A year later, after Remy died, it became clear that Stacey was the one in desperate trouble, struggling to twist free of her abusive husband. Anita had dived in, been a devoted friend, showered her and the kids with love. But even then, Paula was really the anchor point, calm and generous, taking Stacey, Cameron and Poppy into her house.

‘Should we try to sleep?’ Anita asked when they had chewed their way through the toast.

Paula shrugged. ‘Probably. There’s going to be a huge amount to do tomorrow. A lot of phone calls.’

Anita’s apartment had one decent-sized bedroom and a smaller room with a sofa bed. Together, wordlessly, she and Paula unfolded the mattress and put clean sheets on it.

‘Good night, lovely,’ said Anita, and they embraced briefly, lightly, careful not to tip each other over into emotional intensity they couldn’t handle right at this minute.

Anita lay in bed, her mind still clenched against the initial shock of the killings. But then thoughts began to ooze up, unbidden. Picturing Stacey’s face. How afraid she would’ve been. Imagining the moment she must’ve seen in Matt’s eyes that he was going to do this thing. Hearing her voice—she would’ve pleaded with him, wept, whimpered with fear. Did Stacey suspect he would hurt the kids? Had she known that before she was killed? If she had realised, did her heart explode into ragged pieces? And the kids—those gorgeous fucking kids—did they register what was happening? Did they know their father was about to kill them in the moment before they died? Anita hoped they didn’t. Jesus Christ, she hoped not. Those exquisite children. Their spectacular, clever, vibrant mother.

Rage towards Matt burned along Anita’s arteries like a powerful fuel. But at the same time, she felt powerless, crumbling apart with self-pity at losing her friend, immobilised in the face of this ugliness.

Anita gave in to the weeping, sobs wrenching through her with such force she could barely breathe between them.

The bedroom door opened and Paula padded in, wearing borrowed pyjamas. She climbed into the bed and curled herself along Anita’s back. Against her ribcage, Anita could feel Paula’s jagged breathing—she had been crying too.

The two women didn’t say anything, but they lay there together until the morning, either awake or slipping into shallow puddles of sleep, sometimes huddled together, sometimes keeping a hand on the other’s waist or arm, hanging on to each other through the night, so neither of them could die.

THREE