He frowned. ‘Yeah, but you’re forgetting one little itty bitty thing: the doors are locked and she’s got the keys. How am I going to get out without breaking something?’

The question dangled in the air like a poised blade; he was right.

I swallowed thickly. ‘Good point. All right then, but before you talk to her, please wait a second. There’s something in the attic that will prove what I’m saying is true. Please? Is that OK? It’ll only take me five minutes.’

He sighed. Mother had gone silent. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugging on his earlobe. ‘OK. But be quick. She’s gone quiet and it’s worrying me.’

‘Thank you, Patrick. Thank you so much.’

I pulled Emma from my side and told her to sit on the stairs and wait for me. She resisted a little, but after a few reassuring words she gave in and sank to the carpet with a sob.

Patrick followed me up the stairs. I raced up, taking them two at a time, aware that I had to be quick or he might change his mind.

Standing on my desk chair, I opened the attic door then pulled out the ladder. Patrick helped me lower it to the ground and held it firm as I ascended quickly, my heart thumping against my ribs. I reached the opening to the attic and heard Mother’s voice, urgent and low, directed at Patrick. She must have heard us climbing the stairs. I thought about turning around and telling Patrick to ignore her, but knew she would keep talking and he would feel compelled to listen, so I focused on quickly scanning the boxes. With a horrible moment of clarity, I remembered: I had tucked the evidence inside my pillowcase! The newspaper article wasn’t up here in the attic; it was down there in my bedroom.

Cursing my forgetfulness, I clambered back down the ladder to hear Mother urging Patrick to get the key to the spare room off me and let her out. Patrick glanced from me to the spare room, clearly torn. Before he could decide what to do, I jumped off the ladder and ran into my bedroom. I shoved my hand into the pillowcase, terrified that she had somehow found and taken my evidence. My hand found nothing, nothing but pillow and cotton, and then – paper – the article. With sweaty fingers, I pulled out the piece of newspaper. Patrick had to believe me now. He had to. The resemblance between the now me and my three-year-old self was undeniable. I had barely changed. My face was thinner and I was obviously a lot taller; yet my big, almond-shaped eyes were exactly the same. And the tiny mole was identical. That girl was me. I was that girl.

‘Patrick! I found it! Look!’ I ran out of my room onto the landing.