Tim was wrong about her father. He had to be. Jasmine couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d found those images in Tim’s room, not her parents’. And Tim was a proven liar, over and over … yet in the back of her mind his accusations turned over again and again, gaining more credibility with every passing moment.

She remembered getting the necklace from her father on her eleventh birthday. It was nothing but glass seed beads interspersed with sequins, handmade. All tiny and imperfect and not expensive in any way, but she had always loved it, loved the way the light caught the beads. Jasmine now wondered if he’d taken it before he killed Rosa. Those creeping thoughts were impossible to reconcile with her own understanding of who her father was, though. He looked after people; he bent over backwards to make sure the people around him were happy. Was it guilt that drove him to be so generous and charitable, or was it all part of his mask? Did he do those things so suspicion would never fall on him? She couldn’t figure this out on her own; she would have to tell Felicity’s mother.

Chapter Forty-Five

Now

The front garden is overgrown and looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. Dead brown vines cling to the garden wall and the shrubs are a tangled mess, not how I remember things from my childhood. I wonder how the neighbours feel about the state of it. Every other house on this street looks like a contender for some kind of garden competition, with roses and dahlias in every imaginable colour all tastefully arranged and almost certainly trimmed on a daily basis.

I stare at the house. It looks smaller than I remember. It looks derelict; the wood on the front door is blown from water damage and big strips of the black paint have peeled off. I see the brass letterbox is broken, rusted open and twisted. The curtains are pulled across, the lining faded at the folds.

I’m not sure how long I have been standing here. I see the drive is the only thing that looks used, and the space in front of the garage door is clear. Someone has been here recently.

There is no sign of movement at all in the house, so I wonder if I can sneak around the back and through the garden. I had done it before as a teenager, more than once. I take my first step forwards, my guts wrenching and everything in me telling me to just get away from here. I promised myself I would never come back here; I didn’t think I ever could. The last night I was here was the night my best friend in the world died.