My eyes stop suddenly. Next to an embarrassing KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON poster is a framed photo of me and Grace. I haven’t looked at it, really looked at the photo in months, maybe years. The photo was taken at Grace’s thirteenth birthday party. The huge helium “13” I gave her is attached to the back of her chair, next to me, where I’m leaning low so our heads are level for the camera. Grace is wearing a bright blue wig; a birthday badge on her chest says TEENAGER! We’re both grinning, but behind her glasses Grace’s eyes are fixed towards the camera while mine are cast sideways, towards Grace, like I’m checking she’s having a good time. Those were still the days when Meg would let me take Grace to the beach. We’d come home with red, wind-burned cheeks, sticky from ice cream, big smiles on our faces, and a feeling that everything was OK because we had each other. Grace loved the beach but she hated the water, never wanted to go near it. I asked her once why she was so frightened and she whispered “Danny” and I knew not to ask anymore. It can’t have been soon after that photo was taken that I met Chris and let my whole world shrink to fit him. Chris teased me for being friends with a disabled kid five years younger than me. At the same time, Grace’s fits got worse, and then it was too dangerous for me to take her out on my own. I started to see less of Grace, and when I did see her, often during one of her frequent hospital stays, she’d be hooked up to cruel-looking machines and an unspoken question in her eyes—Where have you been?—made me feel hollow with guilt, which only made me turn away from her more.

The doorbell rings and I hear Jane call “I’ll get it!” like we’re at her house. I quietly lock myself into the bathroom before she steps into the hallway and sees me.

I’ve already met the two police officers. They took my statement and DNA swabs a couple of hours ago at Ashford police station, while I left Mum wailing into Jane’s arms. DCI Upton has a strong face; she looks like the type who runs marathons for fun. DC Brown looks almost withered next to her. A skinny man so covered in freckles they’ve even reached his lips and the insides of his ears, he follows Brown like an apologetic shadow.

I know I’ll need to face Upton sooner or later, so I head to the kitchen. Jane swiftly clears Mum’s magazines and unopened mail from the table and the four of us sit.

“Thanks for seeing us again, both of you. I’m sure you’re exhausted so hopefully this won’t take too long.” Upton keeps her eyes on me as she talks.

Next to me, Mum runs her long nails through her rust-colored hair and rests her elbows on the table, leaning in towards Upton and Brown, not crying anymore. She’s reapplied her mascara and coral lipstick.