“I’m sorry.” He was already moving toward the church door. “But I really have to this time. I’ve just had some information . . . Steph, I don’t want you drawn into this. Please go home, stay safe. And I’ll be back, I promise. With Freya.”

She saw how his face had now transformed. He was fired up, reawakened, but all it stirred in Steph was a new rise of panic. Paul thrust open the church door. As he disappeared yet again, intent on reversing whatever damage he was convinced he’d caused, a chill of doubt spread beneath Steph’s skin.

“Wait!” she called, but her legs were shaking too much to follow.

29.

KATE

Twenty-five years earlier

Friday arrives. The day that Mum and Nick are due to go away for the weekend. At school I can’t concentrate, can’t eat, can’t remember anything about algebra or the Second World War or even Romeo and Juliet. When the bell goes I hurtle home, not even bothering to pick up my untouched lunchbox when it tumbles out of my bag. I’m not sure why I think I might be able to stop them leaving at the very last minute. Maybe if I pretend to be ill again. Or maybe if I don’t come home at all, they’ll have to postpone their trip to look for me. I halt in front of the tower block, imagining Mum frantic and fraught, searching the neighborhood. Phone calls to my teachers and the mums of my classmates. Could I really set all of that in motion?

A wild plan forms in my head. But then I lift my eyes and see Nick, framed in our window, staring down at me. Waving. There’s a giant lump in my throat as I wave mechanically back. And nothing to do but walk inside.

Their luggage waits in our hallway. A smell of bacon leaks out of the kitchen as I drop my rucksack beside Mum’s overnight bag. Last-chance thoughts of destroying their suitcases parade through my mind. I could throw them out of the window, watch them plummet four floors.

“Hi, Kate,” Nick shouts from the kitchen.

Why is he greeting me, not Mum? Is she not here? And where’s Becca? My nerves dance as I push the kitchen door. Nick’s frying bacon on the stove. The air is full of the sizzling noise, the meaty smell. He’s whistling, cheerful today, glugging a beer.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

“Your mum got held up at work. She’ll be home soon and then we’re heading for our train. I’m starving, though.” He grins and flips the bacon, beads of fat spitting from the pan, then cracks two eggs against the rim of a bowl.

“Becca’s having a shower.” He beats the eggs, fork rattling. “You two looking forward to having the place to yourselves?”

“I guess.”