There’s a clutch of dogs walkers, talking quietly to one another, and a few photographers are here already too. A single policeman in fluorescent yellow is stopping them from walking out onto the Point. Jon texted me on the drive so I know he’s already here, and I spot him standing a few feet away from the others on a patch of grass covered in daisies. A man with dark hair, holding a camera with a huge lens, is talking animatedly to him, but Jon isn’t listening, I can tell: he’s too still. Underneath his cap his eyes are fixed on the sea. The man with the camera has to nudge him before he sees me. Jon nods, but doesn’t smile as he starts walking towards me. The man tries to walk with him but Jon shakes his head, nods towards the police officer at the Point, and he dutifully turns around, walks back in the direction Jon suggested. Jon gestures for me to keep walking further up the path, away from the Point. He’s right—it would complicate things if anyone saw us together. I wrap my cardigan around me and pull the hood over my head. We’re the only people walking away from the Point. As I walk, I realize I’m heading towards another moment where everything will change, and I’ll think back to now, to this moment, when the world was still whole, and wish I could go back. It’s strange to feel sorry for my future self, to mourn what has not yet happened but what I’m sure is inevitable.

The path narrows into a one-person track. Pretty yellow gorse flowers hide the spikes that seem to strain towards us on either side. Jon holds the kissing gate open for me.

“You OK?” he asks as I walk through. His eyes are bloodshot. Has he been crying? And suddenly I know I’m not OK, nothing’s OK. I want him to see I’m falling apart without having to say anything. I don’t want to know a world without Grace in it. I want a second chance, a chance to be her friend again, for things to be like they used to. He puts his hand on my shoulder, pats a couple of times. I widen my eyes to try to stop myself from crying.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” My voice is a whisper. Jon gently moves me off the path, walks me behind a gorse bush. He puts his arm around my shoulders, bends his head so he’s close, facing me. I wonder if this is how he comforts Jakey.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Cara. I was just talking to Ben, a photographer friend of mine, and he told me the police believe the navy dress Grace was last seen wearing has washed up. It’s ripped, but they don’t know whether it was ripped by someone or whether it was ripped by the rocks. I’m so sorry.”

“Did it have little stars on it?” Tears are rolling freely down my cheeks now.