I keep thinking about the last time I watched her play volleyball, Jess had said. She was amazing as always, but . . . she seemed kind of livid. Every time she punched the ball I actually winced!

But Steph had been at that match too. She hadn’t seen Freya as angry, only determined, powerful. She and Paul had cheered rather than winced. Were they deluded?

She hasn’t even seemed that excited about our university applications recently, Jess had also flung into the mix. Steph had bitten back her protest: ’Course she’s excited! Because what if Steph was the one who’d actually been excited, at the idea of Freya doing what she hadn’t? The numerous prospectuses she’d ordered for her daughter were cowering at the back of Freya’s desk drawer, seemingly untouched. Perhaps Steph had requested far too many. Perhaps she’d ignored the fact that Freya had hardly reacted each time she’d presented her with a new one.

Perhaps she’d ignored a lot of things.

Her hands moved faster now. Opening drawers, lifting lids off boxes, flipping pillows. She caught sight of herself in Freya’s mirror: bent over, burrowing, desperate. Surrounded by the drooping heads of the daffodils she’d bought Freya last week. Watched by the photos Blu-Tacked to the wardrobe: groups of friends at sleepovers and bowling alleys; Jess’s dog, which Freya doted on; Steph, Freya, and Paul on their American road trip two summers ago, the marbled colors of the Grand Canyon rippling behind them.

Buried underneath, to Steph’s surprise, was one of her and Paul’s wedding photos. The picture Freya used to giggle at when she was little, when she’d had a fascination with her mum’s long lace veil and her dad’s dated haircut. So this was where it had got to.

The door buzzer broke her thoughts. Steph dropped the wedding photo into her pocket and rushed to the living-room window to see out. Before even checking who’d buzzed, her eyes snapped to the empty space on the street where Chris Watson’s car was usually parked.

What do you think of him? she’d asked Jess. Did Freya like him? Do you think he’s telling the truth about her going back to school?

Jess had seemed to grow even more muddled, her cheeks flushing, eyes widening, then scrunching. I guess I like him . . . I don’t know . . . I think Freya liked him okay . . . She’d crumpled again into tears and Steph had found herself hugging her, trying to pretend she was Freya but she wasn’t, nothing like, and she’d had to pull away before resentment overwhelmed her.