‘Catherine,’ one officer says, a new one, a blond, tall man. She meets his eyes and tries not to look terrified, waiting for him to speak, for him to arrest her, to caution her in Italian, to ask for Frannie. They’ve found the body. They’ve found CCTV footage. They’ve found the blood. The hire-car company has reported them. She holds her breath as he opens his mouth to speak.

‘We have come to inform you,’ he says. Cathy’s chest is tight.

But, as she roots around herself she finds, lodged in next to the fear and the shame, a little shard of relief. That it is over. That the worst has happened.

‘We just wanted to let you know that as things are now, you are safe to fly tomorrow,’ he says. ‘But if we say we need you for longer, to assist the police with their enquiries, you must not board. We thank you for your help in the investigation. We may be in touch. But, for now,’ he says, an unreadable expression on his face, ‘in case you were wondering – you’re free to leave.’

Cathy says something, she’s not sure what – some pleasantry – and closes the door. Her entire body is covered in sweat, her shoulders up around her ears. There’s no way they didn’t notice.

She sits back at the kitchen table where she was a few hours or days ago, she is no longer sure, and thinks about that relief. And now, in its place, she finds disappointment. A not unusual combination to her, but she wonders if, this time, it’ll be the time she leaps. That one day she might confess.

She presses a hand to her stomach where the guilt is living and tries to squash it down, but it doesn’t work, nothing works. Only confession would work. She looks up at the Jesus above the door and confesses to him, out loud, the first person she tells.

They’re flying home today, but Frannie is still by the pool. Cathy has been thinking about her. About her explanations for Will’s injuries and the lack of ambulance. About how she said she couldn’t stop, after she hit him, but changed the meaning of that just slightly when pressed, like a media spin doctor. I couldn’t stop, she said. And then she said she meant she couldn’t stop immediately. How fast was she even going? Why has she got a lawyer?

She stands to go and pack, and as she does so she stares across the pool at Frannie. A perfect lemon tree sits behind her. She looks like she’s on a photoshoot for a magazine. There are almost more lemons than leaves, hanging point-downwards, like teardrops, waiting to fall. Frannie is staring back at Cathy. Goosebumps break out across Cathy’s shoulders, though she’s not sure why. Eventually, Frannie puts on her sunglasses, covering up her eyes. Cathy waves and points upstairs, wanting to dispel the atmosphere. When she looks up, she still can’t see Frannie’s eyes, but she’s sure they’re on her, tracking her every move.