangs up, close to tears, frustrated.

What if a couple of hours is too late?

Her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts. Panic pinballing the cells around her body. Mum is missing, now Jen. What will she do if neither of them ever come home?

She cannot breathe.

She’s being squeezed and squeezed and there isn’t any air and …

Wait.

She remembers the family tracking app on the phone. Mum’s location had been disabled but what about Jen’s?

She opens the app, clicks on Jen’s name and a red dot flashes on a map.

Ashwood Forest.

‘Mason, get your coat and shoes on.’ Amy stuffs her feet into her boots, dismissing the fleeting thought that she could call the police again. Tell them where Jen is. They wouldn’t take her seriously five minutes ago, and they won’t now.

She can’t waste precious time.

Jen is in trouble and she’s the only one who can help.

But she can’t do it alone.

Chapter 60

camilla

Camilla slips Jen’s phone into her pocket. She’s still holding the knife out in front of her, arm rigid, elbow locked.

Jen’s eyes slide towards the door and then back towards Camilla, who is standing in the way of the only exit. She’s trying to calculate whether she can make it. Trying to second-guess what Camilla might do if she tries.

It’s impossible for Jen to judge and this Camilla knows this because she herself has no idea what she’s capable of right now. All she is certain of is that her body is hot with fear, that Jen knows she has Mel’s bank card and there is no plausible explanation Camilla can offer. Not when this card has been used since Mel disappeared. Her pin number Mason’s birthday. Why hadn’t she cut it up?

The police can trace everything.

Everything.

In panic, she retrieves Jen’s phone and powers it down. Then she does the same with her own handset. All the while Jen is speaking softly to her.

‘Camilla? I don’t understand what’s happening here, but surely we can sort it out, can’t we?’

‘I can’t lose Mason.’ Camilla feels the hysteria build up. ‘I can’t. They’ll take him away from me.’

‘Nobody’s taking Mason away from you.’ Jen makes a calm-down gesture with her hands.

‘They will. Of course they will. I can’t have him growing up in care – but is it worse if I take him and we have to change our names and—’ The words fall out in a garbled rush.

‘Camilla, please. Take a breath. You need to tell me what you’ve done.’

‘I. Can’t.’ She is pleading with Jen with her eyes, wanting her friend to figure it out, help her out, but of course they are not friends anymore, are they? Not now. A friend wouldn’t point a weapon at the other, for a start.

‘Camilla—’

‘Shut up.’ She just needs time to think.

‘But Camilla—’

‘Shut. Up.’

‘Why the fuck do you have my mum’s bank card?’ Jen loses it now. ‘You’d better fucking tell me—’

‘Because I killed her,’ Camilla shouts back.

There are moments in time you never forget. For Camilla it’s her first placement with a foster family, the brown swirling carpet that covered the whole of the downstairs had always stayed with her because she couldn’t lift her eyes from the floor and look at the kind people who had taken her in for almost two weeks. Mason’s first steps, letting go of the sofa and stumbling towards her, pudgy arms outstretched.

And now, this. Jen’s face draining of colour, her mouth hanging open, eyes wide. Shaking her head.

No. No. No.

Before Jen can gather herself, Camilla turns and flees. Slams the door behind her. Fumbles for the padlock, holding the door with the weight of her body as Jen flings herself against it.

Snapping the lock shut. Sinking to the floor panting, knowing that Jen is secure inside.

That while Jen can’t leave the forest she can’t tell anyone the terrible, terrible thing that Camilla has confessed to. She is trapped. Camilla has her phone.

But eventually she will have to leave the forest.

Won’t she?

Camilla realises that Jen can only leave if Camilla allows her to, and there is power in that knowing.

Whatever happens next, she gets to decide.

Chapter 61

jen

The lock clicks into place but I still keep pushing the door, my shoulder bruising against the wood. I’m panting, sweating, focusing everything I have on trying to break free because if I stop, for just one single second, I know I’ll have to begin to try and process what Camilla told me and if I do that I will break.

I cannot break.

But I’m stuck. In the films it seems like flimsy doors splinter open all the time but this one holds firm.

‘Camilla.’ I lean my forehead against the door, panting, my palms flat against it. ‘Please let me out.’

She doesn’t answer but I know she’s there. Through the cracks I can see her.

I look around the shed. The windows are boarded up but daylight is still seeping through the gaps between the boards, the small holes that pepper the roof. Soon, night will close in and I’ll be in total darkness. The temperature is already dropping. It’s forecast to be minus one later.

The thought of hypothermia, of freezing to death, alone, Amy not knowing where I am, spurs me into action again. I head to the windows first. Try to prise the planks of wood that criss-cross the windows off with my fingers. My nails rip and bleed but the planks hold firm. I pick up a chair and smash it against them, trying to find a weak point but there doesn’t seem to be one.

‘Fucks sake.’ From the outside the structure looks like it could fall down with a strong gust of wind – a huff and a puff from the big bad wolf. There has to be a way out of here, has to be. I glance upwards. The sky is visible through the patchy roof. Could I make the holes bigger with my hands? Create enough space to wiggle through?

I drag the table underneath the biggest hole and stand on it, holding my arms out to the side as it wobbles, as though I am walking a tightrope and seconds away from death.

When I’ve regained my balance I stretch upwards, standing on tiptoe, but it’s no use. I cannot reach.

I can’t go up, then. What about down? I jump off the table and crouch. If there’s a loose floorboard, could I prise it up? I know there’s a storage area underneath the hut. If I can get down there, there has to be a way out.

I run my hands over the floor, inch by inch. Feeling for an imbalance, an imperfection. Something, anything I can work with.

My soft palms rub over something rough. I lower my face towards it, squint through the gloom.

It’s a carving. The grooves aren’t dark with dirt and age but light and clean.

It’s new, this shape. This … heart?

