“Yeah, whatever.” Debbie sniffed in apparent contempt, but she was chewing a ragged path through the gloss on her bottom lip.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do more,” Rosie said. She shook her head at the inadequacy of the sentiment. “We tried our best, we really did, but nothing worked.” She shuddered, hit by an unwelcome flash of Jem, drenched and freezing, struggling alone in the dark with a dead child. Something of the horror of that night must have shown in her expression, because Debbie sobbed and quickly covered her mouth to stifle the sound.

“Mam?” A girl’s voice, young and fearful, carried from behind one of the closed doors. “Mam, you okay?”

“I’m fine, Lily.” Debbie wiped her face and straightened her shoulders, steel returning to her posture and voice. “Get Maisie’s milk ready and put them beans on for you and Harley.”

“All right, Mam.” Pans clanged, and Rosie heard bare feet pattering across a tiled floor. “I’ll do toast with the beans.”

“Good girl. Cut them crusts off for Harl,” Debbie told her.

“I know, Mam. I’m not stupid,” Lily yelled, and Debbie managed a wan smile as a hint of normality bled back into their lives.

Steph cleared her throat, obviously reluctant to intrude but needing to get her side of the proceedings underway.

“In here.” Debbie opened the living room door and paused on the threshold, turning to Rosie. “Kyle’s room is the second left off the landing. I’ve not—I went in there this morning, sat on his bed, but I didn’t move anything.”

“That’s not a problem,” Steph said before Rosie could respond. “If PC Jones needs to take an item to assist the investigation, it will be logged and returned to you if at all possible.”

Rosie didn’t catch Debbie’s reply; the door was already closing behind them, leaving her alone in the hallway. Concerned for the eleven-year-old fending for herself and her siblings, she pushed cautiously at the kitchen door and peered through the small gap. Warm air washed over her, carrying the scent of toast and tomato sauce, and she could see Lily and two younger children sitting on cushions on the floor, their dishes on their laps, their attention fixed on a wall-mounted television. The gas stove was off, no one was running with knives, and the baby’s fingers were nowhere near any of the plug sockets.

“Atta girl,” Rosie whispered, as Lily held her toast with one hand and the baby’s bottle with the other. The scenario was so familiar that Rosie could almost feel the rhythmic tug on the bottle as the baby suckled. She closed the door as quietly as she had opened it and walked upstairs.

* * *