Speaking of whom. Dealing with Joanne has taken Holly’s attention off the window; the first she knows about Dad arriving is when there’s a tap on the door and his head pokes round it. For one second the rush of helpless gladness blows away everything else, even embarrassment: Dad will fix it all. Then she remembers all the reasons why he won’t.

Alison’s mum must have got snared by McKenna for a de-panicking session, but Dad doesn’t get snared unless he wants to be. ‘Miss Houlihan,’ he says. ‘I’m just borrowing Holly for a minute. I’ll bring her back safe and sound, cross my heart.’ And gives Houlihan a smile like she’s a movie star. She never thinks of saying no. The fog-layer of whispers stops moving to let Holly pass underneath, watched.

‘Hiya, chickadee,’ Dad says, in the corridor. The hug is one-armed, casual as any weekend hello, except for the convulsive gripe of his hand pressing her head into his shoulder. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Holly says. ‘You didn’t need to come.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything else, figured I might as well.’ Dad is never doing nothing else. ‘Did you know this young fella?’

Holly shrugs. ‘I’ve seen him around. We talked a couple of times. He wasn’t my friend. Just some guy from Colm’s.’

Dad holds her away and scans her, blue eyes lasering right through hers to scour the inside of her skull for scraps. Holly sighs and stares back. ‘I’m not devastated. Swear to God. Satisfied?’

He grins. ‘Smart-arsed little madam. Come on; let’s go for a walk.’ He links her arm through his and strolls her down the corridor like they’re headed for a picnic. ‘How about your pals? Did they know him?’

‘Same as me,’ Holly says. ‘Just from around. We saw the detectives during the assembly. Do you know them?’

‘Costello, I do. He’s no genius, but he’s sound enough, gets the job done. Your woman Conway, I only know what I’ve heard. She sounds OK. No idiot, anyway.’

‘Were you talking to them?’

‘Checked in with Costello on my way up. Just to make it clear that I won’t be stepping on their toes. I’m here as a dad, not a detective.’

Holly asks, ‘What’d they say?’

Dad takes the stairs at an easy jog. He says, ‘You know the drill. Anything they tell me, I can’t tell you.’

He can be a dad all he wants; he’s always a detective too. ‘Why? I’m not a witness.’

This time, says the space in the air when she stops.

‘We don’t know that yet. Neither do you.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

Dad lets that lie. He holds the front door open for her. The air spreading its arms to them is soft, stroking their cheeks with sweet greens and golds; the sky is holiday-blue.