She’d tell me she understood. It must be hard for me, she’d say. I remember her saying that, sitting in the armchair in the living room, little more than a bag of bones. Her face grey, her eyes sunken. I remember her hands, long bony fingers. Bruises on the back of her hand, livid blue-and-green. Specks of blood from cannula sites. Her fingernails were still painted the palest pink. A pink I’d have asked her about if I hadn’t hated her so much. The faintest wisp of hair escaped from a pale lilac headscarf.

What a bitch I’d been not to give her a chance, even when it was clear that she didn’t have much time left.

The same chair still sits in the living room. I can almost conjure her image in it. I wish I could talk to her now. Apologise for how I’d been with her. Apologise for not protecting her daughter.

I’m so lost in my memories that I jump when I hear the key turn in the lock behind me. Heidi walks in, carrying a sleeping Lily in her car seat and that ever-present changing bag. She huffs and puffs as she puts the seat down and wriggles out of her puffy jacket. Of course as soon as she puts the jacket down she shivers, wraps her mustard scarf around her neck more tightly. She looks unwell, the colour of the scarf draining her pale skin. There are dark rings under her eyes. I think of her mother again, or how alike they look, my stomach twisting.

‘Well,’ she says brusquely, ‘you wanted me to meet you here and here I am.’

She looks nervous, fidgety. She clearly doesn’t want to be here. I’m tempted to tell her she’s not the only one.

I feel awkward now. Lumpen and heavy. Misplaced.

‘I’m not sure what your plans are for the house,’ I start.

‘Estate agents will be out at the start of next week to value it and get it on the market,’ she says, looking around as if she’s seeing it for the first time. Looking anywhere as long as it isn’t at me.

I swallow. ‘We’ll do our best to sort through his things. As quickly as we can. Get out of your hair. I know Kathleen wants some things. The police said they’ve all the stuff they need, so there’s nothing stopping us from getting on with it.’

‘Take whatever you want,’ she interrupts, her voice cold. She delves into her jeans pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper, folded in two. ‘Those are the only items I want from here – anything else is yours if you want it. Once you’ve had your pick, I’ll get someone in to do a house clearance. Dump or sell all the other stuff. I’ll sort through the junk in my old bedroom too, but there’s little I want from there. Probably my dolls – you know, for Lily. Of course, someone smashed Scarlett.’