‘I’d … like to apologise to you for the way we’ve been,’ Fiona says. ‘And I’d like to explain. To help.’

For a moment, I hesitate. But one of Dr Abebe’s rules is that I should never shy away from facing what should be faced. Confronted. Because I’ve always given myself an easy out and called it caution. Or in this case, perhaps happiness.

Fiona walks back towards her open front door. ‘Come in. Please.’

There’s someone watching from the neighbouring cottage’s window. As I follow Fiona down the path, they move back out of sight.

‘Coffee or tea?’ Fiona says, as she leads me into a surprisingly spacious open-plan living area that leads to a small kitchen and French doors.

‘Coffee, please. Just black, no sugar.’

I sit on the sofa. There are a couple of framed photos on an otherwise empty pine sideboard: one a landscape studio shot of Fiona, Alec, and a teenage Sheena – Sunday best and awkward grimaces – and a much smaller, older photo of a boy in school uniform: a dark cowlick and a gap-toothed smile.

‘That was taken about a year before,’ Fiona says, coming back from the kitchen with a tray. She briefly closes her eyes as she sets it down. ‘I’ve never been able to stop doing that. It’s like the night Lorne died, time reset to zero. And everything became before or after.’ She hands me a steaming mug. ‘How Alec’s been with you … is unforgivable. I could say grief made him that way, but it would only partly be true.’ She looks at the photos again. ‘He’s always had a temper. Been too quick to judge. Sheena too. She’s her father’s daughter, all right.’

‘You don’t need to apologise.’ I think of Alec’s blazing eyes when he wrenched open the phone box’s door. The rage in them when I thought he was going to hit me. The ragged sobs that shuddered through his body, bending him almost double. And then Sheena’s You’re not safe here.

‘You must find me pathetic.’ Fiona’s eyes fill with tears, and she presses the backs of her hands against her pale, freckled cheeks. ‘But it’s … this is always a very bad time of year for me. For us.’

Because it’s April. I suddenly realise that the anniversary of Robert’s and Lorne’s deaths is in just three days.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t—’

‘Lorne was hyperactive. Couldn’t sit still for even a minute.’ She clasps her fingers together briefly and then lets them go. ‘The GP on the mainland diagnosed ADHD, tried to prescribe him some pills, but I never let him take them.’ Her smile is thin. ‘I remember you, you know, back in ’99. You were just like him – a whirling dervish. It was terrifying, looking after him. Especially when Alec bought him that bloody dinghy. Every day, Lorne would come home full of wild stories and the battle scars to prove them. My blood pressure got so high at one point, the GP tried to use that as the best argument for medicating Lorne.’