I run my fingertips lightly over it. It’s a heart. There’s something inside. Letters.

Initials.

MA

Mum’s initials.

I think of Camilla’s knife.

The way she kept glancing at the floor.

The fact that she didn’t want to leave this place.

‘I killed her.’

I hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now …

I vomit, hot splashes all over my coat and my jeans. I retch again and again until my stomach muscles ache and there is nothing left to come up.

Mum. I’m crying, frantically pulling at nothing, desperate to dislodge the boards, to reach my mum. Because I know with certainty she is down there.

That she is dead.

Mum.

I thump on the floor with my fists. I can’t reach her.

She’s down there alone and I cannot bear it.

I rise to my feet, unsteadily at first and then I am hurling myself at the door, over and over.

‘Let me out. Let me out.’

And then I’m a crumpled heap, weeping, whispering, ‘Please.’

Hearing the movement outside.

Waiting to see what Camilla does next.

Chapter 62

camilla

Camilla slides to the ground. Her back leaning against the door. The sound of Jen crying is tearing her in two. This is her best friend. The person she loves the most in the world other than Mason. The only reason Mel had welcomed Camilla in as part of the family, that Amy had treated her like a second sister, is because Jen had allowed them to. Because she is open-hearted and kind and …

Trapped.

Camilla turns with a sob, reaching up for the padlock. Fingers fumbling to release it, but then Jen asks, ‘Camilla. Is my mum under this hut?’ And Camilla’s arm drops. ‘Tell me.’

‘Yes.’

There is one single scream. A scream that seems to last forever. A scream that is so full of pain Camilla covers her ears because she feels it. Everything Jen is feeling, she feels it all and she is sick, and scared, and so unbelievably sorry.

And then there is silence.

For a moment Camilla allows herself to imagine that the shock has killed Jen. That she can bury her next to Mel and they can be together in a way they cannot be in life anymore. She could go back to Mason, look after Amy. Everything would, somehow, be okay. But then comes a pounding on the door. The vibrations of the word nudging Camilla forward and then back.

‘You bitch. You fucking, fucking bitch. I’m going to kill you.’

There’s such intense hatred in Jen’s words that Camilla covers her head with her forearms as though the threats might slice through the door and physically harm her. She makes herself a ball, curled in on herself, rocking, rocking, rocking.

And then again, perfect peace, perfect quiet.

Followed by Jen asking one single, sad question.

‘Why?’

She raises her face, wipes her cheeks.

Why?

She owes Jen that much at least, so she turns towards the door, so Jen can hear her properly and slowly, and she tells her everything, transporting them both back to their uni days while she begins at the beginning. Her throat raw with the amount of crying and screaming she has done. The small space loosening around the things she needs to say, but she speaks as loudly as she can, as clearly, because she only ever wants to say this once.

‘I don’t want to hear all of this. I need to know about Mum,’ Jen snaps as Camilla explains how she’d felt when they’d had the photos taken. How desperate she’d been to get rid of them.

‘It’s important. It’s all linked to what happened with Mel.’ Camilla wants to get the story right. The right words in the right order. Although she has a chance now to rewrite the narrative, she won’t.

She tells the truth about Don.

‘My uncle is Mason’s father?’ Jen interrupts her, incredulous. ‘But … that means Mason is my cousin?’

‘Yes.’

There’s a second before Jen asks, ‘Camilla. Did he … did he rape you?’

Camilla shakes her head, knowing that Jen cannot see but there are tears streaming down her face and she’s too choked to speak. Despite … this. Despite everything, there is genuine concern in the question about what Camilla might have gone through. Concern she doesn’t deserve.

But then Jen is saying her name, her tone sharper, as though she’s remembered where they are. Why they are here. Her voice is cold as she says, ‘I don’t understand how this resulted in you killing my mum.’

‘I didn’t.’ Camilla takes a breath because, although it sounds so cold-blooded, so calculated, she did kill Mel, didn’t she? ‘It was an accident.’

She explains how Mel had raced to confront Don when she’d heard. Not only to tell him what she thought of him, how ashamed she was, but also to make sure he stuck to his financial obligations because he’d stopped paying and Camilla could no longer afford her flat. ‘She wanted to look after you.’ Jen sounds bitter and Camilla doesn’t blame her. But the last kindness Mel had showed anyone hadn’t been to her, it had been to Lily.

It is difficult to voice aloud, the door between them doesn’t absorb her shame, her guilt as she relays that even though she had been drinking she got behind the wheel of a car.

‘You drove my mum while you were drunk?’ The anger comes back at her.

‘Not drunk no, but.’ There’s nothing that can make it better. Her senses had been impaired, hadn’t they?

‘You wouldn’t have driven if Mason had been in the car, would you?’

‘No.’ Camilla doesn’t hesitate for a second. ‘I thought we were coming to yours. I was desperate to see him. It was a two-minute journey. It should have been a two-minute journey.’ Camilla explains about Lily’s call. Her agreement to meet with her brother.

‘Mel wanted to go and pick her up before she changed her mind again.’

‘You could have said no.’

‘I tried! Mel insisted. I could hardly have forced the issue, could I?’

‘Of course you could,’ Jen fires back at her. ‘No. No. No. No.’ Each time Jen speaks, she slams against the door. ‘See? It’s fucking easy.’

Camilla moans. Nothing about that night – since that night – has been easy. Nothing will ever be easy again. It’s as though she’s watching someone else, stepping out of her skin as she shares how sickened she felt when she realised she had hit someone.

It’s there again. The heavy feeling of plummeting back into her own body. The bile in her throat. She retches. Jen’s voice coming from far away, high above the trees. She can’t hear properly. She’s rigid. Back in the driver’s seat. Clutching the steering wheel. The world spinning, spinning, spinning.

‘Camilla,’ Jen asks. ‘Did my mum die in the crash?’

