‘It’s not a story!’ I screech, crowds scattering as my hands fly above my head. ‘It’s my life. It was hers! So many of ours. They stole everything in the name of duty, as if it was a sacrifice we were bound to make. That we should feel honoured having served, like them. This is all I’ve got left. And to think not everyone paid for it.’ I retch and gag as the vomit rises again.

‘Marie…’ Suddenly Dominic is close, close as the breath I’m panting into my neck. ‘You can’t do this if you lose control now.’

‘Just tell me,’ I spit. ‘Tell me.’ I look up at him, eyes the blue heart of a flame, the same as hers, all I can ever see.

Time slows, sounds of the world still turning, glancing off us like we’re suspended in a bubble about to pop. And then his voice, a whisper on the wind, so quiet, I hold my breath.

‘It’s Jaqlin, Marie. It’s Jaqlin herself. She says she was one of the officers involved in the protection programmes for the witnesses in the original trial – a deep-cover operation. It’s equivalent to 243treason to blow those identities, we’ve got the Official Secrets Act to thank for that. Once she became commissioner, she became one of only a handful of people with access to classified testimony that never passed trial – the Baby Girl A photos. And that’s when she decided to go after it. The commissioner’s my source. Olivia was right about it being her personal Everest. She’s staking her life on it too. That’s how I know this is real. Because you – you must be one of those she protected. And I had no way of knowing she was legit till…’

And just like that, the bubble pops, the final piece clicks, the world turns again, smoothly and relentlessly, just as it should. Her name was never Shacklin, just close enough to her real name that she’d remember it, make it feel natural. How could I ever have thought I’d known who any of them really were? It’s your middle name, Julie said, right back at the start. You’ll remember it, it’ll feel natural. It has to feel natural.

I bang my head with my hands as Kayleigh screams and screams, rolling again and again in the dirt on the floor of our filthy room, foam at her mouth, blood rings round her eyes. The Scottish accent, the pencil-fine glasses. She’s on the right side. Maybe she even knew I was there, in the room, when she told everyone she was reopening the investigation, because new information had come to light. She hadn’t known until she was made commissioner. It’s her score to settle, too.