A slender girl in ragged denim shorts and a bikini top, her short black hair spiky and wet. Jude could see her ribs, the silver chain round her ankle. She had her arms round the neck of a bare-chested, barefooted youth in jeans, who held her round the waist, his hands on her bare skin, his head lowered toward her. Both of them half-smiling. They are about to kiss, or they have just separated from a kiss.

One afternoon of a long-ago summer. What the picture didn’t show, but Jude knew was there, was the river behind her and Liam where the willows dipped their leaves and swans floated by in flotillas, raising their wings to threaten swimmers. She remembered that afternoon, remembered it as if it were not long gone. A group of them lying on the bank in the blazing heat, eating over-ripe cherries and spitting the pips, drinking warm white wine from the bottle, passing joints between them. Liam was there, and even when she closed her eyes she could feel him. Just a week or two before the crash.

If her colleague had seen it, someone who wasn’t even a friend, who else had? She looked back down at her phone and her stomach turned: already there were 5,293 likes and 1,077 comments, and as she looked the numbers rose. She wanted to be sick.

Nat, she thought. There was no way he wouldn’t see it.

She thought of the police officer, Leila Fox, with her gray eyes and horribly amiable smile, looking at this image, tapping her fingers on the table.

She didn’t know what to do. She thought of calling Nat, but instead she called her friend Dee.

“Are you at home?”

“On my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure. I’ll put the kettle on. Or maybe open the whisky?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“You look pretty good in it.”

Jude ended the call and made her way to her bike.

“Dr. Winter? Excuse me. Dr. Winter?”

Jude turned. A woman about her age was gesturing to her. She had a friendly smile, but Jude didn’t recognize her.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could speak to you?”

“What?”

“About Liam Birch.”

“What do you mean? Who are you?”

“It would be great to have your side of the story as well.”

“Are you a journalist?”

“You might find it helps . . .”

Jude turned toward the woman. She looked like someone she could have been friends with. She forced herself to be polite.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I thought you might want to tell your story.”

“I’m a private person. I can’t do that.”

“I want to give you a chance to respond,” said the woman, putting her hand on Jude’s arm. “People are saying things about you.”