James sat on the bed and comforted her with soft words. She looked up and saw the picture hanging above the bed.

‘Ivy.’ She nodded towards the beauty of her barefoot friend. ‘And look at that.’

She stood up. On the small table beside the bed was a tiny polished silver frame. A striking blonde girl with long curly hair and sad dark eyes sat with a young boy in her lap. Nicole didn’t remember seeing it the last time she was in here. Where had he been keeping it?

‘That’s me. And mum. Before …’ James took the photo in his trembling hands.

‘This isn’t easy, I know.’ Nicole tried to comfort him with a smile.

‘No. But I want to put it all together. His story.’ His voice cracked. ‘I have to.’

‘Shall we get some fresh air?’ Nicole suggested.

On the way out Nicole saw a single dust-free book among the untouched novels and tattered volumes of encyclopaedia that lined the shelves. She reached out and touched it and then picked up the old copy of David Copperfield, Ivy’s beloved novel that had once belonged to her father. The inside cover was inscribed.

‘Charlie, you have found your home. Ivy.’

Nicole handed it to James, but he pressed it into her chest.

‘This one is definitely for you.’

Together they sat on Charlie and Ivy’s bench and watched the ocean kiss the shore and retreat in rhythmic repetition.

‘Before I go home, I think maybe you should read this.’ James handed Nicole his letter from Charlie.

‘It’s not exactly light reading.’ His smile was warm, his cheekbones strong, his grey eyes intelligent, just like his father’s. ‘But, if I’m ever going to reconcile any of this, total disclosure is best.’

Nicole stared at the letter. ‘I’m not sure about this.’ She shook her head.

‘From what I’ve learned this week, you knew him best, and he trusted you. And one thing I am sure of is that if he did trust you, well, then that means something. Somehow you and I have to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.’

He pressed the letter into her hands, squeezing them tightly.

The pain in Nicole’s chest threatened to double her over as she slowly took in every word of Charlie’s confession. If it wasn’t in his own handwriting, she’d never have believed it. Beside her James played with the collar of his linen shirt. He’d been in Rosella Cove for a week now and every day he’d worn a collared shirt.

As he pushed it up and down she saw a scar.

‘Is that …?’

He sat still and let her look.

Dr James Baker, burns specialist. Charlie’s letter. The scars. All the fragments of information started to take shape.

‘Surely he didn’t burn it down …’ She looked into James’s eyes. ‘I mean, not deliberately … with you guys inside …’