In the kitchen, Jane speaks into her radio. “OK, I’ll let them know. Over.” My neck feels stiff. Mum’s arms relax around me, so I take my chance and sit up.

“DCI Upton and DC Brown are just finishing up next door. They’ll then come over here to ask a few more questions, if that’s OK?” Jane looks at us.

Mum squeezes my hand one last time before letting it go.

“Cara told them everything already at the station . . .”

“It shouldn’t take long. They want to speak to both of you this time, more general questions about Megan and Grace.”

Jane and Mum keep their eyes fixed on me. They’ve been like that for hours, like they expect me to do something at any moment and don’t want to miss it. I nod, unsure whether I’ll be able to find my voice.

“If it gets too much at any point or you need to take a break, you just let us know, OK, Cara?” There’s a thin line of coral lipstick around the outside of Mum’s lips. I nod at her, but I know she wants to hear me say it.

“OK, yeah.” The words are sore in my throat and I stand, unsteadily, as Jane and Mum stare, wide-eyed.

“Toilet,” I tell them. There’s one just off the kitchen, but I decide to walk to the bathroom at the end of the hall instead. It’ll give me a bit more time alone, free from their staring eyes that make my skin prickle. Our bungalow has the same layout as number 52. Before I can stop myself, I glance at Mum’s bedroom door, the twin of Meg’s. Drip, drip. My mouth tastes like rust, like blood. I see Meg’s dead eyes, open but unseeing. I lean against the cool corridor wall to steady myself, turn away from Mum’s door. I breathe deep and slow, wait for my heart to settle, and let my eyes slide across the walls. They’re bursting with life and memories—Mum’s a sentimental hoarder. I spot an excruciating poem I wrote about autumn when I was ten.

Red leaves dance to the ground,

Soft and without a sound . . .

It’s framed next to a photo of Granny and Granddad grinning in deckchairs on Ashford Beach. There are countless photos of me, all the way from blubbery baby to unsmiling teen. A couple of cheap watercolors Mum’s had forever and a few framed posters. I’ve never understood why Mum bothers putting stuff up. No one ever sees it apart from her, which kind of defeats the point. But now I take comfort in these simple things. They’re like a stitch holding together the world before I found Meg’s body with the world now, just a few hours later—the safe “before” and the terrifying “after.”