I took it up to the attic and gently wiped the dust off the cover. On the first page was a yellowing newspaper article. I unfolded it and drank in the black-and-white face that looked out at me.

GIRL KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN

‘You were pretty,’ I said. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’ My finger stroked the rough paper, as if I by doing so I could magic the girl back to life, but she stayed stubbornly pixelated, looking out at me with her chin lifted and a laugh frozen on her face, a tendril of hair blowing in a summer breeze. It was a face I knew as well as my own. A face that haunted every moment of my adult life. I turned the page and started to read the thoughts and memories that had been written on her Facebook page. I’d printed them all out. Every single one.

Can’t believe you’re gone.

To the best friend I could ever have wanted.

You’re with the angels now.

Fly high, babe.

Uni won’t be the same.

I flicked the pages: there were hundreds of messages, all of which added together to paint a picture of a girl who was loved, popular, clever, going places. There were pictures of her, too: blowing out candles, clutching a drink, with her arms round her friends, wearing bowling shoes, with her boyfriend, riding a horse, with her mouth wide open in a full-bellied laugh.

Downstairs the letterbox clattered, and the doorbell rang simultaneously, jolting me from my reverie. The folder fell out of my hand as I froze.

‘Yoo-hoo, Abigail!’ came Meena’s voice through the letterbox. ‘It’s me!’

Fifty-Eight

The doorbell rang again and again.

‘Abigail! Open the door! I know you’re there!’

I sloshed another shot of vodka into my mouth, then stumbled down the stairs with the bottle still in my hand, and pulled open the door a little too hard, which caused me to lurch backwards and grasp it for balance. The rain was heavy now, and Meena, huddled into a black coat, cowered as close to the wall as she could, sheltering under the eaves.

I tried to speak but words wouldn’t come. My eyes were scratchy from crying.

‘Abigail!’ Meena exclaimed, and her eyebrows shot up as her mouth opened in shock. She gazed at me with such horror that I looked down to see what she was seeing: my top was stained, my jeans were wet and soiled from the graveyard, and my feet were dirty and bare. My hair, now I thought about it, must be matted against my wet scalp, and my hands were filthy, the nails ragged.

Meena pushed into the house, dropped the bags, shook out her hair and unzipped her coat then turned to face me once more.

‘What happened? Your hair’s wet. And it’s freezing in here.’ She shuddered dramatically and peered into my face. ‘Is everything okay?’