‘Not a white-water rapid then,’ Adana says, rocking the buggy gently back and forth.

I watch as Sophie plucks a fresh handful of daisies and begins throwing them one by one into the water, trying, I think, to hit a rock that juts up in the middle of the stream.

‘No. Unless it was a lot bigger back then, it seems weird that anyone would even suggest it was dangerous.’

‘And the parents would hardly have let the kids play here if it was a hazard.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So, where does that leave us?’

I shake my head, watching as Sophie leans forward to grab at something in the water.

‘Be careful, you’re too close to the edge.’

You’re such a worry wart. Lighten up, says a little voice in my head. I am. I know I am. But I can’t help myself.

‘Sophie, did you hear me?’

Sophie ignores me completely, still trying to reach a daisy – one she threw in herself, just moments earlier.

‘Sophie, can you please move back from the edge?’

I take a few steps towards her and later, I wonder if it is this, perhaps, that causes it – Sophie glances back, loses her balance and falls in, hitting her head on the mid-stream rock.

For a second, I’m frozen. My body lets me down, my limbs don’t move. Then adrenaline kicks in and I run to the river and I’m shin-deep in water, scooping her out.

‘Sophie!’

Blood seeps from a small cut on her forehead and at first, she’s too shocked to cry. I hug her wet body into me, then pull away to check the cut. There’s a lot of blood but it’s not deep. Sophie coughs and blinks as water streams from her nose, then her eyes widen and she bursts into loud sobs.

‘You got a fright, that’s all, you’ll be OK,’ I whisper, pulling her into a hug again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

Adana hunkers down and hands me a tissue to press against the cut. ‘It’s just a graze, she’ll be fine,’ she says gently.

‘Is she OK, Mum?’ Ben asks, hovering above us, a worried expression on his small face.

I clear my throat. ‘She is. Sorry, love, I’m over-reacting. Why don’t we go home and get a plaster, and I have ice-pops for everyone.’

This elicits a cheer from the uninjured children, and a small nod from Sophie.

And off we go, trooping through the woods, me carrying Sophie, Adana pushing the buggy, the other children running ahead, back across the green, on down to Rowanbrook Drive, and into Number Six.

‘So,’ Adana says, when the kids are safely in the garden eating their ice-pops.

‘So,’ I reply, scrubbing blood from my white t-shirt.

‘I guess if she fell in the water and no one was around, she might have been too shocked to get herself out?’ Adana says. ‘Especially if she hit her head?’

I swallow, batting away an image of Lily toppling into the stream. A Sophie-sized Lily, but all alone. I don’t want this to be true. I really don’t. But if it is, it means I didn’t do it. Lila was not Lily, and I’m not responsible for Lily’s death. Then again, does it really make any difference? Lila is still dead, whether she was Lily or not. Nothing changes that.