A memory of her father slides into her head. She is standing in front of the stove, pouring Ready Brek into a bowl. Bright sunshine darts through the kitchen window. Her dad and Lisa are out on the lawn, standing close, laughing. He pats Lisa’s shoulder and gives her the kind of smile he usually saved for her mother. And even when they stop smiling, his hand is still touching Lisa and they’re gazing into each other’s eyes. Then he leans closer still until their lips are touching. The milk on the hob boiled over the top of the saucepan. She tried to move it off the heat but ended up slopping it down her bare legs. She screamed so loudly her father came running in, Lisa close behind him, pretending to care. Pretending to be her friend. No. No. No! She’s tried so hard to block out these memories.

The album drops from Maddy’s shaking hands, its spine bent back as if contorted in pain. Years of not knowing this was going on. Nauseous, she stands and leans against a chair. Sparks fly in front of her eyes. She shuts them for a second. When they open, she focuses on a child’s handprint pressed against the television screen, shown up in the layer of dust.

Around the downstairs of the house, she pushes open door after door and stops at the kitchen. On one side is orange patterned wallpaper, peeling at the corner like a dried leaf. On the bench, letters flop out of an upright basket. She runs her fingers through. Some are unopened. Ms Alison Wood repeated over and over. A bitter taste coats her mouth. Nothing for Max Saunders. Instead, Mr Adam Hawkins. She tears an envelope open, slicing her finger. A line of blood bursts from the cut. She licks it clean, shaking open the folded letter. Joint Account Bank Statement: food shopping, garage, mortgage, car insurance, food, hairdresser and clothes. She looks at her watch. Five more minutes and she’d better go. She opens the double-fronted fridge with ice maker. On the middle shelf is a four pack of draught Guinness. Max’s favourite.

The spaniel gives a solitary bark, making her jump. She peers through a rectangle of glass in the front door. Nobody there. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, straining to hear, her heart pounding in time with the dog’s tail thudding against the under-stairs cupboard.