“I’m not sure today’s the day for visitors, Cara. I’m sorry.”

I was already backing away, relief rising in a wave. I ran away from them, back towards summer, towards stolen cider on the beach and more salty kisses with Chris. I wish I could go back to that moment, shake myself for being so selfish, so shortsighted. My friend was suffering and I should have done something, anything, to make things better for her.

Across the table, Upton is still staring at me, quizzical, her eyebrows slightly raised.

“I wanted to ask you both about the journalist, Jon Katrin. He interviewed you, didn’t he, for an article in the Cornish Chronicle?”

Next to me, Mum snorts with disdain.

“He came over here for ten minutes, I’d hardly call it a proper interview, but that’s his style of shitty journalism, excuse my French. He asked me what Meg and Grace were like, what I thought of Simon, and that was it. What do you want to know about him for? It’s Simon you need to focus on.”

“We’re keeping all lines of inquiry open at this stage. What did you think of Jon Katrin, Cara?”

Upton keeps her eyes on me as Mum says, “Cara only met him after the interview, on his way out. Isn’t that right, Car?”

Upton’s still looking at me, waiting for a response, so I shrug and mumble, “Didn’t think much of him.”

I’d been at college all day and had come back half an hour early to meet the journalist Mum and Meg were so excited about, but he already had his coat and Converse on, ready to go, by the time I arrived, Mum visibly wilting with disappointment behind him. He shook my hand and grimaced when he saw the thick book in my hand, and said, “God, I remember studying Middlemarch at uni, almost drove me mad.” Then, with a wave to us both, he was gone.

“His article was a disgrace. Meg said when she read it she felt like she’d just been chucked down the stairs again.”

Upton listens quietly, lets Mum vent.

“She was devastated. I mean, imagine, she lost her little boy and then dedicated her life to caring for Grace only for some bloody reporter—that Jon whatshisname—some man to tell the world he thinks she wasn’t doing well enough because she wouldn’t let the violent bastard near Grace. Honestly, I was seething for her, for them both. Seething.”

Mum pauses for a moment, sniffs. Usually when she’s wrong, I have no problem letting her know, but suddenly I realize I don’t know what’s right anymore. Everything feels out of focus, blurred. I used to think the reporter, Jon, was suggesting that Danny’s death was an accident and that it was unfair for Simon’s life, and his relationship with his daughter, to be completely destroyed because of an accident. I remember at the time I kind of agreed with him, but then Jon got pissed and tore up Meg’s garden just before Christmas, smashed a couple of windows, and Mum acted like she’d been proven right: men like Jon and Simon were selfish, dangerous bastards. End of story.