I walked into the hall and used every inch of willpower to turn away from the front door. The binoculars in the bag drew me like a magnet. I felt the phantom coolness of the metal against my face. I forced myself to climb the stairs. Every step away from the house was hard as I battled what felt like a pack of vicious dogs. This must be what being an addict felt like. I gritted my teeth. Counted my steps to the box room.

I closed the door and sat on the bed. My scrapbook rested on the duvet in front of me. I reached out. Placed my hand on it. Traced my fingers over the letters of the writing on its front.

The Cliff House.

Not the same as being there. But all I had. I took a deep breath. Opened the first page. Lightly touched the crispy piece of gunnera I’d torn from one of the leaves the first time I took the key. I recalled how peaceful it had been. Still and calm. Just me and the house and my memories of Dad. On the next page was the foil from the champagne cork from that first meal with the Davenports. Then the pressed daisy, its tiny dried petals surrounding the yellow centre like muted sun rays. The piece of sea glass attached with sellotape, grains of Gwenver sand stuck to its underside. Around the edges I’d doodled a universe of stars. I turned the page and stared at the sketch I’d drawn, the little boy being pulled from the sea, head lolled back, arm hanging, seaweed between his blue-tinged lips. Beside it, folded neatly, the cutting from The Cornishman showing the boy and the lifeguard. The next page held the index card from the mix tape Edie had made me. I paused, wincing as I recalled the hurt in Jago’s voice when Mum confronted him about the money, then turned the page. Two tears fell onto the sugar paper and soaked into it like blooming flowers.

The bracelet was frozen in its sellotape coating. An uneven circle of gold. Rubies like drops of blood. I picked at the tape with my nail until the chain was free. I held it in my hand. Felt Eleanor’s heat on it. Heard an echo of her laughing at the party. I raised it to my nose and picked up the scent of perfume mixed with cigarettes. I slipped it into my pocket. Nerves ricocheted around my body as I pictured Eleanor’s face when I gave it back to her.

‘I was only borrowing it,’ I whispered. ‘I saw it on the floor and—’

Then a shout ripped through the house. It was Granfer.

‘Angie!’ he called. Voice tight, guttural, laced with desperate panic.