And I realise she’s right. Sad. Sadness. There’s layers of it, embedded in the walls, between paint and paper and the past. I don’t know how I didn’t notice when I was working here, because now it’s unmistakeable.

Kat puts a hand to her chest. ‘Oh, Susan.’

‘What?’

She presses her fingers to her mouth, stopping herself from talking. She looks around again, until she can contain herself no longer. ‘There was always the suggestion her accident was not exactly accidental, you know? But this? I wasn’t expecting this.’ I must look confused, because she continues. ‘This is on a whole new level. It’s not someone leaving because they’re tired of life and can’t see another way out. This is planned, detailed, manipulated to manufacture an easy get-out for all concerned. She’s eliminated herself from the house. She’s rubbed out any memory of her presence. Apart from that book, she’s all but invisible here.’ Kat pushes open the door from dining room to lounge and I follow. There’s a carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Its pendulum swings the seconds clockwise, then anti; a mirror reflects our faces. On noticing each other, we look away. ‘How broken is someone who’d do this?’ she whispers.

How broken are any of us, I think. And that’s when I have to close my eyes. Fighting away the memory of walking into David’s room. The scene flashes before me, despite how deep I’ve tried to bury it. I scrunch my eyes tight shut; I snuff it out. I force the heel of my hand into my eyes to bring stars, not his face, into vision. Every last breath leaves my body, just as it did then, just as it almost had for David, and I drop into the chair. It’s too close for comfort. It’s too much.

‘Rhys?’ Kat moves towards me, bobbing down on the ground, resting her hand on my knees. I look down at Susan’s book, running my fingers over the letters. Fairy tales. Morals to a story. Happy endings. I lift the cover, flicking through pages as thin as tracing paper. A newspaper cutting drops to the floor. It’s brownish, almost tea-stained with age. Kat picks it up. She makes a sound, just the smallest sound, as she reads what it says. ‘Oh no…’ she whispers.

Chapter Twenty-One

KAT

‘What?’ he asks. ‘What is it?’

I read the headline over and over: ‘POLICE SEEK MOTHER OF BABY FOUND AT ST JAMES’ CHURCH, NORTON.’ There’s a fuzzy black and white photo below, of a tiny, swaddled, screaming baby. I flip it over and read the final paragraphs of a film review for Rocky. There’s a picture of a fresh-faced Sylvester Stallone. I turn it back to look at the baby again before realising Rhys is staring at me, waiting. I try folding the cutting to stuff it in my pocket; protect the privacy of the story. Her story? Before I can, Rhys has taken it from me. He reads the headline, holding the paper. His eyes skim across the words several times as his teeth grit and his jawline tightens. Then he just stares blankly at the paper, maybe past it.