An image of Freya’s bloodstained jacket cast a shadow over everything else. Where was it now? In a lab, with samples being scraped from the sleeves that were a fraction too short for Freya’s long arms?

And where was Freya without it? Why would it be buried unless—

Steph caught herself, stamping out the thought before it could crush her. As she stuffed all the items back inside the shoebox, tears poured down her face. How could it have come to this? At what moment, precisely, could she have diverted the chain of events that had led her here? Because she was sure there must have been a moment. Perhaps several. A different choice or choices that might have kept all her loved ones safe.

She jumped off the bed, clutching the box, and left her flat in a daze. At the top of the stairs she paused and turned back inside. Swerving into the kitchen, she tried not to think too hard about what she was doing: opening a drawer, groping for a sharp knife, holding it at her side as she hurried back through the flat, the box still under her other arm. Just in case, said a voice in her head, steadier than she really felt. She pulled on Paul’s wax jacket and dropped the knife into one of its deep front pockets, where she could forget it was there, unless she needed it.

As she was stumbling down the stairs, she heard their letterbox clatter open, then snap closed. Reaching the hallway, she saw that a piece of paper had been shoved through. She stood staring at it, nerves stirring. The door to Emma’s flat opened and her neighbor appeared.

“I heard something . . .”

Steph pointed at the note. Both women hesitated, as if unsure who should investigate it. Emma plucked it from the letterbox and Steph stood beside her, eyes zigzagging over the block capitals.

MOTHER OF THE YEAR?

TRY LIAR OF THE DECADE.

INNOCENT VICTIM?

NOBODY BUT YOURSELF TO BLAME.

Steph made a guttural noise in her throat. The shoebox slipped from beneath her elbow and its contents scattered, the red ball bouncing against her foot. It was the truth of the words that cut so deep. And it was the person who must’ve written them, the message Steph could no longer deny, not even the tiniest amount. She looked at Emma, who had turned pale, too, and didn’t even appear to have noticed the things Steph had dropped. She just seemed lost in her own reaction to the note.

Steph was about to start scooping up the items when it hit her. The note had been hand-posted. Its deliverer had been there only moments ago. Steph thrust open the exterior door and they spilled out into the sharpness of the evening.

“Hey!” Emma shouted.