‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I skipped ahead – do you want me to go back to the Wiki page?’

‘No, I read it four hundred times this morning, I know it off by heart.’

Adana nods and clicks ‘next’ at the bottom of the screen.

At the top of the third page, there’s a website called DeepDive.ie with an article dated 3 May, entitled ‘What Really Happened to Lily? For the news you can’t get in the news, this is Deep Dive’.

‘Might be some crackpot,’ Adana mutters. ‘Doesn’t even give a name.’ But she clicks in anyway.

It’s almost thirty-three years since Lily Murphy disappeared near her South Dublin home. The media won’t cover it this year (it’s just the ten-year anniversaries now) but is there anything new to say? Did they say everything back then or are there gaps; little gaps like the ones between newly built houses, or bigger gaps, wide as a river?

They said she’s believed to have drowned. Is that because it’s the only explanation or the simplest explanation?

What about the questions nobody ever asked at all?

Which neighbour was interviewed multiple times by gardaí but kept hush-hush? Why did local gossip focus on strangers and not on those who lived inside Rowanbrook’s leafy enclaves? What about those whispers – only ever whispers – that some of the people there that day knew more than they disclosed? And worst of all, is there any truth to the story of Lily Murphy and the locked room?

The locked room.

My chest tightens and my breath feels suddenly shallow. Adana glances up.

‘Are you OK? You’re white as a ghost!’

‘I … I—’

‘Joanna?’

Deep breath.

‘I’m fine. Just … just thinking about that poor little girl, and the idea that someone locked her somewhere …’

Adana looks at me quizzically, unconvinced. But in all the time we’ve known each other, I’ve never told, and today is not that day.

‘It sounds like this Deep Dive person might know some more details about the story. We could ask them?’

I nod and click to the comment section at the end of the blog post. It’s just the default comment functionality, but it’s worth a try. I start to type:

Hi, I’ve just read your blog post. I’ve recently moved into the house Lily Murphy used to live in and am curious about her story but also finding it a little unsettling! I would like to find out more and would be interested in emailing you directly if you’d be open to that?

I put my email address in the mandatory field and hit submit.

Adana is already moving on to other things – the heatwave, the plague of homework, and the way the sun makes you want a glass of rosé even though it’s only Thursday and not yet six o’clock. I smile and nod and play my part, just as I always do. But I can’t get the memory out of my head: a little girl, blonde hair, dimpled smile, and a locked room.