“Then why would she lie about her meds? Why would she change them, try to cover it up?”

There’s a falling in my chest. “I don’t know.”

Tears shine in Mum’s eyes: the first I’ve seen since Nick died. “I should’ve made her leave when she started saying all that stuff about him.” She starts to sob, then folds over and cries so hard she can’t keep herself upright.

I can’t stand to see her so upset, can’t stand to think of Becca in a cell, can’t imagine what will happen once I’ve confessed. Because I have to now. How can I live with myself if I don’t?

53.

STEPH

She was alone at last. George and the other police officers had gone, though their search continued and a helicopter still droned in Kingston’s night sky. Even the journalists had dispersed for now. Heather and Brian were driving around rechecking places where Freya or Paul might be. Clutching at straws, really, and Steph shared their desperation but she hadn’t joined them. She had her own leads to follow.

Her bare toes cut a route through the empty flat, into her own room and to her wardrobe. Her tailored dresses and silk shirts were like ghosts from a previous normality in which she’d worn makeup and gone out for date nights with Paul. She reached beneath the swish of hems, grasped the edge of a dusty shoebox, and slid it out from its long-term hiding place. There was another box concealed inside; she cradled the second on her knee, running her finger across the dried-out brown tape sealing it closed.

It seemed heavy in her lap. Almost hot with the memories it contained. She had to confront them now. Had to know whether she had done this to her daughter, her family.

Steph emptied the box onto the bed, its contents cascading out. The crumple of a newspaper article. The patent shine of a red ball. The photos that were aged and grainy, in contrast to the framed family portrait that smiled from the wall above.

Stretching up, she unhooked the newer photo. It left a square of bright wallpaper behind it, unspoiled by sun. She remembered the day it had been taken: Freya’s fifteenth birthday. They’d let her get her ears pierced, then gone out for burgers afterward. In the photo, her newly adorned lobes were pink and puffy, but she was beaming, a tall banana milkshake in front of her. Steph’s favorite flavor, too, as a child.

She laid the picture on the bed among the other things, as though trying to slot her newer life into the old, trying to understand how the two might have collided. She envisaged more things in the gaps: the banknotes with her drawings on them; the silver pillbox; the snaps of Freya and Zeb.