Oh, how Camilla longs to say yes. It wouldn’t absolve her guilt but it might make it more bearable for Jen. She could say that Mel was thrust forward. Broke her neck. That it was instant. Painless.

Would that bring Jen any comfort?

But of course, once Mel’s body is recovered, Jen would learn that her skull had been crushed with a hard object. That a purposeful blow to the head had killed her.

Then again, Jen would only ever know this if she herself was alive, wouldn’t she?

Camilla reminds herself that she is the one with the power right now.

Chapter 63

jen

‘Please.’ I’m yo-yoing between shouting and whispering, begging and threatening. My emotions are all over the place. On one level I know that I’m angry and devastated. Frightened when I think about what Mum has been through, what is still to come for me. Sadder than I’ve ever been in my entire life. But everything is coated in such a thick layer of disbelief, I’m kind of numb too.

I feel strange. One moment sounds are too loud, the next I can barely hear. My hearing echoey, vision tunnelling.

‘I need to know, Camilla. Everything,’ I say firmly because she’s deliberating, I know. Trying to decide what to share, what to keep hidden. But too much has been hidden and, even though I fear that I might never recover from what she might reveal, I have to know because I’d be forever wondering otherwise. Even if this is the last thing I ever learn, and I’m under no illusions that I might get to walk away from this, from her, she has to tell me.

She owes me that much, at least.

‘You weren’t there.’ She’s speaking again. Not at the same volume as before but I can just make out what she’s saying over the frenzied thumping of my heart. ‘You can’t imagine. It’s as though time had sped up but also everything was incredibly slow. It was … kind of like watching a film. I could see myself in the driver’s seat. See Mel, kneeling over Lily. I thought I’d killed her. She was … so still.’

‘But you didn’t.’ I remind Camilla of this after she falls into silence. ‘Lily is alive.’

‘That … that makes it worse.’ Her voice is thick with tears but she carries on. ‘Because … I needn’t have. Oh god. It was Mason, you see. The thought of going to prison for murder, drunk driving. I don’t know what the charge would have been but all I could think of was him growing up without me. In the system like I had been. I didn’t, I didn’t have time to think it all through properly.’

‘What did you do?’ Dread slithers around my insides, cold and creeping.

‘It was as though someone else took over. Panic, I think. I was out of control. It wasn’t the alcohol, it was, it was fear. Fear of being parted from Mason. Of him having the same upbringing that I had. In foster homes. Untethered.’

‘What did you do?’

‘If I could go back. Oh god, I wish I could go back. I relive it all the time. In my head. I feel the rain pouring down on me. The panic that—’

‘What. Did. You. Do?’

And then she tells me.

It’s as though I’ve been skinned alive, rolled in salt.

Every single millimetre of me is on fire. The pain unimaginable. Unbearable. I splay my hands out on the floor and wait, actually wait for the anguish to kill me.

But it doesn’t.

There is part of me that wants it to, because I see it too now. Camilla opening the boot and hefting up the jack. Thunder rumbling. Lightning whipping across the inky sky. Mum unsuspecting, soothing Lily’s hair from her face. Offering soft words of comfort. Waiting for an ambulance that she thought Camilla had called to arrive.

Waiting for help that never came.

Would she have felt it?

That blow to the back of her head?

Would she have had a split second of knowing. Sensing the shadow fall across her. Perhaps glimpsing Camilla in her peripheral vision, raising her arms above her head, bringing down the tool with her weight behind it.

I hear the crack of bone.

Smell the blood.

I stagger to my feet, dizzy, stumbling around the hut wanting to get away from the images in my own mind. And then I’m hunched over, vomiting. Realising that Mum is underneath the floorboards and I’m on my knees, trying to frantically scrape the vomit away from the heart with her initials in it that Camilla had carved. Not wanting it to seep through the gaps. Spill on her.

Then I’m lying facedown, palms flat against the floor, wishing she could press her palms against mine. My forehead resting, perhaps mirroring where hers is.

‘Mum,’ I whisper. ‘Mum.’ I am completely, absolutely, utterly broken.

For a micro moment I imagine her whispering my name back, and then Amy’s name, and when I’m reminded of my daughter I know I can’t give up.

I crawl back towards the door, towards Camilla.

‘What happens now?’ I ask.

Chapter 64

camilla

‘What happens now?’ Jen asks again, louder this time.

Camilla has another decision to make. Another bad choice. The only choice if she wants to be the one to raise Mason, and she does, more than anything. More than the sick feeling in her stomach that tells her she cannot do what she is about to do.

She rises to her feet.

There is scarcely any light but she can feel the knife reassuring in her hand.

She reaches for the padlock.

Until something stops her unlocking it.

A voice, calling Jen’s name.

Chapter 65

jen

I can hear a voice. Amy’s?

It is, it’s Amy calling my name. A sob catches in my throat. I don’t know how she’s found me but the fact that she has, that she’s here, means everything.

It means that, despite the horrible, hurtful things she said, she cares.

Her voice is growing fainter, she’s going the wrong way. As much as I want to call her, scream her name, the thought of Camilla out there with the knife is a gag tight around my mouth. I want my daughter as far away as possible from us.

Camilla’s unhinged, unbalanced, and I know how it feels to be that close to the edge. She’s unpredictable. Her only way out of this is if she doesn’t let me go.

Doesn’t let either Amy or me go.

But then my daughter’s cries grow closer again.

It’s only minutes before she finds us.

Chapter 66

camilla

Everything is closing in on her. Her chest is so tight, so painful, she fears she is having an actual heart attack. The sharp pain each time she inhales taunts that every breath might be her last. She grapples for air, her vision flecked with black spots.

What is she going to do?

What the fuck is she going to do?

Amy is virtually here.

There is only one way out of this. Only one solution. As much as it pains her, she flicks open the blade to the knife.

