“No.” My voice sounds unnaturally fierce. “No,” I repeat, a little more gently this time. “I’m glad you’ve brought it. Funnily enough, I’ve been thinking about things recently. What with…the news…”

Once again, I see the reporter’s face and the police tape fluttering behind her. The picture of little Elodie at the top right of the screen. Then another image, monochrome and stark, superimposes itself over the first. I take another sip of wine.

Mum nods. “We wondered if…”

“Dessert, anyone?” Dad says, his eyes flaring like beacons, and suddenly Mum’s twittering away about tiramisu and affogato and the moment has passed.

Later that afternoon, as I wave at their retreating car, I think about all the other times a conversation about the past has been thwarted by something as simple as a look, a word, a barely perceptible movement of the head. All those weighted silences. As I walk back into the house and see the box Dad’s left in the hall, there’s a strange sensation in my gut. The unease is building.

I drag it into the living room, unable to block the myth of Pandora’s box from swirling around in my mind. This is different, though. Pandora had no idea what was in the box Zeus gave her, whereas I know exactly what I’ll find in here. An icy shiver coils down my spine as the first thing I see is a black tassel sticking out from inside a book. It’s time I laid my ghosts to rest.

4

THEN: AFTER

FRIDAY, AUGUST 24, 2007

It’s warm outside, but here in the church it’s cold and dark. I’m sitting in between Mum and Dad, right at the back by the door. We can hardly see Alice’s family from here, just the backs of their bowed heads. We can hear them sniffing, though, and stifling their sobs.

I lift the Order of Service from the slot in the back of the pew in front and draw it toward me. The cream-colored card is stiff in my hand. It has black thread running all the way down the fold and ending in a tassel. There is a photo of Alice on the front. I focus on the knot of her school tie because it’s easier than looking at her face. I can’t look at her face.

Mr. Davis, the headmaster, and several teachers from school are here, too. So are lots of girls from our class, Melissa Davenport among them. She and her parents are sitting in the same row as Mr. Davis. Why are they sitting there, when we’re all the way back here? It’s not as if Melissa was even friends with Alice. They were both on the netball team, but they never hung out with each other. Not unless it was a match day. That was the thing about Alice, though—everyone seemed to like her.