At night when she can’t sleep, she imagines talking to Nicole and Evelyn. Imagines telling them about this new adventure and its cast of characters: the girl who always sits in the corner after dinner narrating TV shows and the curly-haired chef in the canteen with the tattoo of Dumbo on her forearm.

And then the grief arrives. Alex lies in the dark struggling to breathe, holding the edges of the narrow bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. As she hovers on the edge of sleep, she pictures her life like a huge spider web. Starting with the knot of her childhood, bouncing from foster family to foster family, primary school, then secondary school, each a chance for a fresh start. A new web formed when she met Evelyn and Nicole: more deliberate, stronger. For the first time in her life, Alex felt in control. Felt like she was going somewhere.

Felt like she had a real family.

But you were wrong, so wrong, chants her wounded brain.

Alex misses them. Misses the intimacy. Misses the sense of being part of something.

She mourns them, she really does. But a part of her is relieved too. Relieved to be free.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: WEDNESDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER 2015

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WEDNESDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER 2015

‘OLI?’ DEAN’S FRESHLY SHAVEN FACE APPEARS IN FRONT OF HER. He looks worried. She blinks several times. Her head is foggy, eyelids heavy. The feeling of being caught in a lie hits her in an instant. Isabelle’s dresses, the boxes of cards and notebooks, are like a pulsing clue in the corner of the room. She jerks forward, pulling herself up.

But she’s not in Isabelle’s room. She’s in bed. Her laptop is cool against her forearm, and the cord of her dressing-gown is twisted around her body.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Her deep voice is extra thick and woolly. ‘I must have fallen asleep working.’

She vaguely remembers coming back to bed, not being able to sleep. Checking and replying to emails while Dean snored softly next to her, the well wishes in the wedding cards playing on her mind.

Lines appear on Dean’s forehead, and he gestures to her phone on the bedside table. ‘You slept through your alarm. Are you sick?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ she says, although she does feel clammy. ‘Any news on the Horrowitz case?’

Shaking his head, he grimaces slightly. ‘There was nothing on the bulletin before.’

She relaxes back against the pillow.

He straightens and puts his hands in his pockets. Oli feels grimy in contrast to his iron-pressed neatness. ‘I have to go in a minute.’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s just gone seven.’ He looks around the room. ‘You should take those pills if you can’t sleep. You shouldn’t be getting up in the middle of the night to work.’

‘I know, I only meant to do some reading. I don’t even remember falling asleep.’