‘No, Katherine. We’ve indulged this for too long.’ I turned to my mother. ‘You put your hurt above everyone else’s. You raised us in pain because your husband died. You cast me aside because of what I did to your family. Well, it’s my family too.’ I softened, because despite my anger, I had come to understand her better. I sat on the bed. ‘I know it was hard. After you lost Dad, you had to do it all on your own. And I know you started to define yourself because of your name, because of what people thought of Dad, and I know that the only way to deal with that was to turn inwards, to make that name your own. But in doing so, you started to live up to the label that other people made for you. Cunningham doesn’t mean what you think it does. I know’—I surprised myself by picking up her hand; she let me take it, limp—‘what Dad was trying to do when he died.’

My mother’s eyes were glassy, but her jaw was firm. It was hard to tell whether she felt threatened or understood. I held her gaze, refusing to break first. ‘You do?’ she said.

‘I know about Rebecca McAuley. I know Dad had photographs implicating someone in her kidnapping, and probably her murder. I know Alan Holton was crooked. I know why you were so hurt that I took the law’s side over Michael’s. It took me a long time to see it through your eyes, but now I can. I know you went to visit Rebecca’s parents, two nights ago, when you cancelled dinner claiming to be sick. You told them to go home.’ I recited everything the McAuleys had told me, about my mother appearing at their door two nights ago. ‘You threatened them, Audrey. You asked if they had more children, if those children had grandchildren. Those people lost a child. How dare you use what happened to Rebecca as a threat. How dare you.’

‘I didn’t threaten them,’ Audrey said quietly. ‘I explained what the risks were.’

‘They know the risks. They lost a daughter.’ I took a deep breath, and then took the plunge with something I thought I’d figured out. ‘Just like you lost Jeremy.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘It was something Siobhan McAuley said,’ I ploughed on. ‘That they hadn’t hired private investigators for the last twenty-eight years. That struck me as a very specific number. Rebecca was kidnapped thirty-five years ago, which means the difference is seven years. That’s the same amount of time you waited to have Jeremy’s funeral. Seven years. There are no coincidences – those timings are the same for a reason. That’s how long it takes to declare a person legally dead, isn’t it?’