“What’s all this about, Kate? Honestly!” But it’s like she’s just playing the part of a stern mum, confident in her crossness. The hollow ring of her telling off frightens me even more.

“I’m sorry, Mum. We obviously got the wrong end of the stick.”

“I’ve told you not to worry, Kate. I know things feel stressy round here sometimes, and me and Nick have the odd . . .” She pauses as if selecting the right phrase. “. . . tiff. But you need to keep that imagination in check. And stop letting Becca encourage you.”

“It wasn’t her fault. Please don’t make her go.”

“She gets you all wound up. Puts these ideas in your head. I know you idolize her”—she glances at the wall, drops her voice—“but I don’t think she’s the best influence. She’s going to cause trouble if she keeps saying . . . well, things that just shouldn’t be said.”

“We made a mistake.”

Mum rests her hands on my upper arms. Her own arms are covered by her cardigan. I can’t remember the last time she wore a short-sleeved top. “I don’t need you to rescue me or worry about me, Kate. That’s the wrong way round! I want you to focus on school and your exams, make more friends . . .” Her fingers squeeze. “I want you to have all the chances I never did. To get out of this place one day.”

I look down at my feet. My shoes are bobbled with clumps of wet grass. “Just let Becca stay a bit longer. Please.”

Mum sighs and hoops me in her arms. “I’ll think about it. If you promise to drop all this.”

I creep my hands round her waist, wanting to cling on. If I hugged her forever, he’d never be able to push his way between us.

“And one more thing,” she murmurs into my hair. “One more promise you need to make.”

“What?”

“Don’t . . .” Her arms tighten and her voice vibrates at the side of my head. “Don’t mention any of this to Nick. You mustn’t . . . He’d be upset.”

I feel my heart swooping again, her muscles tensing as our hug stretches on.

“Promise me you won’t accuse him of anything, Kate.”

Gently I flatten my palm against her back, listening for her stifled gasp of pain. She stiffens and I know the bruises are still there. I can sense them beneath her clothes, urging me not to give up.

21.

EMMA

Emma was sketching when they arrived, sitting in the chair that had somehow inched closer to her window in the last thirty-six hours and stayed there. She drew a hamster’s wheel with blurred, in-motion spokes; a tortoiseshell hair clasp abandoned on a stair; Zeb’s old sneakers, which were still in the corner of the room, laces trailing . . .