“I can’t imagine Sheena or Mick Dawson would want to get involved with reporters. They must have been besieged by them when Alice died. We certainly were, although Mum and Dad did a pretty good job of keeping me away from all that.” I look him squarely in the face. “What if it’s Catherine she’s spoken to? What if it’s Catherine who’s given her our number?”

Ross closes his eyes. When he opens them a few seconds later, he looks tired and more than a little wary.

“Would you like me to ask her on Monday? Because you know I’ll have to talk to her to do that.”

I force myself not to react. “No. I’ll ask her myself.”

—

In the end, we have a quiet, cozy weekend, and for that I’m grateful. Ross finds several websites that compare the size of a developing fetus to different types of fruit and vegetables. At just under twelve weeks, our baby is currently the size of a plum, or a lime, or a small peach, depending on which website you look at. We look at them all. We also make plans to visit my parents in two weeks’ time, by which time Peach Murray will be the size of a large lemon. We don’t mention Catherine Dawson once.

But when Monday comes around and Ross has driven off to work, I retrieve her card from my coat pocket and compose a short text message. Just because Ruby Orchard didn’t phone back over the weekend doesn’t mean she won’t try again, and I’m determined to find out if it was Catherine who put her on to me.

I need to speak to you about something. Tell me a good time to call. As an afterthought, I add my name.

Her response comes almost immediately.

I’m free now. Let me call you?

Okay, I text back, heart thumping.

The sudden ringtone on my mobile makes me jump, even though I’m expecting it. This is all happening so much faster than I’d anticipated. Why didn’t I wait till later in the day, when I’d composed myself more?

“Hello?” My voice sounds high and nervous.

“Lizzie,” she says. “I’m so glad you messaged me. I didn’t think you ever would.”

I clear my throat. “Nor did I, but…I’ve had a phone call I need to talk to you about.”

“Go on.”

I pause, unsure how to continue. It would be better to have this conversation face-to-face, so I can see her expression when I tell her. That way I’ll know if she’s telling the truth.

“I was wondering if…”

What? What am I wondering? If she’ll come round for a coffee and a chat? No, the thought of her in this house again fills me with dread.