I tap out a response to Ben’s text: Thanks for letting me know.

My car skids in the mud as I pull out of the farmyard. Hands firm against the wheel, I remind myself why I mustn’t go to Woodgreen Avenue. The police, the restraining order, the custody agreement. I snap the rubber band.

I glance at my watch. Ruth and I have a session with Dr. Bunce in forty minutes. Ruth sent a text to remind me this morning. As I drive down the bumpy farm lane, I reason that the ten miles to Dr. Bunce’s incense-scented treatment room on the other side of town should only take twenty-five minutes tops at this time of day. I snap harder. The skin on my wrist turns pink.

All I can think about is Ben’s text, about Meg and Grace. Could it have been a break-in gone wrong? Somehow I don’t think so. Human decency aside, what idiot would target the most beloved family in Ashford? But the idea that it was a personal attack is hardly easier to fathom. My thoughts drift to Simon, Grace’s dad. Mentally unstable and deemed a danger to others, Meg had kept him away from Grace for most of her life. I’ll bet all fingers are already pointed at him.

I remember the one and only time I spoke to Meg about Simon.

I was interviewing her and Grace for the article that was about to ruin my life, though I didn’t know it then. They’d welcomed me warmly into their home, though underneath there was a disappointed, restless feel, like the aftermath of an argument. I had an unusual feeling of wanting to leave as soon as I arrived, but Meg and Grace smiled at me, told me they’d made cake, and looked at each other like teenagers about to burst into giggles, then apologized, said they were nervous, excited. They sat next to each other, Grace’s small hand always reaching to hold her mum’s. They finished each other’s sentences. Grace spoke in a little girl’s voice despite being a teenager and Meg’s accent had the full, rolling vowels of someone who’d spent her life in the South-West. Meg showed me albums full of photos of Grace in different hospital beds, doctors and nurses posing at her side like playground buddies. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Meg didn’t understand why the Wishmakers had put us in touch—perhaps the Wishmakers didn’t understand the purpose of the article either—so it was up to me to explain.

“What, out of interest, were you told the article was about?”

I directed the question at Meg. She had short, loosely curled brown hair and a full face, unremarkable looking until she smiled. Then, it was like being given a bowl of something warm and delicious. Her brow creased as she tried to remember what she’d been told.

“Maggie said you were writing about how families cope in times of difficulty. That you’d want to know about our challenges with Grace’s health.” In a quieter voice she added, “Maybe a bit about Danny too.”