Sorrel wriggles off Eve’s lap, takes Poppy’s hand, and walks out of the kitchen, pulling her sister after her. Poppy rolls her eyes at Charley but she doesn’t let go of Sorrel’s hand. The policewoman follows, Melissa thinks, to check that Sorrel’s really all right. Charley and Blake hurry after them.

The room is quiet. If Eve shouted or screamed it would be fair; if she wanted to kill her, she would understand. After a few minutes Eve lifts her head; she looks bereft rather than angry, confused as though nothing makes much sense.

“I can’t understand why Izzy had to kill Ash.” Eve’s face is white. “Even if I could, I don’t think I’d be able to forgive her. I know she suffered at Paul’s hands, but—” She is unable to continue.

“I don’t know why either.” Melissa stumbles over her words. “I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry, though that sounds pitiful. Ridiculous. I had no idea, none. I don’t think I know anything anymore—”

“Well, I suppose I know two things.” Eve stands up.

Melissa waits, head bowed.

“We let things happen which we shouldn’t have done, all of us,” Eve begins bravely. “And the other thing is . . .” Eve’s voice begins to falter. “. . . something about us, about being friends, about how good that’s felt this year. The trouble is . . .” She is speaking through tears. “I don’t know what to do with that feeling now. Eric used to say I should do what my heart tells me to do, but . . .” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and attempts a smile. “. . . how the hell does that work when my heart is broken?”

She leaves the room, and seconds later the front door bangs. She has gone to her children.

The wood in the range slips lower. Noah comes over and rests his head on Melissa’s lap. She is glad of the warm weight, the gentle eyes. The low sun through the windows strikes the pans above the stove, the copper glows like flames.

18. April—Same Day

Grace

Grace gives the policeman a glass of lemonade and asks him if he wouldn’t mind waiting outside. He has a tattoo around his wrist, nice eyes. Fit-looking. He parks himself, feet apart, just inside the door. “Sorry, love, I need to stay close. She’ll forget all about me in a minute.”

The police van and the social workers are due to arrive in half an hour. Grace and Izzy are alone in the yellow-painted room at the front of the house, the old ballroom. There are deep alcoves and an expanse of floor, constructed for dancing and perfect for secrets. You might think that your words would fly up into the dusty cornices and disappear among the cobwebs; you might imagine there would be no consequences. Grace pours lemonade into the two remaining glasses, pulls a couple of armchairs to the window and sits in one, sprawling a little, relaxed or pretending to be. Izzy is pacing in circles like an animal in a cage.