I try to keep my voice light as I ask, “Why are you seeing her?”

“I met her last year, when I was researching the article. She didn’t tell me much, but I had a hunch then that she knew more about Grace than she was letting on.” He shrugs again. “I thought it worth talking to her just in case I was right. Do you know her?”

I think about the message inside Grace’s card, thanking Dr. Rossi for getting Meg a job. I never knew Meg worked back then, but then Meg never liked to talk about their lives in Plymouth. Mum said it was too painful for her, that it only reminded Meg of Danny’s death and Simon’s cruelty. I turn to face Jon. Behind his glasses his eyes are wide, fixed like he’s studying me, waiting patiently for me to tell him whatever it is I need to say.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t know her, I . . .” I stop myself from telling him about the thank-you card, remind myself I don’t owe him anything—that I shouldn’t even be talking to him.

“Good luck with whatever it is you’re trying to do, but don’t talk to me again,” I say, turning to leave. He doesn’t try to stop me and the water from my bucket sloshes, wetting my jeans as I walk quickly back into the dark safety of the pub.

As I walk through the pub towards the kitchen, I realize the chefs, the kitchen porter, and two of the other waitresses are sitting at a table with Brian. They stop talking and all of them turn to stare at me, their eyes full of fascination and horror. It’s obvious they’ve been talking about me.

“Here she is!” Brian says like he’s greeting a puppy, and suddenly I feel as if I’ve just been pushed onto a stage, the spotlight on me, everyone staring, expecting, waiting for me to perform when all I want to do is hide. I drop my bucket to the floor, not caring about the carpet, and run to the toilet.

It’s a relief to lock myself away in the tiny cubicle, even if the smell of partially digested cheap alcohol and bleach makes me gag. I slide my back against the door and cover my face with my hands. My cheeks are wet with tears I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.

Shit, shit, shit.

Why have I lost it again? It’s Jon Katrin’s fault. Talking about his guilt, how he’s decided to do something, anything, to help Grace even if it gets him into more trouble. I was Grace’s friend, I am her friend, and what am I doing to help? Nothing. All I’m doing is scrubbing bird crap off tables.

There’s a gentle knock on the door, followed by Brian’s voice raised in a way he must think sounds concerned.

“Cara, sweetheart? You OK in there?”

I wipe my hand across my hot eyes and make my voice steady as I say, “I’m not feeling well, Brian. I think I’ll just go home if that’s all right?”