Bert is in Edith’s room, the room where she sat out her last few months in her own home by the fire. Her chair sits in the same spot, empty. As empty as empty can be. I know that empty; it’s the same kind of empty that kicks me in the head when I’m at Dad’s house. When I look at where Mom used to sit, where Mom used to stand, or where Mom used to sing while she baked. Two drifters. That same implosive empty, like the whole world lived in that one spot and now that whole world has disappeared.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Bert?’ I say, knowing there is absolutely nothing I can do for Bert. It is his turn to be tormented by loss; there is no sharing the agony.

‘No, Becca,’ he says, lifting clothes out of a bag. ‘I have everything I need.’

I stand there looking at him, wondering what to say. How can I take that broken soul look from his face? But I don’t get the chance. As he zips closed the bag, Bert says, ‘I see that young girl who was looking for you is dead.’

So much for the sadness. It hasn’t diluted his curiosity.

‘I know. Dreadful, isn’t it?’

‘What did the police have to say about it?’

How does Bert know the cops were talking to me? I didn’t tell him. And how is he so sure it’s the same girl who was looking for me?

‘What?’

‘The police, I saw them at the Wall’s a couple of days ago.’

‘The cops?’

‘Yes, when I arrived back from the hospital they were walking out of the yard.’

‘Was Dad there?’

‘I don’t know. They were leaving at the time, so I don’t know if they got an answer. Did your father not mention it?’

What will I say? My heart is beating like a late night party and Bert is looking at me for an answer.

‘No, I haven’t spoken to him yet, maybe he wasn’t there when they called.’

‘Oh. Well, his van was outside.’

I’m ready to explode. Surely Dad would ring me and tell me if the cops called asking about me? He would, I know he would. He must have been down in the shed at the end of the yard and never heard their knock.

‘He was probably out back,’ I say, wanting Bert to stop talking about it.

‘I guess so,’ Bert replies, placing the bag on the floor. I hope he didn’t talk to the cops, that he didn’t tell them Katie Collins was at my dad’s house.

‘Did you talk to them?’

‘Who?’

‘The cops?’

‘God no, Becca, none of my business,’ he says.