I lift the tray carefully and go back toward the living room. But as I approach the front door I stop dead, breath frozen in my lungs. The tray arcs into the air, then crashes to the floor, reverberating like a cymbal. An explosion of glass and red wine sprays upward and outward, bursting onto the pale gray walls. A small cheer erupts from the living room. Then all external noise recedes.

Ross stares at me, his face twisted in confusion and shock. He steps toward me, the distant sound of glass crunching under his feet. Faces etched with concern cluster in the hallway. I’m aware of them on the periphery of my senses, but all my attention is focused on the woman standing before me, the woman unwinding a scarf from her neck.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. How can this be? How can Alice’s sister be standing in my hallway?

13

THEN: BEFORE

THURSDAY, JULY 19, 2007

Mum comes into the kitchen with a basket full of dirty laundry.

“How lovely that the sun’s shining on the first day of your school holidays,” she says, beaming at me. “I think it’s a sign, don’t you? A sign that we’re going to have the best summer ever.” She plonks the basket on the floor in front of the washing machine. “Who was that you were phoning?”

“Alice. We’re going on our walk.”

There’s a noticeable pause before Mum speaks again. “Why don’t you ever ask Elizabeth Staunton over to play?” she says.

I give a long, dramatic sigh. Does she really think I still play?

“Because all she ever wants to do is talk about Justin Timberlake and, anyway, I prefer being with Alice. Just because you’re friends with Elizabeth’s mum doesn’t mean I have to be friends with her daughter.”

Mum opens the door of the washing machine and starts bundling the clothes inside. “No, of course it doesn’t. But Elizabeth’s a really nice girl, and surely you’ve got more shared interests with her than you have with Alice Dawson.”

I don’t like the way she says Alice’s name, her surname in particular. The way she spits it out as if it’s something unpleasant on her tongue.

“What, like being forced to practice the piano by our mums?”

She straightens up and gives me a pointed look. “Don’t be silly, Lizzie. I don’t force you to play the piano. I thought you liked it.”

“I used to. Before all the theory exams.”

“Elizabeth is very good at music theory. She could help you.”

“Mu-um! I don’t want Elizabeth Staunton to help me with my music theory, thank you very much. Anyway, what’ve you got against Alice? Isn’t she posh enough for you, or is it because her mum and dad don’t go to church?”