‘Oh. I just assumed.’

‘Yeah, well. You know what they say about assumption. Maybe that’s why we were so different. Nature versus nurture or something. Anyway, getting in touch with David’s birth mother isn’t going to do me any good.’

The city’s clock chimes 10 a.m. and Rhys checks his watch then swears. ‘I have to go. Tell Susan I’m busy, that I can’t come by. I can’t do this, Kat, I thought I could, I thought I could help, but I’m not strong enough. It’s too hard. Tell her…’ There’s a beat, a moment in which I sense he’s trying to work out what he wants me to say. ‘Tell her I’m sorry.’

He looks me in the eye, waiting for me to get out of the van. I gather my bag and catch him looking down, knowing full well what’s inside. ‘If you need to talk to someone…’

‘I think I’ve said enough.’

‘Not to me, I mean someone who can help. Just, let me know, okay? It’s the least I can do.’ I open the door and get out as he starts up the engine. Just as he did last night, Rhys pulls away and disappears within seconds.

I slide down into a bench beside the waterfall, reaching into my bag for the book. I let the pages fall naturally open and read. ‘Then the children went home together, and were heartily delighted, and if they are not dead, they are living still.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

RHYS

Heat warms my face where a shaft of light bleeds August sun through the van window. The heavy pound of my hangover has taken hold since talking to Kat. I dig around for tablets, chucking several empty blister packs into the footwell before finding a single aspirin to throw back, coughing as it sticks in my dry throat.

I’ve got a day of jobs. Stuff to pick up for work. A living to earn. And yet I can’t move from the side street I pulled up in when I knew I’d be out of Kat’s view. My head hurts, my heart hurts, my whole body aches. What do I do? Where do I go from here? Should I call Mum? Michelle? Should I do anything about Susan? I want to run, I want to put time and distance between myself and all of this, but my gut, my instinct, says the story isn’t over yet. I can’t take it on. It’s too big. It’s just too much. I feel like I’m drowning.

A text message comes through to my phone. It’s from Mum: ‘We need to talk. I am here till lunchtime. Come over.’ There’s no kiss, no signs of a thawing mood from her, which pisses me off. What if I can’t just drop everything and go over to see her? Then I remember the start of this week, when I thought I was about to lose her. When the idea I’d be officially alone in the world, was worryingly close to reality. Just me. On my own. No backup. No support. Alone.