‘I’m not,’ I say softly. ‘I’m just asking what you would do if they’d done something awful. If there was nothing you could do about it. What would you do, Bon? I’m asking you to help me understand,’ I plead, when she doesn’t answer.

‘If they killed someone I would not cover it up,’ she says, but how can she say this for certain unless she’s been in that position? Surely a parent would do anything to protect their child?

‘Do you remember that drawing pad?’ I say after we’ve fallen into a silence. ‘The one Danny used to sketch people in?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘I wonder what happened to it.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. He seemed to get people. He wasn’t interested in the trees or the beach or the sea, but he was interested in people.’

No one was allowed to look in his book. It was always tucked under his arm when he went up to the treehouse but he never once showed anyone. Then one day, Jill and I went up to the treehouse ten minutes after he’d come down. He can’t have realised he’d left it behind, but I saw it poking out from beneath one of the cushions.

Only when Jill left did I pull it out, flicking through its pages, expecting to see reams of words that I told myself I wouldn’t read. But there weren’t words. It was filled with cartoon drawings, caricatures of people, speech bubbles coming out of their mouths, and they were good. Really good. And even though I knew I shouldn’t be looking, I couldn’t help it because it was clear his characters were based on people we knew.

‘Do you think they’ll let me see him?’ I say.

Bonnie swings around, her face aghast. ‘Why would you even want to?’

‘I want to talk to him.’

‘No! No way. I don’t want to be one of those families you watch on the news, standing by a killer. I don’t want people thinking we condone him. I just want – I want this to go away,’ she exclaims. ‘I don’t want to deal with everyone knowing my brother’s a murderer. I can’t deal with it,’ she says, covering her face with her hands. ‘I can’t deal with any of it.’

I stand up and pull her in to me; her body shakes against mine. ‘It isn’t going to go away,’ I say. ‘We have to face it.’

‘No, we really don’t,’ she says, pulling back and looking up at me. Her face is streaked with tears. ‘We’ve had nothing to do with Danny for eighteen years. So, there’s no need to start now.’

‘It’s not as simple as that, Bonnie.’

‘Why isn’t it?’ she says in a childish demand.

‘Because you’re not considering what I want.’