“Did it? Did it help you understand me?”

He looks at me steadily. “You were part of the cult, weren’t you?”

“It wasn’t a cult. That’s what the media called it. It was a community. It was …” The words dry up. Talking about Ekanta Yatra and the trip to Nepal is like picking open a five-year-old scar. It’s a wound so deep, I can only scratch at the surface.

“It’s okay.” He inches towards me and pulls me into his arms. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I do.” I look up into his warm, trusting face. “Because I’m not who you think I am.” I pause and take a breath. “Will, my name isn’t Jane Hughes. It’s Emma. Emma Woolfe.”

“You’re her.” His grip on me loosens. “You’re the girl in one of the photos. Your hair was redder back then, but I knew it was you. You’re one of the four friends that went to Nepal. You’re the other one that made it back.”

“Yes.” I shift out of his arms and gaze down at my hands, too scared to confront the hurt, confusion and distrust that I know must be written on Will’s face. The clock above the mantelpiece tick, ticks, ticks into the silence.

“I’m sorry.” I rub at a pale stain on my trouser leg with my thumbnail. I’m still wearing my work clothes and my calves are covered with rabbit hairs. “I should have told you my real name.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I haven’t told anyone. Not Sheila, not Anne, not anyone at work. When I changed my name to Jane and moved here, it felt like I’d been given a fresh start. After Al’s article came out, I couldn’t go anywhere without people nudging each other and pointing at me, not in London and not in Leicester, either: ‘There’s that girl, the one in the cult.’”

“You could have trusted me, Jane. I’d have understood why you made that decision.”

“Would you?” I glance across at him. “Things were so casual between us at the beginning, and …” I shrug.

“And you didn’t know where it was going?”

“No.”

He shifts position on the sofa, as uncomfortable as I am now the focus of the conversation has moved to our relationship.

“Did you ever find out what happened to the other two – Daisy and …”

“Leanne.”

“Yeah. The article said they just disappeared.” He stares at me for the longest time, his eyes searching mine.

I say nothing, my mind whirling.

“Jane?” he says, then pauses. “Emma?” He says the name tentatively, as though tasting how it feels in his mouth. “Do you know what happened to them?”

“No,” I say. It’s a half-lie, but it’s still a lie.