‘I’m not what you expected,’ says the woman, reading my mind.

I rearrange my face.

‘In the blog posts, you sound quite …’ I trail off, unable to find the right word.

‘Assertive?’ suggests the woman. ‘Yes. The blog is where I get to rant a little, say what I really want to say. Maybe be the person I wish I was. And to write about Lily, of course.’

I can’t imagine this unassuming woman ranting; not out loud, not online. But here she is, in the flesh, and she might know something about what happened that day.

‘What prompted you to write about her?’

The woman sighs. ‘A combination of things. My husband died and—’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you. And my daughter had moved to London, so I was at a bit of a loose end.’

Now I’m scrutinizing her face, trying to work out how she has a daughter old enough to move to London. She can’t be more than a year or two older than me.

‘I’ve always liked writing,’ the woman continues, ‘but I’ve never been brave enough to let anyone read. My husband used to take my journal and narrate it out loud. It was terribly embarrassing. If I couldn’t handle him reading, how could I let anyone else?’

I nod, wondering what kind of husband reads his wife’s journal.

‘Then one night, after a second glass of wine, I googled “how to start a blog” and in the end, it was so easy. I realized that being anonymous was the key. I could write whatever I wanted without worrying what people would think. At first it was about anything and everything, but then the thirty-year anniversary of Lily’s disappearance came along, and suddenly, that’s all I wanted to write about.’

She stops to take a breath, gasping slightly. I have the odd impression that the woman isn’t used to talking.

‘So, you did some digging? Looked up old articles?’ I prompt.

The woman looks at me strangely. ‘Yes. Lots of that. But it was mostly trying to remember.’

‘Remember?’

‘And talking to Aoife. Well, listening to Aoife.’ Her eyes look sad. ‘Hearing things I wish I’d known back then.’ She shakes herself. ‘It’s all very blurry. Fragments of memories. Like watching a home movie.’ She touches my knee. ‘Think back to when you were thirteen, how much do you remember? Your thirteenth birthday? Or Christmas Day that year?’

‘Snippets, I suppose, more than clear memories,’ I say quietly.

‘Exactly. Same here. And now that Aoife and I have talked, some of the memories are crystallizing, though it’s hard to tell if that’s because we keep talking about them, making them real, or if they were real to begin with.’

‘Sorry, who is Aoife?’

‘Another woman from Rowanbrook. Well, she doesn’t live there any more.’

And suddenly I understand. I look at the woman’s face, at the white-blonde hair, the small, neat features. I remember her now as she was in the video at Lily’s birthday party thirty-three years earlier; at the end of the line, accepting her fate. Pretty, yes, but not as striking as Aoife.