‘Can I get either of you a drink?’

They’re fine, they say, raising their glasses, and I go back up the garden, through the back door into the utility room to get more ice.

As I stand at the freezer, scooping ice cubes into the jug, I glance through the doorway to the kitchen. Fran from next door is standing by the sink, staring out through the kitchen window, at something or someone in the back garden. She tilts her head, squinting, as though not quite sure what she’s seeing. Trancelike, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. Slowly, she lifts it, frames something in the shot, and clicks. I stand up straight and step closer to the doorway to get a better look. Instinctively, I move silently, taking care not to disturb her. I crane my neck, trying to look through the window, to see what she can see. My angle is off, and I can’t improve it without moving closer, but I can make out at least some of what’s in the photo. A pear tree, strung with lights. Falling dusk. People. Liz and Cora, just outside the kitchen window. Emily, sitting on the grass, scrolling through my phone. Beyond her, some couples from the next road over, chatting under an apple tree. Just behind are Susie and Tom, deep in conversation with Mark, who has Sophie by the hand. And beyond them, Adana and Dave with their kids. Why is Fran taking photographs of my housewarming guests? And, I wonder, looking at my new neighbour, which of them has provoked the deep frown on her face?

7

June 2018

GEORGE EZRA IS SINGING about bikini bottoms and lager tops when I go back outside, and I can see Ben standing by the speaker, singing along. I’m not entirely sure the lyrics are appropriate, but I choose my battles. So ‘No’ to Instagram (Emily’s greatest earthly wish) and ‘No’ to playing Minecraft in bed (something Ben claims everyone in his class is allowed to do), but no comment either way on George Ezra’s bikini bottoms. Besides, my mind is still on Fran’s photograph and the expression on her face as she looked through the kitchen window.

I spot Adana standing on her own now by the trampoline and walk over to join her.

‘Thinking of having a go?’ I ask as I draw near.

‘With my pelvic floor? No chance. Are you enjoying meeting your new neighbours – did you ask any of them about Lily Murphy?’

Her name makes my skin prickle but I keep my expression neutral. ‘I met a woman called Cora who lived here in Rowanbrook when she was a child, though I didn’t ask her about the disappearance. Yet. I asked Mark’s mother about it last night.’ I fill her in on the back-then gossip about Victor O’Brien and Eddie Something and the Small Pretty Girl.

‘You’re a right little Nancy Drew, aren’t you,’ Adana says with a grin.

My attempt to match her smile falls short. ‘I suppose I just want peace of mind.’ I glance around. ‘The whole thing is making me feel sad about the house, and a bit … spooked. So I just want to know that what they think happened is what really happened. That she fell in the river. That it was an accident.’ That it wasn’t me.