I’m crying now, tears choking my throat and running down my face. Crying for all of it: Lila who deserved so much more than she got, Cora who was trying to fix the past, and me – thirty years of blaming myself. Cynthia slips off the couch and kneels in front of me, arms outstretched. She’s a reptile, a monster, a snake. I don’t want her arms around me. But the lost child in me takes over, and I don’t resist.

The sting is so light, I almost don’t feel it. Almost.

65

June 2018

‘WHAT DID YOU DO?’ I’m rubbing my shoulder and the sting is gone now, but whatever she put in me is not. ‘Cynthia, what was that?’

‘It won’t hurt, baby. Shush now.’ She wraps her arms tighter around me, pulling me gently on to the floor. ‘You’ll see. You’ll just feel blissfully happy and then float away. I promise.’

‘Cynthia.’ I try pushing her off me. ‘What have you done?’

‘Shh. Just go to sleep and it’ll all be over.’ She’s rocking me and I’m struggling to unlatch her arms, to shove her off, but I can’t. My head is light and dizzy and my breathing feels too slow and I’m so, so tired. Why is she so strong and why can’t I get her off me? Why can’t I move?

I know why. The sting in my arm, the drug in my veins. Dizzy and dark and light and hot and cold and so, so sad. Oh my God. I’ll never see them again. Emily and Ben and Sophie and Mark. The only family I have, the only ones who matter. They don’t know about this, about her. They don’t know she exists. They won’t know I’m here. They’ll think I just disappeared. Like Lily. Like Lila. I try again to push her off but there is nothing left. Only black.

And all around, on Tuesday night, life in Rowanbrook continues, its residents oblivious. In Number 6 Rowanbrook Drive, Ben and Emily retreat to the den to watch YouTube. Sophie brushes her teeth without being asked, and instructs Mark to send a message to Joanna to tell her the news. Mark is finishing a work email and wondering if Joanna will be back from therapy soon – they might have time for an episode of the series with the subtitles. He looks at his watch. She’s running late. He lines up the show and presses pause. He’ll wait.

Next door, Fran is standing at her wardrobe choosing an outfit for Cora’s funeral. Something colourful. Fran doesn’t like black. For the hundredth time this week, she thinks back to what she and Della did, reporting Cora. Was it the right thing to do? They thought so at the time. But then Victor took the fall. And nothing came of what they said about Cora. All the better, she thinks now in hindsight. Whatever they thought they saw back then, Cora was only eight.

Over in Oakbrook, Susie, too, is choosing a dress for the funeral. Her second-favourite black funeral dress is laid out on the bed and she’s hunting for patent heels. Is Joanna going to the funeral, she wonders. Perhaps they can go together. She picks up her phone to call Joanna but it rings out. She must be still at therapy. Some might say it’s a bit of an indulgence, all this therapy … especially at those prices. But anyway, that’s none of Susie’s business, she thinks, as she finally locates her shoes.