The last room I searched was in the far corner of the villa, with windows on two walls. It seemed a bright and friendly room. I pulled the dust sheet from the bed, folding it over itself to trap as much dust as I could. Beneath was an ornate brass frame and a large mattress on a sprung base. Another dust sheet concealed a dressing table and stool, a third an armchair and the fourth a wardrobe. The room was nicely decorated: wild roses on the wallpaper, a big mirror, the chair and stool upholstered in green, yellow and pink. It was the kind of room that made me want to curl up in a chair by the window and read while the day settled around me. I knew I wouldn’t feel afraid in this room.

In the wardrobe was a mishmash of clothes hangers with several objects beneath. I reached into the gloom and lifted out a painting. For a moment, my heart raced in anticipation, but when I held it to the light, I could see it was not some ancient picture of the Madonna but a portrait of Anna DeLuca as a young woman, seventeen or eighteen years old. She was wearing a blue dress, leaning on a stone balustrade overlooking a ravine. Her face was turned towards the artist, and she was smiling. The artist had captured the spirit of the girl, her liveliness, her sense of fun. It was a version of Anna I’d never known; to me she’d always been troubled, introverted, withdrawn.

I propped the picture against the wall and reached into the wardrobe again. This time I removed a bottle containing a few inches of clear liquid. I unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Vodka. I put the bottle back where I’d found it. There was also an old travel guide to Australia and a page-a-day diary, one of those that can be used during any given year. On the inside front cover was the name Anna DeLuca, and her age, fifteen. The diary was written in English. I flicked through until I found an entry.

School’s finished at last, I’m so happy to be back in the villa! Signor Ganzaria has pumped up the tyres on my bike so I can cycle into Porta Sarina in the morning to see Gina and Matilde. I can’t wait! This is going to be the absolute best summer ever!

It was hard to marry the version of Anna in the portrait, and in that happy-go-lucky diary entry, with the version she’d become, the lonely woman married to the bullying husband; the woman who left the vodka bottle hidden at the back of her wardrobe – and there would be other bottles hidden about this room, I was sure of it: the woman who’d destroyed my life.