Chapter 67

jen

At the sound of Amy outside, I feel it all. Everything. A rage that is as much a part of me as my limbs. There’s a suffocating despair that I am stuck in here, along with a panic I have never felt before.

It is this intense fear that fuels me. I may have tried to get out of here before but then only my life was at stake.

Now it’s my daughter’s life too.

‘Run, Amy!’ I scream. Through the darkness my hands find a chair, I stumble towards where the windows should be. Raising the chair above my head and battering it against the criss-crossed slats that I hadn’t been able to break free before.

Rockets of pain fire up my arms, my wrists, my elbows, darting through my shoulders, my neck. Into my skull. My teeth clamp down and my mouth fills with blood. Still I grip the chair, bashing it over and over with a strength I didn’t know I possessed – a mother’s strength. Right now I feel as though I could do anything for my child. Lift a car off her, run into a burning building. I have never felt more like a mum than I do right now.

It’s too dark to see clearly, but I do not stop until I hear the splinter of wood. See the night sky dotted with stars. I clamber through the frame and drop onto the ground outside. On some level I register the pain, but I do not feel it as I scramble to my feet and rush around to the front of the hut where, by the creamy light of the moon, I see Amy.

Camilla.

The sharp point of the knife pressing against tender skin.

Chapter 68

camilla

The metal blade is cold against her own wrist. Camilla is shaking so hard the steel scrapes the surface of her skin but it doesn’t penetrate because something is preventing her from pressing down. Stopping her slicing into the artery.

Mason.

She’s crying, shaking.

‘Stop!’ Amy rushes towards Camilla, but before she can reach her Jen has barrelled her out of the way. Jen holds Amy, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Camilla knows that whatever the future holds they will be okay. They have each other. But …

Mason.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Jen says, but her saying that isn’t the same as saying that she doesn’t want Camilla to do it, and why would she want to save her, really? Camilla has wrenched her mother from their lives in the most unimaginable, the most unthinkable way.

‘There isn’t another choice.’ Camilla’s voice trembles, her eyes meeting Jen’s. More than anything, she wants Jen to offer her a choice, a way out of this that won’t involve her going to prison, losing Mason. That won’t incriminate her in the disappearance of Mel, her subsequent demise, but Jen gives a barely imperceptible shake of her head – no – and Camilla’s last desperate hope crumbles. Of course Jen won’t help her cover up a death – her mother’s death.

Over the years, despite their pact to always tell the truth, there has been a river of secrets between them. Don being Mason’s father perhaps the biggest of all. This is a secret too far. If they try to keep it then it would drown both of them.

Amy has her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. She has stopped struggling against Jen’s grip and is now still with shock.

There it is again. Jen’s small shake of the head – no.

Perhaps she means ‘don’t do this’. Perhaps there is something in Jen that still cares for Camilla. That doesn’t want to see her take her own life, but then perhaps she is trying to protect Amy from the sight of it. Maybe she just wants her to rot in jail, to pay for what she’s done.

Does she really need to do this? Her fingers are tingling with the pressure of keeping her hand clawed around the handle.

A Promise.

She had once promised Mel to always be the best version of herself that she could be. But life is full of broken promises, isn’t it? Broken people.

She weighs everything up, quickly, quickly, quickly. This way Mason will have to live with the grief of losing her, but losing her in a different way to the justice system. This way, there’s a chance he won’t find out what she did. She pictures a world where he’s bullied at school – ‘your mother’s a murderer’ – a world where she’s eager to see him after she’s been released but he doesn’t want to see her. He doesn’t love her anymore. He has to live with the shame of the knowledge of what she did to Mel, to Jen, to Amy, as does she. Then she pictures another future where he’s the child whose mother died tragically young and although he’s sad, he’s moved on. There is no stigma attached to it. He is loved and happy and …

Camilla’s crumpling. Folding in on herself. It’s an effort to stay upright.

She cannot endure the weight of her guilt, so how can she pass it on to him? For if it is too heavy for her to carry, what might that load do to his small shoulders?

It would be better for everyone if she wasn’t here.

Twigs snap underfoot. Jen is walking towards her, holding her hand out. ‘Give me the knife.’

‘Don’t come any closer.’ Camila doesn’t add anything else. She doesn’t say what she’ll do if Jen continues to advance because she doesn’t know. ‘There isn’t another choice,’ Camilla says again, a whisper this time.

‘There’s always a choice,’ Jen says and this is what brings Camilla to her knees. This realisation that yes, there is always a choice and up to now she hasn’t made the right ones. She hasn’t done the right thing.

She hangs her head for a moment before raising it to the sky, straightening her arm, applying pressure to the knife, the blade against her wrist.

She has made her final choice.

But then there’s a voice.

‘Amy? Amy?’

Mason.

Camilla chokes back a sob.

He runs into the clearing, so small and perfect and hers, followed by a man she doesn’t know.

‘Andy?’ Jen stares at the man.

‘Sorry, I promised Amy I’d keep this little one in the car but he didn’t want to stay there anymore. I think he felt quite scared, not knowing me.’

‘Mummy!’ Mason exclaims delightedly. Camilla barely notices as Jen takes the knife from her and slips it into her pocket as Mason hurls himself into her arms.

She holds him against her tightly, hoping that it isn’t for the very last time.

Epilogue

It’s been a tough few months without Mum. Emotionally, mentally, financially. At first, all I wanted to do was run away. Grab Amy and get as far away from this town, the gossip, as possible, but Amy wanted to stay in our familiar home. Build a relationship with Andy who offered to move here and I owe her that much at least. Both of them. It’s odd having him around but that’s the circle of life, isn’t it? No matter how painful. Families grow and shrink and grow again. An infinite love that never ends.

Besides, there is comfort here in these four walls that contain so many memories. Initially it seemed we might lose the house. I couldn’t afford the rent on my wages alone and one thing Amy and I were both united on was that we didn’t want another lodger. But then it was decided Mason would live with us and we received financial help. We are, after all, his cousins and there wasn’t anyone else. I don’t mean that to sound like he’s a burden. He isn’t. He brings us flashes of joy, lighting up the darkest of times.

