As soon as I walk through my front door, I rush upstairs to retrieve the diary from its hiding place. I run my hand underneath the edge of the mattress my side of the bed. I still sleep on the one side, despite being alone now. Old habits die hard. I dig further, but my fingers don’t find it. I huff, lifting the mattress as far up as I can manage – it’s so heavy.

It’s not there. The diary has gone.

I can’t imagine Finley taking it. He wouldn’t have known it was there.

Think, think, think.

I look towards the space where the boy and kitten picture used to hang. Right opposite the bed. If there had been a camera, if someone had been watching, they would’ve seen me pushing the diary underneath the mattress.

It really is Carl, then. It has to be.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Barb

It’s more awkward than I anticipate. It seems setting something alight in this complex raises some eyebrows. I’ve had a failed attempt just outside the back door of the bungalow – the warden shouted at me as though I was some delinquent arsonist. Now, I’m finally able to drag an old metal bin to the back of the garden, in what I believe is a secluded area of the complex. I cram in some newspaper, then, holding the match against the striker, swipe it up and away from me. I watch the dancing flame for a moment before dropping it in the bin, then wait for the paper to catch before placing the picture inside. I stare, mesmerised by the orange-red flames as they stretch out, licking the frame.

A voice behind me shocks me from my trance. I was careful to make sure no one was around. How did someone creep up on me so quickly?

‘Burning old memories?’ they ask.

I twist sharply to face the voice. I recognise the grey-haired, skinny man; I’ve seen him before. He must live on the complex too. ‘Something like that,’ I say. I turn back to the fire, and with the long stick, poke the wooden frame further to the bottom of the bin. The glass cracks loudly.

‘Need any assistance?’

‘No. I can manage. Thank you.’

I really don’t want to begin a conversation with this man. Not here. Not now. I wish he’d leave; mind his own business. The flames are about to reach the boy’s face now. I close my eyes. I can’t watch this part.

‘I’ve got some things I could do with getting rid of, too,’ says the man. ‘When you get to our age you don’t want to leave anything behind that might … well … upset those left; the ones who’ll find it.’