She heads towards the short gate. As she pushes it open she notices tiny flecks of blue paint flake off on her palm. She slips her hands into her coat pocket, enjoying the thought of them collecting inside. She’s surprised that Patrick hasn’t sanded this down and repainted it, but perhaps the Kyles prefer to keep everything as it was then – a blue that Angie would recognize if she came home. She pictures Angie as a tiny girl, racing ahead of her mum, pushing at the same paintwork that is now scattered over her hand. For a second, excitement replaces the nerves. Respectfully, she closes the gate back onto the latch.

At the door, her hand hovers over the knocker. A white rose is etched into the stained glass above it – perhaps this is some tribute to Angie? She remembers the type of detail included in the colour pieces she’s read on her wall and gets out her notepad and pen – this will all be useful. Then, before there’s time for the doubt to creep in, she knocks and stands back from the front step. This is it. She clutches her reporter’s notebook to her chest as she hears footsteps beyond the door frame. She clears her throat. Shuffles from foot to foot. This is it. A figure appears behind the mottled glass, the blurry outline of a hand reaching for the door handle. This is it.

There’s the crunch of draught excluders as the door opens. Chloe takes a breath, shapes her face into a smile.

‘Can I help you?’

A woman stands there, but it’s not Maureen. Chloe feels her face fall. This woman is young, even younger than her. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, she wears dangly gold hoop earrings and grey jogging bottoms with fluffy pink slippers poking out the end.

‘Maureen?’ she says. She doesn’t know why because this woman looks nothing like her.

The woman stands, one hand keeping the door pulled closed behind her, to stop the cold running amok down her hallway.

‘Maureen?’ the woman replies. ‘Is that what you said? She don’t live ’ere no more. It’s our place now.’

With that, the woman is nudged to one side as two small children wriggle into the space beside her legs. One of them, a girl with mousy hair, about six, looks from Chloe to her mother.

‘Who’s she?’ she asks her mother.

As she does, two more faces appear: toddlers, a boy and a girl, not twins but close in age; they have grubby food-stained mouths and are both wearing romper suits that are unbuttoned at the bottom, the fabric swinging between their chubby scuffed knees.

‘No one,’ their mum replies. ‘She’s after the old lady who used to live here. Now get in, it’s freezing out ’ere.’