After the school’s investigation into the way I dealt with Craig over the photo incident was found in my favour, I was invited back.

Instead of returning straight away, I took some leave from work to grieve for Mum and to settle Mason in to living with us, but he asked to go back to nursery – I guess the routine was comforting – and I found myself rattling round the house, alone. I spent time visiting Bert Edwards, the lovely old man I thought was Luke’s landlord, in his new care home and although he’s always pleased to see me I was just putting off the inevitable.

Anxiety quickened my heart, warmed my blood, the first time I stepped back into a classroom. I expected sniggers and taunts and references to the photo, but the kids had moved on to other gossip, the teachers kind about my loss, even Kamil.

I never did find out how that photo resurfaced. Uncle Don was right, in the digital age nothing really ever goes away.

Sometimes I remember that night, sprawled on the bed, body on display, but more than that, exposing my soul. I don’t remember the shame or the awkwardness or the desperation but instead I recall the feeling of empowerment. I’d always covered myself up, embarrassed by the scar from my C-section, never wearing a bikini, not wanting anyone, especially Amy, to ask questions, to guess my secret. Although that night I had covered up my scar with a suspender belt, I’d felt a freedom I’d never felt before. OnlyFans is huge now. Their subscription service is what Harvey always dreamed of building. I don’t feel any judgement towards the women who create accounts – their body, their choice.

Uncle Don resigned from the university and they were thankful he left quietly without causing a scandal. He got a new job teaching in a private boys’ school. There’s no temptation there for him. I don’t really think he still deserves to be in education, but Mum was big on second chances and he’s good at what he does. He’s generous with his money, if not with his time. He doesn’t want a close relationship with Mason, not now anyway. He’s rebuilding his life after Aunty Carol left him. He regularly attends therapy and is hoping that one day she’ll forgive him. I’m not sure if she will. Forgiveness is something I think about often. Anyway, Don’s stepped up in a way he hadn’t before, regularly checking that Mason is okay, that he has everything he needs. I’m not sure whether that’s out of genuine concern or guilt but nevertheless, it’s given us some semblance of security: knowing that while everything else fell apart we could remain here. Amongst Mum’s things.

I see her everywhere. Sleeves rolled up, whisking the batter for the Sunday yorkshire puddings because the frozen ones just don’t taste the same. Putting the plates on to warm before the Friday-night dash to the chip shop.

Traditions that Amy and I will carry on.

In the morning I imagine her drawing smiley faces into the condensation on the windows. Draping our pyjamas over radiators to warm them before bed. Scraping tuna into Marmalade’s bowl for his Saturday-night tea – he deserves a weekend treat too.

Singing, always singing.

The lyrics forever mixed up, back to front.

‘Don’t go bacon my heart.’

The necklaces that none of us wears any longer.

‘Don’t go bacon my heart.’

My heart is broken.

I miss her every second of every day.

Amy does too and I know her feelings are more confused than mine. More conflicted. Mum had lied to her, we both had, and that’s something she’s still coming to terms with. She has counselling every week. I’ve been invited to join their next session. I think that’s a good sign. Amy and I have clung together as our grief tried to wash us away. I don’t know if she’s forgiven me but I’m hopeful that one day she can.

Andy too. He hadn’t felt ready to be a father, but he’s ready now and he’s trying to be the best parent he can be.

We all are.

Amy doesn’t call me Mum. I’m not sure she ever will and I’m not sure if I’d want her to. It’d feel weird for us both. Mum was … everything to both of us.

Mason, on the other hand, called me Mummy a few nights ago after he woke from another nightmare. He scuttled onto my lap, burying his face in my neck, and when he uttered that word I knew it was time.

And that brings us to today.

Mason is sitting on the bottom stair, Amy helping him with his shoes, those flashing Thomas trainers that bring him so much joy.

‘They’re getting too tight.’ Amy looks up at me, her face stricken, and I know just how she feels. It’s stupid, it’s only footwear but it feels like another loss. Another reminder of happier times slipping away.

I open my mouth to reassure her that we can probably buy the same pair again but then, is that healthy? Trying to recreate something when it’s gone? It isn’t about locating the same trainers but capturing the same feeling and sometimes it’s healthier to let things go, isn’t it? To look to the future and not to the past.

And that’s what I’m doing now even though a hundred nervous butterflies flutter around my stomach.

Amy stands in front of me and then, to my surprise and delight, she wraps me in the tightest of hugs. ‘You’ve got this, sis,’ she says and for a moment it’s like nothing has changed.

But of course, everything has.

Amy isn’t coming with me. She wanted to spend the day with Andy instead and I don’t blame her.

‘Picnic now?’ Mason asks.

‘It’s already in the car,’ I tell him.

‘Yes!’ He punches the air with a small fist. ‘Woods?’

Such an innocent word but it spears me. Amy and I had been back to Ashwood Forest the day after Mum’s funeral. Her service at the crematorium hadn’t felt like a day for us to say goodbye, more of a coming together of those who knew and loved her. Everyone sad and bewildered. We’d tried to make it a celebration of life. Mum’s favourite songs. Her favourite foods at the wake but, with every mourner wanting to express their shock, their condolences, I’d felt I just couldn’t breathe.

Going to Ashwood was mine and Amy’s way of trying to let go. Placing posies of wild flowers in the clearing where we’d spent so many happy times. Hoping that saying goodbye at the place Mum’s body was found would bring us some sort of closure. Peace.

It hadn’t. Not really because, as Amy tells me, her therapist is fond of saying, peace isn’t a person or a place, it’s something that’s inside of us all. We have to learn to cultivate a stillness.

I’m still very much a work in progress although I try.

