“Steph?” she said. “I saw you come in—God, you’re soaked.”

Steph wasn’t sure whether the moisture on her face was mostly rain or tears. Her muscles had begun to shiver uncontrollably. She felt too exhausted to protest as Emma ushered her inside her flat and settled her on a sofa. A mug of chamomile tea was pressed into her hands, its heat bringing sensation back to her palms. Steph wrapped Freya’s scarf around the outside of her knuckles, like a bandage.

Then she felt something soft brush her ear. With surprise she realized Emma had fetched a towel and was squeezing the wet ends of her hair. The gentleness made Steph want to lean against her. For the first time she saw her neighbor as motherly, and felt a twinge of regret that they hadn’t been friends before. It was surely impossible now. Their lives were intertwining only in the worst way.

Why haven’t you got any friends, Mum? Freya had once asked her, quite casually, but the question had taken Steph aback.

I have friends, she’d said. I’ve got my colleagues, and other mums from school . . . and my book club . . .

But in truth she wasn’t close to any of those people, and she’d only been to the book club twice before realizing she liked to read and think about books much more than she liked to talk about them while eating breadsticks.

Anyway, you’re my best friend, she’d said to Freya with a smile. You and Daddy. Freya had been thirteen then, still just young enough to look pleased by that comment rather than roll her eyes. Three sides of a triangle, they used to call themselves, telling Freya that it was the strongest shape, building pyramids of cards or bridges of straws to demonstrate.

Where did that leave Steph now, though? With nobody to confide in except her downstairs neighbor, a near-stranger, whose son had become inexplicably involved.

There was one other person she had considered calling in the midst of this crisis, but she’d always stopped herself. That was separate, that was . . . She couldn’t even think about it now.

“Steph,” Emma said quietly. “I need to talk to you.”

She moved the towel away and a draft snaked into the gap. Steph nursed her tea, noticing for the first time that the mug had a picture of Frida Kahlo on the side, looking fiery and fierce.

“My conversation with Zeb . . .” Emma said. “What I told you all, earlier . . . There was more to it, but I wanted to see you alone.”

Steph’s fingertips met around the mug. “What do you mean?”

Emma was flushing now, hesitating. Finally she said, “Freya thought you were having an affair.”

Steph’s lips parted. For a second she couldn’t speak. Then, “What?” she said stupidly, aware of her mouth hanging open.