“I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” Steph’s voice was shaking now. “I assumed it was a random prank so I cleaned it straight up and forgot about it. But now . . . This can’t be a coincidence, surely. And this book . . .” She slapped it shut and stared at the title. “Maybe it’s trying to tell us something. That this is our fault.” She closed her eyes, dropping her chin as if something had landed on her shoulders. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

“Maybe it’s just some nasty stranger stirring up trouble.”

Steph opened her eyes. Her pupils were huge. “I have to call Paul. And our family liaison officer.”

Emma nodded. She wasn’t sorry that Steph now seemed eager to wrap up the conversation: Her insides were still churning. Neither was she sorry when her neighbor suggested they didn’t disturb the egg in case the police needed to examine it.

She was light-headed as she watched Steph run up the stairs clutching the soiled parenting book. The door to the upper flat slammed. Emma found herself checking her hair and clothes, even though the egg hadn’t touched her. She hurried into her flat and washed her hands until they were scarlet.

14.

KATE

Twenty-five years earlier

The tower block seems to sway toward me. Clouds scud overhead and I gaze at the aerial on its very top, pointing into the sky, until I’m too close and it vanishes. As I drop my eyes they home in on a familiar denim jacket. Nick is pacing back and forth on the litter-strewn grass verge outside the main entrance. He’s started appearing at ours earlier and earlier, so I’ve been pushing myself to get home sooner, but it’s never enough.

Why’s he smoking out here instead of on our balcony, or his own? He’s stomping over the brown grass, flattening the weeds, tapping his cigarette so ash flies away on the wind. I’m sure he sees me but he acts like he doesn’t, staring toward the road as if watching or waiting for something.

I wish I could lock the main door behind me, keep him out of the entire block. By the time I’ve dashed up the stairs, sweat is leaking in tentacles down my back. I dump my rucksack and shout for Mum.

She doesn’t answer. She’s not in the kitchen. There are two un-drunk mugs of tea on the table. I burst into her room and find her lying on her side on her bed, scrunched up like one of the pale blind puppies Auntie Rach’s dog gave birth to.

“Mum?” I’m out of breath. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes are red-rimmed, face white as flour, dark hair spread across the pillow. “Hello, love.”

“What’s wrong?” I perch on the edge of her bed, wanting to yank up her work shirt to check for more bruises.