Her cousin was in custody. Again. And Steph, like her sixteen-year-old self, was back to waiting and wondering whether she would incriminate her. So far, no officers had threatened to take Steph away from the family she’d only just been reunited with. The questions they’d asked hadn’t touched on her involvement in Nick’s poisoning, or that she’d been harboring somebody who’d broken parole. They’d told her Becca was being tight-lipped about her motivation for trying to damage the Harlows’ life. She’d cited jealousy, old grievances, nothing specific. So perhaps she was still keeping Steph’s secrets, even after everything.

The idea sat uneasily with Steph, despite the anguish Becca had caused. Hadn’t the time come to tell the truth? Hadn’t other people suffered enough for her mistakes? But then she would look at her family and think, How can I leave them?

Her dilemma was knocked from her mind as they turned into their street. She and Freya were sitting together in the back, Paul driving, and Freya began to giggle. “We’re like royals and Dad’s our chauffeur.”

“I live to serve,” Paul said from the front, doffing an invisible cap.

Nervous laughter bubbled out of Steph too. She caught Freya’s eye and they were off, Paul joining them, the joy of it like a drug. Steph couldn’t help thinking of the giggling fits she used to have with Becca over practically nothing. She and Freya were the same sometimes, or had been before Freya’s faith in her had been rocked. A pang dented Steph’s laughter. She couldn’t give this up.

They laughed harder as Irene from number 12 came rushing out of her house to wave, and Freya performed a subtle royal wave in return. But their amusement faded as they progressed along the street and saw other neighbors emerging onto the pavement to welcome them home. Clearly word had got around that they were due back. People were clapping. Crying. Somebody had had the foresight and the kindness to remove the missing posters from the trees.

A lump expanded in Steph’s throat. She glanced at Freya and saw the shock in her face, the sudden childishness of her blinking eyes. Perhaps she hadn’t realized how many people had willed her to be found. If she was honest, Steph hadn’t realized either, in the whirl of it all. She didn’t allow herself to look toward Chris Watson’s basement, to wonder whether Vicky was watching, how she must feel. The darker shades of their street, and of their story, could be held at bay for this moment of slow-motion happiness.