‘We can’t discuss that, I’m afraid.’

‘Please. I was one of the last people to talk to her, as far as I know. If I said something that caused her to …’ Jesus Christ. Another death on my conscience.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stedman. We’re investigating and there’ll be an inquest, but I can’t share anything with you right now. You’ll have to wait.’

‘Please.’

A pause.

‘Look, I can tell you one thing if it helps – you weren’t the last person she spoke to.’

‘I know that – I know she saw Liz Landry later on Thursday but only very briefly, and I can’t stop thinking—’

‘There was someone else too. That’s all I can say.’

Adana calls by on Monday afternoon, and I’m still on autopilot. Brewing. Chatting. Nodding. Smiling. Adana’s my oldest friend, my best friend, but where do you even start?

My childhood is a fiction.

I never lived in London.

There was no fire.

My parents didn’t die.

My mother is a monster.

I killed a child.

‘Another coffee?’ is what I say instead.

‘Sure. Are you feeling any more settled in the house since you met the Deep Dive blogger person?’ she asks.

Ellen. That seems like a million years ago.

‘A bit. Though it’s horrible to think of Gavin locking Lily in that room.’ And good to know she was rescued, but I’ll keep that secret.

‘Poor little thing. I wonder will they ever find her body. Everyone deserves a grave. A headstone. A cross. Some kind of marking.’

I sit up straighter.

‘What is it?’

I’m not sure. Something in what she just said … A headstone. A cross. But it’s slipping away again.

I shake my head. And smile. And go through the motions.

63

June 2018

TUESDAY NIGHT. VISITING HOUR. But it’s a whole different world now, knowing what I know. Cynthia is unperturbed. Draped in her usual spot on the sofa, drink lolling in her hand.

‘I have more questions,’ I tell her, sitting opposite.

‘I’m not promising anything. Make me a drink first.’

I do and she takes a deep swallow before indicating I can go ahead.

‘Why did you lock her in the room?’

She looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘It was just easier. She was only four. What if she’d got out? Cut herself on something or got through the front door and into traffic?’

‘You cared enough to keep her safe from traffic but not enough to question the ethics of what you were doing?’

Her eyes widen slightly at the unfamiliar tone. ‘Get over yourself, Little Miss Perfect. I was paid to look after a child, and that’s exactly what I did. There’s nothing illegal about it.’

I have no idea if that’s true or not, but part of me wonders if she’s right. We pay people to mind our children when we’re at work or out at night – who’s to say there’s anything unlawful about a longer-term arrangement? But the on-paper version of the story doesn’t mesh well with the stark reality – a child locked in a room, starved of daylight and friends and school.