4

June 2018

‘MUM, ADANA’S HERE,’ EMILY calls from her position at the bottom of the stairs, directly opposite the front door.

‘Well, can you let her in?’ I’m in the kitchen, my hands covered in a sticky, doughy scone batter.

Emily obliges, and Adana arrives into the kitchen giving me a sardonic smile.

‘I see you’ve fallen for the “stay-at-home mums are always baking” myth.’

‘Well, I figured I could try once a week – I never did any baking when I was working, and the kids were always saying they wished I was at home so we could bake together.’

‘Mmm. And where are those wannabe bakers now?’ she asks, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.

‘Emily’s on my phone, Ben’s on the trampoline, and Sophie’s trying her best not to lick coal. I see your point. Where are your gang?’

‘Dave’s working from home. I told him it was clock-off time and he was in charge,’ Adana says, lifting a half-unpacked box of cookware from a kitchen chair and sitting down. ‘So, how’s stay-at-home mammy-ing going?’

‘Good. Well, you know, fine. It’s a bit quiet when they’re at school and then it’s very loud when they’re at home. It’d be nice if there was some kind of in-between.’

‘I think the in-between you’re seeking is your old job – adult company, not so quiet, not so loud. Fewer sticky handprints. I’d say you’re loving the new house though? All the space?’

‘Kind of … It’s almost eerie here on my own in the mornings. I think if I paint the walls, it’ll feel better. Less creepy.’

‘Hmm. Is this about the decor or what you found out about the missing child?’

I consider my options. Adana is my oldest and closest friend; ever since we sat at the back of Theatre M in UCD, cogging notes off each other just before our Second Year exams. The first person I ever let into my life – though it’s probably more accurate to say she forced her way in, insisting on befriending the studious loner. In theory, I can tell her anything. In practice, this extends to childbirth stories, office gossip, and complaining about how much time Mark spends on his phone. So, no (God, no), I can’t tell Adana that I think I killed Lily Murphy. Jesus. Even thinking those words makes me ill.

‘I suppose it’s a bit about Lily Murphy,’ I say instead. ‘It’s surreal. Like, her mother probably sat here, right in this very spot.’

‘Or not,’ Adana says, matter-of-factly. ‘Isn’t this part an extension?’

‘Well, yeah, but I don’t know when it was built. Anyway, you know what I mean. It’s eerie.’

‘Those poor people.’

‘I know. How would you ever get over that?’ I glance out of the window at Sophie and Ben. ‘Right, I’ll make that coffee.’

‘Can I use your laptop to google her story?’

I slide the Mac across the table and open a new tab for her. By the time I’m back with two coffees, she’s already on to the second page of search results: more anniversary pieces, a cold-case feature, some Reddit threads, a true-crime forum post, and a renewed appeal for information.