“Well, at least you look a bit better than last time I saw you,” she said.

I laughed; it turned into a cough that hurt my chest. Cara’s eyes widened in alarm. She glanced towards the door, looking for help. I shook my head, telling her not to bother, I was fine.

We talked clumsily about other things—Cara’s place at Bristol Uni, Jakey’s summer football camp—until Cara bit her lip and blurted, “I’m sorry you think I did the wrong thing, letting Grace leave that night.”

The weight of her words landed heavy in my bones. I felt exhausted just hearing her name.

“I don’t think you did the wrong thing. I just wish we’d got more answers.”

“But you read the real diary, what Meg was doing to her, it was . . . it was torture. If she’d stayed she’d have been charged with accessory to murder, she’d have escaped one prison and gone straight into another.” Cara’s voice was strained, her words too practiced. I don’t say that if I’d had my way Grace would’ve been charged with something more serious. I took a deep breath that made my ribs scream.

“Look, I don’t want to argue about this. There’s no doubt, no doubt that Meg was sicker than any of us imagined. But does that justify her murder? There were so many other ways Grace could have got away. There were people she could have told about what Meg was doing to her.”

“She tried, Jon! You’ve read her diary, the real one. She tried telling me, telling that nurse. Meg had total control, not only over Grace but over all of us. Even if one of us had listened to Grace, heard the truth, I doubt we’d have believed it.”

“That doesn’t justify murder.”

“But she didn’t murder anyone.”

“Tony has withstood every questioning, every test. Both of them confessed to their role in my fall but have resolutely denied Tony’s involvement in the murder.” I was getting angry now.

“So?”

“So if we’d been able to question Grace, maybe we’d have more answers.”

“Yeah, but don’t forget, Jon: if we’d had more time with Grace, you wouldn’t be lying here now.”

Cara blinked, glanced down at her feet. I saw a tear drop to the floor.

“Look, Cara—”

But she didn’t want to hear. She just turned on her heel and ran out of the door.

That night in June comes back to me in sharp fragments of memory. Like stepping on a piece of broken glass when I thought all the shards had long been swept away, it cuts just as deep each time. Of course I’m grateful to Cara, bloody grateful to her for saving my life. I don’t blame her for anything. I blame myself. I was the one who fell, who forced her into making a decision between saving me or freeing Grace. What I can’t do is pretend that a dangerous person on the run God knows where is a good outcome. Other lives could be at risk because of me. It’s that thought, not the painful knitting back together of my bones and muscles, that keeps me awake at night.