Her desk creaked as Richie leaned against it; his legs crossed at the ankles. ‘We went to school together. One year, you invited me to a party at Blackhall Manor. God, that was a spooky old place. I never went back again …’ He took in the look on her face. ‘Oh. Shit, sorry. I’ve put my size nines in it, haven’t I?’

There’s no escaping it, Sarah thought, feeling a twist in her gut. Soon everyone would know who she was. ‘No … no, it’s OK.’ She snapped on the smile reserved for strangers. ‘I’ve met a few old school friends this week. Does anyone else know?’

Richie shook his head. ‘They won’t hear it from me. Not unless you want them to.’

‘So that’s why you’re talking to me … out of sympathy, is that it? Because at least I knew where I was when people were being mean.’

‘I just wanted to let you know that you had an ally.’

‘An ally. You don’t know me. Why would you say that?’ The phone on the desk rang and Richie reached across and muted it.

‘That might be important,’ Sarah said.

‘It can wait,’ Richie replied, never taking his eyes off her. ‘Listen, I don’t mean to cause offence.’

‘You haven’t,’ Sarah replied. ‘I just want to know the real reason you’re standing here, blocking my light.’

A smile touched Richie’s face as he moved the desk light positioned over her desk. ‘Alright then. It’s Blackhall Manor.’

The moment lingered longer than was comfortable before Sarah rolled her eyes. Of course. ‘I get it. You’re one of those local protesters, aren’t you? You want me to knock the thing down.’

‘No. The opposite, in fact.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What happened to your family. It’s always stayed with me. It doesn’t seem right.’

Sarah snorted. ‘And here was me thinking it was perfectly normal for a loving father to massacre his family. Your police training has served you well.’

‘Jeez, you’re defensive,’ Richie countered. ‘I mean, I looked at the investigation. It was shoddy, at best and wholly negligent, at worst.’ His silver thumb ring glinted as he gesticulated. A Help for Heroes bracelet sat between leather bands on his wrist. Sarah realised she was staring and looked away.

‘What was there to investigate?’ she said at last. ‘My father was suffering from depression, most likely PTSD.’ But she remembered something her grandparents had told her. How her family had made it all go away.

‘But did he, though?’ Richie looked contemplative. ‘Or was that how they filed the report? Are you one hundred per cent sure your father was holding the gun that night?’

Sarah stared at him, disbelieving. ‘Why are you interested in this now? Why can’t I be left in peace?’