So it wasn’t his fault. It’s hard to remember that though, especially as he refuses – is still refusing – to accept responsibility. I do understand, I really do, why Amy can’t bring herself to speak to him; and she’s barely managing to talk to Bethany, since she was the one who asked Dad to look after Ruby-May. But Dad needs help. We need to help him. Or something in all of us will remain broken.

The verdict was accidental death.

10 AUGUST, ITALY

7

AMY

‘Where are you taking us?’ Matt says. He doesn’t like being in the passenger seat.

‘I told you, it’s a surprise,’ Bethany says. She flashes them a grin over her shoulder, her teeth glinting in the semi-darkness. Amy remembers when Bee had them whitened two years ago and only drank almond milk and ate bananas for two days while the bleach set. She feels her stomach lurch. The road is narrow and twisty, and she wishes her sister would focus on driving.

The people-carrier veers round a hairpin bend, the cliff dropping away to their left.

‘Steady,’ Matt says, his jaw clenched.

‘Relax – I have to drive behemoths for work. This contraption is a tiddler.’

The car, loaded with the three children, Matt, Amy and Bethany, is struggling with the steepness of the hill, the engine over-revving.

‘Here we go.’ She slams the car down a dirt track that opens into a gravel car park and grinds to a halt.

‘Where the hell are we?’

Bee jumps out and releases the kids and Amy from the back.

‘This way, my darlinks,’ she says in a faux Russian accent, sweeping her arm wide. Lotte giggles and rubs her eyes. Bethany’s louder than normal, and Amy suddenly remembers how her sister would turn everything into a performance when she was a child; she was the only one who was aware that the bolder and brighter Bee was, the more nervous her sister was feeling. She wonders why she’s anxious. They crunch over the car park after her. Bethany is wearing iridescent snakeskin-patterned sandals and a white tunic; she flickers moth-like through the dusk. Lights, set low to the ground, illuminate a path that winds through a hedge. Lotte curls her hand into Amy’s. The air is soft and warm and smells of rosemary and geraniums as they brush past the foliage. It’s a world away from their grey, early-morning start.

‘Ta-da!’ Bethany wheels round, grinning with triumph.

They’re standing on a terrace that runs along the top of the cliff. Next to them is an old, white farmhouse; the front has been turned into a cube of glass that blazes with light. Fairy lights have been strung across the glass balustrade and intertwined through palms in large pots, and all the tables are bathed in a warm glow from candles that gust in the warm breeze.