The drink she’s made is pale gold. The water shimmers in the cup, or maybe it’s my vision that’s flickering. Steam rises like a strange mist between us, mingling with the heady scent of the flowers.

Freya leans forward and places a small photograph in front of me. Faded, a little creased, like something you’ve kept at the back of a drawer. The girl is young, so much younger than when I knew her, only a child, but it is impossible not to recognize her. That gap in her front teeth. Sarah.

And another girl with her. Hazel eyes.

Freya.

I can see the resemblance between them now.

‘She came to stay with us,’ Freya says, ‘as a child. When she was seven and I was nine. After her mother died and her father went to prison. Her parents were my aunt and uncle.’

I have no other choice but to listen. I want to close my eyes and disappear, but I haven’t the strength to even stand from this couch. The pieces are jamming themselves together in my mind. The parents who died. The relative they couldn’t engage. I have the connection in front of me now: Sarah Jones and Freya were cousins.

Freya goes on. ‘My parents never talked about what happened. The fact that her father murdered her mother. It was too horrible a thing for my dad to acknowledge. Such an awful, black stain. My parents … never spoke about anything like that. I was so naïve. I didn’t understand.’

All her words, the flowery perfume in the air; I feel dizzy picturing the family they once were. Perfect on the outside. So warped on the inside.

‘You told me Sarah lied about her parents.’ Freya shakes her head. ‘But you see, to her it was never lying.’

The pain in my head is worse than ever. I reach forwards, slipping an arm from underneath Charlie. I try to lift the cup of tea but my arms are too weak. My hands shake and I spill it. I have to set the cup back down. All the while, Freya watches me. I press the heel of my hand to my eye; the pain crouches there, plucking at my eyeball. Charlie stays, wrapped in at my side.

Freya stands up and, instinctively, I flinch back. She’s not that tall and she can’t be that strong, but …

She holds up her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to startle you. You’re here … you’ve come here, that has to mean something. I want to explain it to you. I need you to understand why I did what I did.’

On the dresser, there is a little contraption, a circle of panels, tiny figures painted onto each one. She carries it over and sets it on the table between us. ‘Do you know what this is?’ she says. ‘Have you seen what it does?’