“Does it?” I ask.

“No. It doesn’t. It’s just a place, isn’t it? It’s just a beach.” She looks at me with a mixture of confusion and something like pity, and I know now is not the time for me to question her. She needs to feel safe, to trust me again, and I have to let her take the lead. After so many years of abuse she needs to feel in charge now.

“Why are you here, Cara?”

I’m surprised. I thought it’d be obvious.

“I’ve been trying to find you.”

“No, I mean, are you here to help me?” My heart aches with the memory of all those times I could have helped her, when she begged me to take her somewhere, just the two of us. But for the last few years, Meg had such tight control over her that she kept her inside, in her chair, away from the world. I wanted to relieve her pain somehow but I felt blocked by my own awkwardness, my own fear of doing something wrong, making things worse, not better. Grace is still waiting for my answer.

“I’m here to find out the truth.”

“Now?” She almost laughs. “After so many years, now you want the truth? OK. OK. Fine. Here’s the truth.”

She burrows into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a small notebook, folded in half. It’s dog-eared and almost falling apart, not at all the sort of thing Grace, the old Grace, would have. I don’t take it immediately, as though taking something physical from her will make all this real.

“Cara, take it, please,” she says, shaking the notebook between us. “I’ve written everything down. What really happened.”

“That other diary?”

“Most of it was bullshit. I knew she’d be reading every word. I want you to read this. Share it if you want. I want you to know what my life has been like and what really happened that night.” She waves it at me again. I reach out and take it. It feels like I’m holding evidence from another world. Old or new, I can’t tell. The light comes round again and I see her hand is still shaking, even without the notebook. She’s not as calm as she wants me to believe.

“I wanted to tell the truth about everything, about the night he murdered Mum.” She swallows, closes her eyes briefly as if trying to smother the memory. Drip, drip. I wish I could tell her that since finding Meg I think I understand, in a small way, how hard it is to escape, to forget the past. But I haven’t suffered a lifetime of abuse and pain. I don’t know what it is to believe cruelty is love. Grace’s eyes follow the notebook as I slide it into my own coat pocket before she glances back up again towards the cliff. I don’t let myself imagine the twins up there, in the darkness, watching us.

“There’s one thing I need you to know.”