“Oh, my God.” Steph and Paul almost tripped over each other in their desperation to get to her. Steph grasped her hand, touched her cheek, said her name over and over. Becca, or somebody else, had evidently tried to treat Freya’s injury—there was antiseptic by the bed—but it was obvious that she was very ill.

But she was breathing. Beautiful. Her cloudy eyes were opening now, almost focusing on Steph’s face. Her dry lips moving.

“Oh, my darling.” Steph kissed her daughter’s clammy fingers, then her forehead, wetting her skin further with her tears. “Oh Freya oh Freya oh Freya. Thank God.”

“Mum?” Freya croaked.

“It’s me. It’s us.” Steph reached for Paul and he leaned in close. He gathered Steph’s and Freya’s hands inside his own and brought them up to his lips, his eyes streaming.

“We’re here now, Frey,” Paul said. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

“We’re so, so happy to see you.” Steph broke down completely, and the release was like something leaving her body, something she’d held in for years and years and years.

68.

CHRIS

He was now sharing his custody cell with a brutal gang of memories. They wouldn’t allow him any peace. Knew all his weaknesses and wanted to see how fast they could break him. Was this what prison would be like? Peopled not just by angry criminals, but by all the thoughts he could no longer distract himself from?

Vicky was in here, the younger Vicky who’d first admitted to him, I have a bit of a habit . . . of taking things that aren’t mine. The fear and challenge in her face: Does this change your feelings for me?

And Freya, on her first ever driving lesson, asking if they could have Radio 5 Live on because Arsenal was playing Spurs.

Steph, when they’d returned, hovering outside her house and laughing at herself as she admitted she’d been fretting the whole hour. But she looks happy. And your car’s in one piece! And I clearly can’t do this every time—

“Watson.”

The appearance of the custody officer made the memories scatter, like prison bullies caught out. Chris knew they’d return the second he was alone again. And they’d be crueler next time.

“Follow me,” the officer said.

“Where to?”

He was answered only by a glare. They were all treating him with distaste since his confession. Chris felt as if everything about himself had been removed, just like his belongings relinquished into that small box at the police station Reception, and all that remained was the label murderer. He would be treated accordingly—deservedly—from now on, by everybody who already knew him and everyone he had yet to meet.