She leads me behind the low concrete buildings to our gate. The view of the house baking in the August sun is so peaceful, sleepy even. Judging by the pulled curtains several of our party are still sleeping, in blissful ignorance of the tragedy that lies below.

We reach the front door and Pete Hoskine says, ‘Mary’s in the kitchen with the mite.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘I thought you might be needing me on the beach,’ he says. Mrs Hoskine is whiter than her apron. I must look a fright, still in the remains of last night’s makeup and my skin blotchy from my tears.

‘Let me get you something to drink. Tea, I think.’ She bustles off as I nod, unable to speak more. My mouth is dry, and I am shaking. There is no need to act. I look around. Nothing has changed. The newspapers are on the hall table. The tall case clock is still working. This is wrong, everything is wrong.

Diana bolts into the hall. I bend down and open my arms. ‘Mummy, tell me it isn’t true. Tell me it was a bad dream.’ She presses her tear-covered face into my shoulder.

‘I can’t lie to you, my darling.’

‘No, Mummy, no. Not Daddy.’

I pull her tight against me. There is nothing I can say.

77. Lottie

77

Lottie

5 August 2018, 8.15 a.m.

Lottie opened the door to her bedroom. Her mother was sitting on the bed with the diary in her hands. Lottie braced herself. Had she been so tired this morning that she’d left it out? How was she going to explain this?

‘When were you going to tell me?’ She held up the book. ‘Why were you keeping this from me?’

Lottie sat beside her on the bed. ‘I’m not sure you want to read it.’

‘Too late.’ Her mother’s shoulders dropped.

‘Are you OK?’

‘No.’

Looking closely Lottie could see how pale she was. Her hand fell shaking onto the diary. It was open to the damning page. ‘I killed my father. That’s why I don’t remember him. That’s why my mother found it so hard to love me, ran away from me.’

Lottie swallowed. ‘Mum, you can’t believe that. You were an eight-year-old child.’

‘It makes sense. It makes sense of all of it now.’ Her head hung over the book. She ran her fingers over her words. ‘Why we didn’t come back here. Why there were no photos.’ Tears collected in her mother’s eyes.

Lottie knew the truth. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Gran. ‘Mum.’ She put her hand on her mother’s.

‘What do I do?’ She looked up with such a tormented expression.

‘Mum, stop.’

‘Lottie. I killed my father.’ She rocked back and forth.