At least they had come. Lizzie was surprised – she assumed they’d be reluctant, that she’d have to work harder to get them to agree to meet her at Billy Cawley’s. It seemed everyone was curious enough to want to find out what Lizzie had called them together for. She wondered how long that would that last.

How long before their curiosity gave way to anger, fear and self-preservation.

Not everyone was going to make it, Lizzie knew that. Some of the people involved with the lies, the cover-up – they would not be present: Mark Hayes was dead – Lizzie’s research had revealed it to be suicide; Reverend Farnley was in a residential care home – unable to string a sentence together according to her father’s ex-cell mate who’d made ‘some enquiries’; Eric Fisher – he’d been AWOL since Billy Cawley’s incarceration, and some villagers who’d had a part to play and had continued to allow the secrets to remain buried – they were more minor players and Lizzie hadn’t bothered with them. Lizzie, and Billy himself, weren’t interested in those smaller fish. Just the big players – the ones who’d lied and manipulated for their own ends.

Lizzie lit the two oil lamps she’d brought with her, then walked purposefully to the front door; she wanted to appear calm, confident and in control, however much she felt the opposite. She stood aside to let them in. Muriel and Anna. Tina Hayes and Pat Vern. Nell and Rob Andrews.

They were the chosen ones. They were the ones who’d perpetuated the lies, covered the truth and were happy to let those really responsible slip away and remain hidden. Remain guiltless in the eyes of the law.

They’d been the ones who’d been portrayed as the innocent, damaged-by-a-tragedy members of the village of Mapledon. Although there were some people present who were more innocent than others, each had to be present for the full story to emerge. Lizzie wanted them all to know.

‘What’s going on, Lizzie?’ Rob was the first to question her, the first to even utter a word. The others were solemn, pale and twitchy. Lizzie experienced a strange buzz of satisfaction. But then, she had always troubled these people. They’d always thought Eliza Cawley strange, damaged goods. A child who repulsed them. She guessed they still felt that way, even though she didn’t rip the limbs off dolls anymore.

Unless some of them believed she did, of course – and that she was the one hammering dolls to doors.

How short-sighted they’d been.

‘You’re all here for one reason,’ Lizzie said as she ushered them into the lounge. The thick dust, the dark shadows, the smell of rot – all added to the atmosphere, made them cower just a little bit more.

‘Which is?’ Anna asked.

Lizzie stared at her for a moment before answering, taking in her slumped shoulders, her pinched expression. Something had altered – there was a coldness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Hopelessness? When Lizzie had first met her, she’d felt a connection – had immediately related to her. She hadn’t come across as someone with dark secrets.