‘I bet Laurel is a lovely little thing, isn’t she?’ She laughs. ‘I can well imagine her, just like Dom. How are Dom and Fran holding up as a couple?’

‘She is lovely,’ I say, then, ‘Um . . . OK, I guess.’ I don’t mention the snippy, angry comments that are flying backwards and forwards between them, the heavy aura of tension that fills the room when they are both there together. ‘Why don’t you send a card or something? I’m sure Dominic would appreciate hearing from an old friend.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she shakes her head, ‘I don’t think Dom would even remember me. Gosh, it’s almost two o’clock. I’m so sorry, I have to dash. Meeting.’ She rolls her eyes and necks the last of her coffee. ‘Nice to meet you, Anna.’

‘Wait—’ I call out. ‘Don’t you want to . . . ?’ But she doesn’t hear me, hurrying away out into the rain, her hair flying out in a golden sheet behind her.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Rather than return home, I stay out to help staple laminated posters of Laurel to trees and telegraph poles all around the village, rain streaming down my hair and soaking through my coat and jumper to my skin. Staying out to put up posters makes me feel as though I am doing some good, but I also feel the eyes of others on me all the time, judging me, whispering the same questions I ask myself over and over. Why didn’t she keep an eye on her? Why didn’t she keep her with her? Would you really let a little tot like that run off into a crowd? But is it worse than going back to a house that isn’t a home – even less so now that Laurel isn’t there – to rattle around, trying to keep busy even though there isn’t anything to do but attempt to avoid Fran’s blank stare, and Dominic’s simmering anger at the police? So I staple, unfold, staple, unfold on repeat, doing my best to avoid looking at Laurel’s face on the posters. Wishing I could tell her how sorry I am, how I wish I could turn back the clock to that night. I’d never take my eyes off her for a second.

As I pass Mr Snow’s house at the end of the lane, the posters all gone and my hands crippled with cold, he opens the front door and calls out to me.

‘Anna!’

I stop, fumbling with the gate latch to let myself into his garden, but he waves me away.

‘Stay there – I’ll come to you,’ he calls, leaning behind the door to pull out an umbrella before ambling up the path towards me. ‘Filthy weather,’ he says as he reaches the gate, holding the umbrella so that it covers both of us. ‘How are things?’