“Yeah, it’s amazing.” Charley rests her head on Grace’s shoulder.

Blake gets off the sofa and bounds up onto the chair on the other side. His cheeks are bulging in a grin.

“Blake, how many times—”

“When’s Dad back?” Charley interrupts.

Blake jumps to the floor and waits, poised for the answer.

“The tutorial ends at eight, so half an hour after that maybe?” Martin’s in demand, the agency calls most days. He doesn’t seem to mind. At least, he doesn’t say that he minds, but he doesn’t say much these days. He might even be relieved to escape.

“So, you and Dad . . .” But here Charley’s bravery forsakes her.

“I’ll text him to bring home a cake from the co-op; he passes it on his way back. We can celebrate Sorrel’s recovery.” Grace picks up the plates.

“Mum?” Charley follows her to the kitchen with the knives and forks.

“Yeah?” Bracing herself.

“You know those blokes who used to hang around by the bins?” Charley puts the cutlery in the sink.

“What about them?”

“The landlady said they’ve gone, she said to tell you.”

“Since when have you been talking to the landlady?”

“She came out today when Melly dropped us off. She’s nice, she’s got a cute dog. She told me to say they won’t be coming back. Can I watch Neighbours ?”

Grace stares at her daughter. What else does the landlady know? What did she see?

“Mum?”

“Homework first.”

She’ll take the landlady a bunch of flowers tomorrow, maybe a box of chocolates as well. She feels warmed, the way you do when you realize you’ve got a friend you hadn’t known was there, someone who’s been on your side all this time.

There’s a brief scuffle at the door as Charley leaves and Blake enters, pushing past his sister. He roots noisily in the cutlery drawer while Grace runs hot water over the plates.

“What are you looking for?”

“A knife.”

“Jesus, Blake. What d’you want a knife for now?”

He bangs a jar of strawberry jam down on the counter and grins. “Lid’s stuck.”

She takes a coin from the few that have reaccumulated in the tin, slides it under the lid, which gives with a little pop. Blake laughs.

This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, she tells herself. Things have calmed down, Sorrel’s out of danger. Go on, now, while he’s in a good mood. She reaches into the cupboard behind the bucket and mop for the blue-handled knife she hid in her largest saucepan four days ago.

“I found this.” The rusty stain along the edge of the blade is now a faint pinkish line. She can tell by the way his face has fallen that she has only a few seconds to talk. “Whose blood is this?”

“What were you doing in my backpack?” The tone is belligerent; the good mood has vanished.

“What if I showed this to the police?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

He tries to snatch the knife but her fingers close tightly around the handle. “I’d do anything to stop you from ending up like that lot in the parking lot.”