Stuart calls me back. I press Ignore.

Goldie is beside someone who is patting her. As I rush up, I realize it’s Tamsin.

“Is this Goldie?”

“Yes. She ran off,” I say. “Thank you. Goldie, you naughty girl! You gave me such a fright!”

“I thought so, I was just about to ring you.”

As I bend down to ruffle her fur and attach her lead, she shakes muddy water all over me.

“What are you doing here?”

Tamsin is firmly in the it’s too much responsibility camp of non-dog-ownership.

“I quite often take a walk on my day off. Fancy joining me?”

Does she, really? Do her walks just happen to take her on detours past my front door?

“Another time, maybe. Thanks.”

I need space to sift through my thoughts.

Back home, having ignored several of his calls, I message Stuart the good news. After a milky tea and a sandwich, I focus on how I’m going to get Deborah alone. I’ll grant her her wish and let her mark the anniversary with Stuart and the children. I’ll visit Nina’s grave in private. Deborah and I used to be so much closer (when she thought I wasn’t suffocating Nina). It’s sad that it seems so long ago. She was chill; from a young age, Nina and I were allowed to walk to the local convenience store and buy sweets and play out in the street unsupervised until dusk.

Stuart texts an apology, relieved, too, that Goldie is safe.

I send one back.

Peace is restored, yet restless, I Google the word penance, despite knowing what it means and why she said it. Some descriptions are harsher than others. There’s everything from: it’s an act to show that you feel sorry about something to definitions like self-inflicted punishment.

A surge of protectiveness toward Nina hits. Her promises take on new meaning. I vowed to look out for her family, and I will. How much was she willing to sacrifice and suffer to try to make the only amends left humanly possible? It’s sad that she couldn’t track down any of Charlie’s relatives.

Nina and I were one of three Catholics in our class. At Easter and other religious occasions, we boarded a minibus (along with children from other years) to different church services. Camilla said that Nina had confessed. Which priest? Which church? It’s not as if I can track the person down and force Nina’s confession out of them.

I always felt vulnerable and exposed after confession (maybe that’s where I first developed my taste for therapy) because the desire to share something is powerful. I’ve made up my mind, I’m not going to confess to anything. The secret stops here, with me.

I’ll say the words out loud when I visit her grave tomorrow. (As long as no one is in earshot, of course.) Nina must be left to rest in peace.

Stuart is out for a run when the doorbell chimes. I’m cooking, the children are watching their allotted one hour per day of TV. (No longer as strictly enforced as it used to be, if I’m honest.) I hesitate. It doesn’t ring again so I ignore it.