Last week I’d seen the therapist outside Tesco, yanking her bags savagely from the trolley and dumping them into the boot of her car, muttering angrily to herself.

‘Where’s your inner peace now?’ I had wanted to ask her but I hadn’t. It had made me feel better, though, recognising that we’re all human. Everyone has bad days, bad weeks, bad months.

The potential of good days ahead.

I open the front door and come face to face with the postman. He hands me the post, along with a cheery smile. I thank him as I sift through it. A pizza takeaway leaflet offering a fifty per cent discount. I might be glad of that later. It’s going to be a long day. There’s a flyer for a local window cleaner and a postcard from Cornwall.

I take a moment to study the front. The golden sands and glittering sea. I have a flashback to family holidays. Mum, rarely stretched out under the brilliant blue sky, soaking up the sun like the other mums, but digging holes with Amy and me – ‘Last one to reach Australia is a loser.’

Mum humming ‘Summertime’ sometimes singing ‘and the living is sleazy’. Goodness knows what she thought the story behind that song was.

Amy snatches the postcard from me and turns it over.

‘It’s from Luke and Lily,’ she says. I knew it would be, that was why I was reluctant to read it.

I feel no animosity towards Lily, I really don’t. It wasn’t her fault that Mum was trying to help her. Mum would have helped anyone, a lost child, a confused pensioner, an abandoned animal, I am reminded as Marmalade pads in through the open front door.

Still, it’s hard. Knowing Luke and Lily are off building their relationship, living their best lives while Mum’s has been cut short. I wish them nothing but happiness but … I don’t know, as I said, I’m a work in progress. Still processing everything, I suppose.

Mason has run out to the car now and I follow him. Amy strapping him into his seat. Waving from the driveway as I reverse into the road.

Although I wasn’t in Mum’s car at the time of the accident, driving still makes me a little nervous. I check my speed more than I used to, my mirrors. Knowing it only takes a second, a momentary lapse of concentration for lives to be ruined.

Ended.

After a while Mason falls asleep. His Thomas toy clutched in his hand.

I turn the radio down a little, my own thoughts louder than the music anyway.

Eventually we are here. I sit in the car, engine thrumming, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

I could just leave.

Mason wouldn’t know, he doesn’t understand, not really.

We could stop, as I’d planned to do, for the promised picnic on the way home, Willow Lake. I’d found it on Tripadvisor and it looks so pretty.

My heart rate increases, heat rushing through me.

I could just leave.

But then, from the radio, TLC sing ‘Waterfalls’ and I’m transported back to those short few months ago when Mum, Amy and I were preparing a picnic in the kitchen. The last day we all spent together.

Suddenly I’m crying and laughing as I cover my heart with my hand and sing, ‘Don’t go Jason Waterfalls’, just as I knew Mum would do.

For a moment she feels so close to me it’s as though I could reach out and touch her.

It’s a sign.

I’m exactly where I’m meant to be and everything is going to be okay. I focus fully on the song, not letting any negative thoughts intrude and I think I feel a fleeting connection to that peaceful place inside me.

I switch off the engine. The car falls silent and within seconds Mason is awake.

‘Are we there?’

‘Yes.’

I climb out of the car and unstrap him.

‘Picnic?’ he asks.

‘Not yet, sweetheart.’

‘Mummy?’ His face lights up.

‘Yes. We’re going to see Mummy.’

He holds my hand tightly as we walk through the gates of HMP Stockmarsh. Work our way through all the security checks.

The prison service have prepared us for this over the past few weeks but I don’t feel prepared. Not really. How can I? My best friend killed my mum and lied about it. How am I supposed to forgive that?

But I know Mum would want me to at least try.

And I will, eventually, but right now everything is too raw. It’s too soon. The only reason I’m here is for Mason because he deserves – he needs – to see his mum and there is no one else who could bring him. No one who is familiar to him anyway.

My legs begin to shake. I feel so many things. Fear, anger, regret, sadness as we walk towards Camilla.

But then, unexpectedly, something else kicks in – hope.

And although Mason has let go of me and run ahead once he’s spotted his mum, my hand isn’t empty. I feel Mum’s fingers wrapped around mine and although I don’t know when and I don’t know how, I know with certainty: everything is going to be okay.

The Following Letter Contains Spoilers

Hello,

Firstly, a huge thank you for joining me for my tenth psychological thriller. Ten! If you’ve been with me since the beginning, thanks for your continued support, and if you’re a new reader it’s great to have you on board! Ten books feels VERY special.

The idea for this book was sparked, as many of my ideas are, by my son Finley. Finley had been reading a paper regarding the sixth sense that alerts someone to the fact they are being watched. Apparently ninety-four per cent of people in that particular study were aware when there were eyes on them. I began to wonder about the other six per cent. What if someone was watching you and you weren’t aware of it? What if the person watching you was in your home, the place where you should feel the safest?

The Abbott family were an absolute joy to write. I grew up in a family of three with my mum working hard to support us and my older sister Karen looking after me even though I was likely very annoying. This made the book feel more personal and it became one of those (rare) stories where the words just fell onto the page. I feel so protective of Mel, Jen and Amy, and I think Amy has become one of my favourite characters ever.

If you’ve enjoyed The Liar then I’d be SO grateful if you could please pop a star rating and/or a short review on Amazon. It really does make a huge difference to a book’s visibility.

To keep up with my news, do sign up to my newsletter. I don’t send them out too often and you’ll get two free short stories. And do come and say hello on Facebook (and take part on our Sunday Book Share) or Instagram.

Hope you join me next year for my next thriller exploring a (not really) true-crime case about the rise and fall of the Finch Family.

Acknowledgements

Book ten! It’s hard to believe that I didn’t begin writing until 2014 and now my tenth book is out there, which of course wouldn’t have happened without a whole raft of people.

