I turn to Stephanie. ‘You need to talk to James. Ask him what he’s hiding from you. But you have Hollie’s funeral coming up. Maybe it would be better to wait. If you and James are good, as you hope you are, you’ll get through this.’ I watch her take it in. ‘Try to take one day at a time, Stephanie. This is the hardest part – for both of you.’ I pause for a few seconds. ‘If I can do anything, you know where I am. Call me – or come over. Any time.’

I’m already regretting my offer as I leave the salon. Not just because I instinctively protect my privacy, but because Andrew hates people turning up uninvited. The more people who know his whereabouts, the harder it becomes to hide his indiscretions. He likes to maintain the illusion that we’re the epitome of the perfect family. He has no intention of letting that image slip.

Niamh

In death, as in life, Hollie takes centre stage in my mind. On the bus, everyone’s talking about her. At school, it’s the same. But bad news travels faster than good.

Through the bus window, I stare at the rain painting everything grey, settling on the roads in oily puddles, while all I can think of is Hollie.

Hollie standing in the churchyard among the headstones, staring at the ghosts. Hollie running across a field, her long hair flying out behind her. Hollie’s lifeless, floating body, cold in death.

In the time it takes to run from the bus stop to my house, my clothes are soaked through. In the kitchen, my mother’s talking on her phone, looking up briefly as I go upstairs and change. When I come down, she’s waiting for me.

‘How was your day?’ She looks anxious.

‘OK.’ I shrug, then go to the fridge for a drink.

My mother’s voice comes from behind me. ‘Niamh, the police want to talk to you again. They have this idea that Hollie may have told you something that might help them get to the bottom of what’s happened to her.’

Opening the can, I take a mouthful, turning around as my mother goes on.

‘DS May was here earlier. She wondered if Hollie might have confided in you.’

Raindrops on the window scatter the beam from a car’s headlights into a thousand tiny shards, as it turns into our drive. My mother says from behind me, ‘That’s probably her.’

I feel myself frown. She has no idea how impossible this is. That I have to lie to the police because I made a promise. There’s stuff Hollie told me I can’t tell anyone.