‘Let’s go back down,’ Robbie said, putting his good arm around her shoulder, which made the shaking worse.

‘Mary, love, I think you should go home. You’re freezing and exhausted. Will you go for even an hour? Della, would you be able to bring her?’

‘Of course. Fran will mind the twins, I can stay with Mary all night.’

Her husband passed her to her friend, and Mary, limp now, allowed it.

Tom bowed his head, like a mourner at a funeral. They’ve given up, Mary realized. They’re still searching, but in their minds, they’ve given up. Hands shaking, legs loose, she reached for Della. She would not fall.

46

June 2018

IT’S 3 A.M. AND I can’t sleep. Instead, I’m roaming through the house, rewinding Ellen’s words – the door with the barrels … the locked room – retracing Mary’s steps. Lily’s steps. Shadows on walls, worn floorboards creaking under bare feet. The house is asleep. Emily, curled foetal-style under her duvet. Ben, star-fished on top of his. And then there’s Sophie’s room. I lean to kiss Sophie’s head and sit on the floor for a moment, running my fingers across the floorboards, listening. Sophie’s breath has that almost soundless quality of deep sleep. Safe, secure sleep under a safe, secure roof with parents whose love she’s never doubted for a second of her three years on earth. Unlike Lila, whose world was everything Sophie’s isn’t. Unpredictable. Controlled. Cold. Over.

My fingers trace the floorboards, the knotholes and ridges, as far as the corner by the radiator, where I pull back a strip of wallpaper, exposing the Holly Hobbie print beneath. The strip tapers off to nothing almost immediately and comes away in my hand. I pull another strip, and this time some of the Holly Hobbie paper peels off too. Beneath that is something else entirely. Something black that looks hand-drawn. I get up to push the bedroom door wider, letting in light from the landing, and crouch again by the radiator.

Someone has drawn an eye on the wall. A dark, eye-shaped outline, with a black circle inside. It’s neat, not like a child’s doodle, and somehow ominous. I sit back. What does it mean? I have no idea, but I don’t like to think of it in Sophie’s bedroom, watching her. I need paint.

‘Morning,’ I call across to Fran as I arrive back with my purchases. She’s on her way out to her car and lifts a hand in salute.

‘Getting started on a bit of DIY,’ I say, lifting a paint pot. ‘Sophie’s room, to begin with.’

Fran just nods. There’s no invitation to elaborate, but I do anyway.

‘I found this drawing of an eye under the wallpaper. And I know it could have been done by anyone at any stage, but I wonder if it was Lily’s room and if the eye had something to do with her …’

Now she’s interested. ‘Oh. God, that’s a blast from the past. The “evil eye”.’ Fran puts the words in air quotes and moves closer to the dividing wall.