Thank you to HQ Stories for allowing me to tell the stories I want to tell. Manpreet Grewal, Cat Camacho and the entire team from production to PR, Marketing to Sales are such a pleasure to work with, expertly headed by the inspirational Lisa Milton.

Big thanks to The Blair Partnership, in particular Rory Scarfe, Hattie Grunewald and the rights team.

I’m forever indebted to readers, book bloggers and all the wonderful online book groups. A particular mention for my Facebook Sunday Book Share community.

There was much research needed for this book and Stuart Gibbons of GIB Consultancy has yet again helped in regard to police procedures.

I’m grateful for Sue Jane for answering my endless questions about social workers. Sue is one of my oldest friends (almost thirty years!) and I’ve watched as she’s worked tirelessly, under extreme pressure. She really does make the world a better place.

Thanks to my family and friends. Rebecca Jensen, Pauline, Mike, Jo and the gang. Special shout-out to Sarah and Natalie, who make me believe I can do anything. Mum and sister, Karen.

My husband Tim, who has been such a huge support. We really do make the best team.

My children, who have grown into adults I am so ridiculously proud of, Callum, Kai and Finley.

Ian Hawley. Always.

Book Club Questions (Contains Spoilers)

Who was your favourite character in the book and why?

Were you surprised by Amy’s parentage? Did you understand why it was kept from her? Do you think Amy will ever be able to think of Jen and Andy as her parents?

Do you think anyone in the book is truly ‘bad’ or rather just made terrible decisions in moments of extreme stress?

Uncle Don abused his position. What do you think should happen to him and what do you think will happen to him?

Luke is mistaken for the prospective tenant and although he never confirms this, he is so desperate to trace Lily he never denies it either. What did you think of him and his actions?

Amy is chatting online to someone she believes is her own age. Did you grow up with social media? Do you think it’s a good or bad thing?

Who did you think the watcher (the chapters in italics) was?

Andy couldn’t face up to his responsibilities when he was younger. Do you believe in second chances?

The novel ends with Jen going to visit Camilla as Mason still connects them. Do you think there is any hope for their relationship?

What do you think will happen after the novel ends?

Keep Reading …

Turn the page for an exclusive extract of The Intruders, the pulse-pounding thriller from Louise Jensen

They were told to leave. They should have listened …

Available to buy now!

Now

I didn’t mean to hurt anyone but it’s irreplaceable and after it was taken I was desperate to get it back.

Now that I have it again, I’ll do anything to keep it.

Anything.

After you’ve heard my story, I think you’ll understand.

I think, perhaps, you’d do the same.

Prologue

Thirty years ago

Somebody’s trying to break into the house.

It’s almost inaudible, the sound of the front door handle being lowered, slowly, slowly, but on her way back from the fridge with a bottle of wine, Marina hears the squeak.

Sees the movement.

Her heart pounds painfully in her chest.

Think.

Her husband is upstairs taking a shower – all of her family are upstairs. Their youngest child already in bed, the eldest supposedly reading.

Marina’s eyes are locked on the handle but it doesn’t move again – had she imagined it? There’s a raging storm battering the house.

Could the ferocious wind have rattled the door? She checks that it is locked.

The grandfather clock shows it’s only just gone 8.15 but the nights are already lengthening. From the record player in the drawing room, Flanagan and Allen sing ‘Run, Rabbit, Run’.

She’s playing the song, not because she likes it, but to remind herself.

Run.

Run.

Run.

She shivers. It’s cold in this part of the house. She thinks of the fire she has lit as she peers out of the window. Outside, the sky is inky black, the moon casting a creamy light. In the darkness the window is a mirror; all she can see is her own worried face peeking back at her.

Rain lashes against the leaded pane, a cold breeze pushing through the cracks in the frames. The beech tree creaks and bends, a branch tap-tap-taps against the glass.

Let me in.

Let me in.

Let me in.

She is just berating her overactive imagination, allowing herself to relax, heading back to the battered leather armchair that moulds around her body, when she hears the crunch of gravel from the courtyard.

A throaty cough.

Oh, god.

This is not solely a storm or a tree or anything innocuous.

Somebody is out there.

There’s a sudden whip of lightning. Startled by the flash, she whimpers, her fingers tightening around the neck of the wine bottle, the source of her nightly pleasure has now become a weapon.

Thunder rumbles, low and loud.

Remembering the back door, she hurries through the kitchen to double-check it’s locked, feet cold against the flagstone floor. She grinds to a halt, horrified.

A face outside the kitchen window.

Eyes staring in.

Hot breath misting the glass.

She presses herself against the wall, trying to make herself invisible. The lingering scent of mince and onions from the children’s dinner turns her stomach.

The shadow lifts. The figure gone.

Hurry.

Marina rushes back to the entrance hall, picks up the phone with a shaking hand. Her fingers are trembling so violently she has to jab at the numbers several times until she gets it right.

999.

As soon as she is connected she whispers urgently, stating her name, that she lives in Newington House. That she is scared.

Somebody is trying to break in.

She garbles that she is downstairs, by the front door. That, no, she is not safe.

When she had first moved here she had loved the solitude; there aren’t any neighbours for miles. It’s so beautiful when the buttery sun melts over the woodland. Peaceful. Often the only sound is the rustling of leaves, the birds singing loud and clear, the bubbling of the brook.

Now she feels too isolated.

Aside from her family, there’s nobody to hear her scream.

‘Mrs Madley, help is on the way,’ the operator says in a calm voice. ‘Who else is in the house with you?’

‘My family.’ She runs through them even though it is painful to think of her youngest child starfished in the cot bed that has been passed down through generations, in the pale yellow nurs- ery where cheerful ducks march endlessly around the border.

The eldest child, a teenager, concentrating on her book, forehead creased as she absorbs herself in a world that, right now, is very preferable to this one. Why oh why couldn’t she be out with some unsuitable boy tonight?

