In the eyes of their friends and neighbors, Séan was guilty. He lurked at home for three weeks, hiding from people, sinking lower and lower into depression. Carrie had tried to help, but she’d been only thirteen, too young to understand that he needed more than she could give. Sometimes, when he would let her, she would sit on the floor beside his bed and read to him. She’d started with her favorite books, then moved on to his—books by Iain M. Banks and Ursula Le Guin. She hadn’t understood everything she’d read, but the worlds conjured by those writers were extraordinary and vibrant. They came to life in that quiet room and gave them both somewhere to hide. On the fourth week, someone threw a brick through their front window. The next day, Séan walked the three miles to the ditch where the car had been found and hanged himself.

The real culprit was never found.

Séan’s death was like a cancer that ate away at the heart of their family. It had taken Carrie a long time to understand that his death hadn’t been her fault—no, that tragedy could be laid at the doors of others. The gardaí who had questioned him so publicly and who fanned the flames of rumor. The friends who had abandoned him. And, more than anyone, the thief and killer who had left that girl to die on the side of the road. Sometimes, when Carrie couldn’t sleep, she thought about that person. Wondered if they had gone on to do worse, to leave a trail of destruction in their path.

Carrie couldn’t have saved Séan, she knew that now. It wasn’t within her power. This time, though, it was different. She wasn’t a child anymore. But Carrie was honest with herself: what she was about to do might very well mean the final nail in the coffin of her career. More importantly, if she screwed it up, it could mean a long jail sentence for an innocent man. So she sat there, on that cold wall, with the damp leaching through the arse of her jeans, and took some time to think.

She thought about Evelyn Ross. A woman who liked to be in the middle of a storm. Evelyn was lying about Robert Collins. The question was: Why? For the attention it brought her? Maybe, but Carrie thought there was more to it than that. If she was right, proving it wouldn’t be easy. Evelyn Ross wasn’t the type to break down in tears because Carrie came at her with the truth. She wouldn’t roll over because someone got in her face or pointed out the inconsistencies in her story. Carrie would have to do better than that.

Just before lunchtime, Carrie stood up and crossed over the road, then knocked on the door. Evelyn opened it. She was wearing skinny jeans and a navy striped T-shirt and was barefoot with painted toenails.

“Evelyn, how are you?”

“Oh, hi.” A big, bright smile. “I wasn’t expecting you.”