She pushes the bags hard against the wall, her heart pounding. Her eyes shift higher. There are two tiers of boxes on the shelves above the clothing. More of Isabelle’s things.

She pulls off the lid of the nearest box. It’s stuffed with glossy gift cards wishing Dean and Isabelle well on their wedding day. Oli traces the embossed patterns, glides her fingers along the embossed font. Some are from people she knows, most from people she’s never heard of. All express their certainty that Dean and Isabelle are a perfect match, a pair of soulmates lucky to have found each other.

Oli wrestles with unwelcome images of Dean and Isabelle, some messages from the cards worming their way into her brain. If the couple were so perfect for each other, why did Dean seek Oli out five years later? Why did he risk what he had with Isabelle? Oli lifts the box onto the floor and opens the one beneath. Cards, photo frames. Pieces of paper. Notepads. A driver’s licence that features a surprisingly unflattering photo of Isabelle. Oli sifts through a few handwritten recipes, then more photos of Dean and Isabelle with dates scrawled on the back. There’s a note from Isabelle to Dean: I just want to say how much I love you! A narrow love heart before the scrawl of her name. Valentine’s Day, 2004. A year before Oli met Dean.

There’s a loud creak in the hallway, and she startles, dropping the note back into the shoebox and jumping to her feet. Spins around. Nothing.

For a few moments, she stands completely still. The house is silent except for the steady tick of the grandfather clock downstairs bouncing off the walls. The light from the alarm system glows green in the corner. After the twins were born, Isabelle had panic buttons fitted in every room as well as a state-of-the-art security system. When Oli asked Dean about it, he mentioned Isabelle was worried someone might break in and hurt her or hurt the girls. Constant fear was the price she paid for being a homicide detective.

Spooked, Oli returns the boxes and slides the cupboard door closed. She goes to the desk and quickly logs on to her old computer. Finds the memory stick labelled HH06.07, the ink blurring under the clear tape. She fumbles as she inserts it into the side of the outdated machine. Drags and drops the files one after the other. Hours of work. She connects to the wi-fi and signs in to her Gmail, attaches the little icons and sends them to herself.

The grandfather clock chimes, its familiar melody rolling through the house. One o’clock.