Her sister’s face. So known to her, so familiar, and yet it was like Beth was peeling away from herself, stepping back from the scene: an observer, impartial, bloodless, unmoved. Watching from afar as the gun went off, once, twice, the snapping cracks through the air, the dull thud of flesh meeting the pavement. And then slowly, lowering herself, mindful now of the smell of the earth, the warm sweetness of decaying leaves, and the heavy press of her bones on the paving stones as she sat serenely between the two girls, waiting. Her mother screaming across the grass.

35

It’s late when they let me see her.

The corridor has emptied. There’s still noise around the desk, the occasional slam of a door, the squeak of footsteps, a throat cleared, sudden laughter. But the place feels quieter now; the heightened atmosphere of earlier has deflated.

She has confessed, I’ve been told. A full statement. There will be a court appearance tomorrow morning for the arraignment, followed by a psychiatric evaluation in the days to come. She will be taken to the juvenile detention facility at Cloverhill, they informed me, to await the shrink’s report, and from there …

I think I faded at that point. To not have my daughters at home with me tonight. It was too much, peering too far into a frightening future that I’m not yet ready to face.

I follow the officer down the corridor and she stops at a door, raps on it briskly, before entering the code on a keypad. I steel myself, take a deep breath as if I’m about to plunge into icy waters, needing to summon courage for what lies ahead. Entering the room, I see Trevor Byrne, our solicitor, getting to his feet now, my eyes sliding away from him to Beth. There she is with her father. The two of them at the table, and I catch my breath because she looks so young. So frighteningly small and vulnerable. She’s still in her school uniform and it’s a shock to me – incongruous after what she has done.

The look she gives me is wary and sullen – and then she lowers her gaze, eyes sweeping the blank surface of the table. I feel there is a degree of shame in that look. Nerves too – her knuckles whiten, squeezing her father’s hand. Beside her, Mark sits with his head bowed, and I notice how thin his hair has become, shadows under his eyes, a greyish cast to his skin. He looks older, and I think how much we have both aged on this day – decades stolen from us, as if the last vestiges of our youth resided in our children and now there is nothing left but deadened time.