‘There were lots of us when I was little, but for the last couple of years there was only me, Matilda and Charlotte.’

‘Matilda?’

‘She left about a year before Mum came to get me.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘Ms O’Brien said she got adopted. But I don’t know who would have adopted her.’ Amelia screwed up her face. ‘She was defective.’

‘What do you mean?’ Evelyn asked.

Amelia laughed hoarsely. ‘See?’ she said to Jake.

Unfortunately, he did. ‘Can you tell us what you mean about Matilda?’ he said gently.

‘She had different coloured eyes—one blue, one brown. Defective. See? Plus’ —here she looked at her mother— ‘parents don’t want girls anyway.’

Mary MacDonald put an arm around Amelia and gave her a squeeze. ’How can you say that? I want you.’

‘Dad doesn’t. I heard him say so.’ Amelia’s voice become a low growl. ‘He said you already had a boy so you didn’t need another kid anyway. ’Specially not a fucked-up girl like me.’

‘When did you hear him say that?’ Mrs MacDonald’s voice was as icy as Jake’s cottage.

In her chair, Evelyn was reaching toward the cake box. ‘I’m certain your father didn’t mean that, Amelia,’ she said as she held it out to Mary MacDonald. ‘Perhaps we can take a breather?’

Mary stood up, clearly grateful for the distraction. ‘Good idea. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Jake looked back at Amelia. ‘Are you okay to talk while your mother’s not here?’

‘Of course she is,’ Evelyn urged. Jake shot her a ‘you’re not helping’ look.

‘You were saying, Amelia, that a year before the home closed there was a third girl, Matilda?’ Jake asked.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And how old was she?’

‘A couple of years older than me. We always pretended to be sisters.’

‘Have you spoken to her since she left the home?’

Mary MacDonald returned. ‘Here we are, plates and a knife.’ She opened the cake box, made slicing movements, then began laying triangles of Victoria sponge in front of each of them; the neat yellow layers of cake were thick with oozing strawberry conserve and sprinkled icing sugar. ‘It’s a lovely cake, thank you,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome.’ Evelyn smiled tightly.

Jake looked at the sponge with suspicion, certain he would wear a dusting of the icing sugar if he dared to attempt a bite. ‘Yes, thanks Evelyn. Now, Amelia. Have you spoken with Matilda since she left the girls’ home?

Amelia sat woodenly in her seat, staring straight ahead.

‘Amelia?’

‘Amelia, answer the detective.’ Mary MacDonald patted Amelia’s leg. ‘You’re being ru— oh dear.’

‘What’s going on?’ Jake asked.

‘This happens sometimes, I’m afraid,’ she said, rear­ranging her daughter’s limbs so she could fit comfortably on the couch beside her. ‘Sometimes Amelia just … stops. It’s why she can’t drive or hold down a job.’

‘Can she hear us?’ Evelyn asked.

‘Yes.’ Mrs MacDonald looked sternly at the counsellor. ‘And she remembers everything.’

‘Fascinating,’ Evelyn said. ‘I’ve read about this.’

Jake could see Mary MacDonald believed Amelia was in some kind of fugue state. He had no way of judging for himself if it was genuine or an act. ‘Do we need to do anything for her?’ he asked.