Next to me is a woman from social services they’re calling an “appropriate adult.” Apparently she has to be present for my questioning because I’m under eighteen. I don’t know what’s so appropriate about her—her gray hair, her flowery blouse?—or what an inappropriate adult might look like in comparison.

As the questions begin, I see a ghostly twin of myself hovering beside me. The twin is telling the truth. Each part of her confession makes her lighter so she floats into the air, higher and higher like the part in Mary Poppins I used to love, where the old man levitates to the ceiling.

Except the real me is rooted with terror to her chair. Denying everything, as I’m pretty sure Becca’s round eyes were urging me to do, before we were led to separate rooms. They ask me if I know what pills Becca was taking at the time, and it seems safest to say I’m not sure. They want to know whether Becca liked Nick. “She thought he was okay,” I tell them. “She didn’t really know him that well.”

Then they want to hear all about that Friday night again.

“I went to meet Mum at Costcutter.”

“What time was that?”

“Um . . . probably about five?”

“Can anyone confirm you were out of the house at that time? Other than your mum?”

I’m struggling to grasp the significance of all their questions. I want to stick as close to the truth as possible—apart, of course, from the words my ghost twin is mouthing.

“Linda. We saw our neighbor Linda Clarke on the way home.”

The policemen write this down, then without explanation disappear from the room. Mrs. Appropriate offers me a reassuring smile but the pink flowers on her blouse make my eyes ache.

At last the policemen return. “Thank you, Miss Thomas. You’re free to go.”

Really? I can go? What does that mean? What will happen next?

Mrs. Appropriate rises to her feet. “I’ll show you back to Reception, Kate.”

Mum’s waiting, looking small and slumped in a black plastic chair against a big white wall. She was questioned just before me, by the same two policemen; we weren’t allowed to talk to each other in between. She gives me a searching look as I approach.

“I’m allowed to go home,” I say.

“Good . . . that’s good.” She pats my shoulder but her anxious frown sticks in place. “Let’s get out of here.” She stands up, glancing around. I think of my visit here almost two months ago. I’m glad nobody seems to recognize me from that.

“What about Becca and Auntie Rach?” I ask.

As if on cue, we hear Auntie Rach’s voice. We turn to see her at the far end of the reception desk, leaning toward the woman behind the screen. Her words carry: “I want to see my daughter.”