Inside the box was one photograph and a very small piece of fine, black hair. Nothing else. I picked up the picture and brought it close to my face. The photograph was of a baby with its eyes closed. There was no colour in the baby’s face. It was wrapped up in a pale pink blanket.

I turned the photograph over. On the back in Mother’s writing it said Annabelle. 3.3lbs. Born 1/3/63. Died 1/3/63.

Gently, I replaced the photograph in its box. I looked at the tiny curl of hair. It must have belonged to the baby. Mother’s dead baby. I shook my head. Mother had given birth to a baby girl? Was that why she’d done all of this – because her little girl had died? I touched the black curl. The hair was so soft, so silky. My heart hurt for the baby, for me and Emma and Olivia, but also a very tiny bit for her. For Mother. A sick feeling swirled in my tummy as I wondered about the baby’s father. Had Mother been attacked too? I closed my eyes, unable to look at the little curl of hair. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. I wanted to hate her.

I shut the lid. She had suffered, but she had made me and Olivia suffer. It was all so complicated that my brain hurt trying to understand it. Maybe I would never be able to understand it. But at least she wasn’t trying to hurt me any more. She was alone in the woods, bleeding and hurt.

Focus on finding the key. Stop thinking about her.

‘Any luck?’ Olivia’s voice was just loud enough for me to hear.

‘No. Not yet,’ I shouted.

‘Me neither,’ she said, ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

‘I still need to check the rest of her room. I’ll come get you and you can help me look in here.’

I left the box on the carpet beside the bed and pushed myself to my feet. Swaying with exhaustion, I left the room and helped Olivia out of Emma’s bedroom. As we crossed the landing, I stopped mid-step.

‘Did you hear something then?’ I said.

Olivia frowned. She was so pale she could have been a ghost. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

We hovered on the landing and listened for another minute. There wasn’t any sound. I looked at her and shrugged.

She shrugged back and said, ‘We’re paranoid.’

I helped her into the room and onto the floor in front of the small bookcase beside the bed. She began pulling off books with difficulty, using only her uninjured hand, her pace slow, every movement a struggle. Her other hand rested limply on her thigh.

‘Are you sure you can do this?’ I said, forcing myself to approach the wardrobe.

She nodded, her mouth a grim line.