‘To the church. I said, she’s probably gone to the church. She gets a lot of comfort from being there these days. She said something about going there with Laurel for school harvest festivals and things. I think it makes her feel closer to Laurel.’

‘Yes. Right. Of course. Maybe I’ll go and catch up with her.’

Frowning, I snatch up my coat from the back of the kitchen chair and head towards the front door, not knowing what it was that Kelly did or said that made something itch away at the back of my brain, like a memory I can’t quite grasp.

I see Fran before I reach the gate into the churchyard, her bright red coat visible through the fine mist that has descended over the town this morning, a damp, drizzly fog that soaks the sleeves of my jacket and sends the ends of my blonde hair into frizzy spirals. She paces in front of the heavy oak doors, her mobile phone clamped to her ear. I wait a short distance away, not wanting to intrude on her phone call. She looks up, noticing me, and gives a small smile before she hangs up, shoving the phone into her pocket as she walks towards me.

‘You found me,’ she says, rubbing her hands together as if cold. ‘Sorry, but I had to get out for a while. That was my agent on the phone. He says he was calling to check up on me, but it was really to see if I wanted to go to an audition next week. It’s the perfect role for me apparently, but I told him I’m not ready.’ She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s easier for Dominic, obviously. He’s had no problem going back to the hospital.’

I don’t speak for a moment, anxiety about my suspicions regarding Dominic making it difficult to find the words.

‘Shall we go inside for a bit?’ I lead Fran towards the church doors, not wanting to say what I need to outside where journalists could be lurking, waiting to overhear our conversation. We sit in the front pew, the wood hard and unforgiving under my thighs. Fran lights a candle, like she did before, and I wait for a moment as she bows her head, eyes closed, lips moving in a whispered prayer for Laurel. After a few seconds her eyes open and she lays her hands in her lap.

‘Fran,’ I mouth weakly. I realise I am terrified of telling her what I think, especially as I don’t have anything concrete, no proof to back up my suspicions. She might sack you if you tell her, my brain blurts out, and I think for a moment, maybe that’s no bad thing. ‘Fran, can I talk to you about something? It’s . . . I’ve been thinking . . .’