Her husband, shampooing his hair. Apple-scented suds frothing down the drain.

‘How long will the police take to get here?’ Marina asks. What should she do in the meantime?

There are precious things under this roof that she needs to protect.

The shatter of glass from the kitchen.

A creak.

The back door opening?

The phone thuds from her hand. Dizziness engulfs her. Ridiculously she is still clutching the bottle of wine. Her mouth hanging open as she draws in shallow breaths, sweat trickling from her upper lip into her mouth.

Think.

She hears the sound of a low voice muttering, the dull thud of footsteps, slow, leaden.

Somebody is inside the house.

Terror beats at her chest with clenched fists.

Run.

She darts into the great hall. Eyes wildly seeking refuge. The oak panelling Marina had once thought so elegant now dark and oppressive, closing in on her. The beamed ceiling pressing down.

She could try and find somewhere to hide but upstairs…

She has to warn her family, has to.

She raises the bottle. Can she really smash it into somebody’s face?

Yes.

Yes, she can do whatever it takes, her fight-or-flight response has kicked in, and she is not running away.

But she has never, ever, felt so scared.

From upstairs, the groan of a floorboard. One of the children moving around their room.

Don’t come downstairs.

Don’t come downstairs.

Don’t come downstairs.

She sprints, her socked feet slip-sliding. Has almost made it to the bottom of the stairs in the corner of the room, when an arm snakes around her neck, a hand clamps across her mouth. The wine bottle smashes as it hits the floor, liquid splattering her legs.

She writhes and kicks and tries to bite the fingers that smell of nicotine and that’s when she notices.

There is somebody approaching her.

Two.

There are two people in her house. Possibly more.

Hysteria rises.

The intruder is wearing a mask, a sheep’s head, and she has never seen anything more terrifying.

Tears leak from her eyes as she watches helplessly as he takes the stairs two at a time. She’s still fighting to be free.

Her family.

Marina is bundled roughly away from the stairs, into the drawing room. Shards of glass from the broken bottle pierce the tender skin on the soles of her feet leaving a trail of bloodied footprints behind her. She tries to resist, knocking over a side table with her elbow as she scrabbles for traction on the oak floors. A china bowl smashes on the ground, the scent of floral potpourri cloying. It had always been her favourite but after tonight she would forever associate the smell with this.

If there is an after.

She feels a momentary rise of hope that her husband might have heard the bowl smash but this is dashed when she hears the water gurgling in the ancient pipes.

He’s still in the shower.

She imagines him naked, vulnerable, unable to protect them.

She wants to weep.

The intruder throws her onto the green velvet sofa. She scurries into the corner and folds in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest, both forming a barrier and trying to hold herself together.

‘Help,’ she screams.

There’s the stinging crack of a hand across her cheek. She begins to cry.

‘Please, don’t hurt me. I can give you money.’

‘Money is not what I’m here for.’ The voice is sharp from behind the mask.

Terror is a heavy pressure building in her lungs.

Breathe.

She can’t.

Think.

‘Please. Take what you want. Those candleholders are solid silver. You could sell them. I’ve got jewellery upstairs.’

‘This is not a robbery.’

‘But there are antiques, you could—’

‘I am not here for money.’

What do these people want?

But when she learns what it is, she shakes her head, shocked, confused. The intruder advances towards her, eyes blank behind the sheep mask. She cowers. Her cheek still throbbing with pain, fearing there is more to come.

Marina is shaking so violently her teeth rattle together. ‘I called the police, they’re on their way. If you leave now you can get away. I won’t tell them anything. I haven’t seen your face.’

Almost in slow motion, bathed in the orangey glow from the crackling fire, the intruder slowly lifts off the mask.

And grins.

And that’s when Marina knows with certainty, she is going to die tonight.

There’s a chilling scream from somewhere above her.

Her eldest.

‘No. She’s just a child, a teenager!’ What is the man upstairs doing to her? She staggers to her feet. Charges towards the door. Feet stinging. Feels a burning pain in her skull. Instantly there are fingers wrapped around her hair, she feels a clump being yanked from her scalp.

‘Please,’ she begs. Her arms above her head, hands holding the intruder’s wrists, digging her nails sharply into skin, clawing at it.

‘Bitch.’

She is roughly pushed away, landing heavily onto her hands and knees. A foot stamps on her back so she’s sprawled flat on the floor, clutching the edges of the rug. Rockets of pain shoot through her spine.

‘Please,’ she begins to crawl. Begging, not just for her life, but for her family’s.

Reverberating through the house, her husband’s roars of pain.

‘Please!’ Somehow she staggers to her feet. Hands held out in front of her. ‘Please stop.’ Every cell in her body buzzing with panic. Willing for someone to save her. For the sound of sirens. For anything.

Lightning whips. Thunder grumbles.

‘Mummy?’ The sound of a small voice. ‘I’m scared.’

The intruder releases her. Stalks towards her youngest child, her baby. Freshly bathed, in hedgehog pyjamas.

Innocent.

‘No.’ She leaps onto the intruder’s back. ‘No!’

The breath leaves her body in one violent rush as she’s tossed onto the floor as though she weighs nothing. As though she is nothing. Fuelled by a primal instinct, she scrambles to her feet. Propels herself forward again.

She doesn’t see the knife.

Doesn’t feel it pierce her body.

She crumples. Hands automatically seeking out the wound, feeling the warmth of the blood flow through her splayed fin- gers. Smells the metallic tang.

She stares in horror as the intruder grabs for her child. She wills herself to move, but she can’t. She cannot give what has been demanded but she cannot bear what she is seeing. What she is hearing.

‘Please,’ she begs, no longer sure what she is begging for.

Now, finally, she hears the sirens. Through the glass, the flash of blue lights.

It has felt like hours but can only have been minutes.

The record player whirrs and clicks as it restarts the record.

Run.

Run.

Run.

She closes her eyes.

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