‘If you want. Dad’s getting forgetful … although it’s often about stuff Mum’s asked him to do, and only when it suits him. He’d probably have a good memory for things that happened years ago.’

‘I wonder how they didn’t realize this was the house?’

Mark shrugs. ‘Same as me, I suppose. Rowanbrook’s huge. We lived in a different part. My parents knew the Murphys, but thirty-three years later, I don’t know if they’d remember which house it was.’ He picks up his phone reflexively and puts it down again. ‘And you know what Mum’s like, caught up in her golf and her book club and who wore what when. I doubt she paid much attention when I sent her the link to the house.’ He laughs. ‘Imagine, all these years, desperate for us to climb the property ladder, desperate to have something she can show off about at golf, and when we finally trade up for the “big” house, she’s too busy to click the link. But yeah, you can ask her all that tomorrow night. She might remember more than I think. What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Do you remember it from the news back then? Of course, you were probably still in the womb.’ He nudges me with the remote control. ‘My child bride.’

I force a smile, cycling back through the lies I’ve told him. ‘Very funny. I would have been nine, so still living in London, and it wouldn’t have made the news over there.’

He goes back to the match and I go back to my Mac, clicking into the Images tab on Google. Her face fills my screen – black-and-white photos, colour photos, pictures taken with her parents, pictures on her own. All different but all the same – blonde curls, blue eyes, snub nose, and those dimples. The longer I stare, the more familiar she is. Inside my head, images and memories are skittering like pinballs. Wrappers. Syringes. Books and notebooks. The locked room. The key. And now we’re living in her house. Am I about to be found out? It would be no less than I deserve.

3

June 2018

IT’S THURSDAY AFTERNOON AND I’m standing in the yard of Edenvale National School, Sophie’s hand in mine. The mundanity of this daily ritual is both calming and surreal. How am I here, smiling and waving at familiar faces, while inside my head, images of Lily Murphy flash like a manic home movie? And yet, what else can I do. I’m Joanna Stedman: PA-member, barbecue-holder, advice-giver, gin-drinker. I am my Twitter bio – psychotherapist, mother, wife, reader, runner, coffee-fiend. I’m the go-to person, not the fall-apart person. On the outside, at least.

‘How’s the unpacking going?’ says a voice in my ear.

‘Adana! How are you?’

‘Shattered, this one barely slept last night,’ Adana says, rocking a buggy gently back and forth. ‘I love the new hair, by the way. Did you go darker, as well as shorter?’

‘Yeah, I figured if I’ve finished up in the clinic and moved house, I may as well have new hair too, even if it’s just for the school run.’ That’s when I remember something. ‘Adana, you went to school here in Edenvale, didn’t you?’