‘Well, we’ve got cereal and toast for breakfast – all the essentials – so you don’t need to bother getting any of that,’ she adds, sitting down at the table. ‘You can at least have your breakfast—’

‘It’s OK, honestly,’ Chloe says.

Patrick sighs. ‘Maureen, leave the girl alone. She’s told you she’ll sort herself out. Jesus Christ.’

‘OK, Patrick, there’s no need for language at the table . . . right.’ Maureen picks up her fork. Her hands are smooth and her cutlery fits neatly into them.

The knife still sits heavy in Chloe’s hand.

They eat in silence for a while, the tines of forks scratching against the willow on their plates. Patrick picks up the bread Maureen buttered for him and starts wiping at the blue and white pattern.

‘You’ll wipe that off,’ Maureen says with a smile, and they all laugh politely.

Every so often Chloe looks up from her own plate, catching a glimpse of Maureen and Patrick eating beside her. Under the table, their knees are nearly touching. She hopes they can’t tell that hers are shaking.

There are moments for Chloe when it feels completely natural. That if someone were passing this lonely lane, if they glimpsed into the kitchen and saw them all here, eating around this table, they’d look perfectly fine together. Just a regular family eating a regular dinner. Then there are other moments when Chloe’s more aware of their cutlery scratching their plates, and then this tiny kitchen feels like a stage. The three of them actors who have forgotten their lines. It feels wrong in some ways, that she knows why she’s here, that she has to keep her investigation at the forefront of her mind. She watches them as she eats, knowing all this will go in her pale blue notepad before she sleeps. She’d feel bad if she wasn’t sure that one day they will thank her for it.

She points at the food with her fork. ‘This is really nice,’ she says. ‘Thanks again, Maureen.’

She smiles and carries on eating. Chloe swallows, daring herself to go a little further, to throw some metaphorical bomb at the table. For something to happen. She doesn’t just want to watch things happen, she needs to feel it.

‘It reminds me of the food my nan used to make,’ Chloe says.

Maureen stops chewing and looks at her across the table, tipping her head to one side, a smile more sympathetic this time.

‘Was she a good age?’ Maureen asks, as Chloe slips a forkful of food into her mouth. ‘When she passed, I mean?’

Chloe nods as she chews, willing the food down so she can answer while she conjures up an age in her head.

‘Ninety-six,’ she says.

‘Ninety-six! Goodness, she must have been quite old when she had your mum then? Or were your parents a lot older when they had you?’