‘It’s just that Cecilia – well, it was the other day. Monday, at school…’ The girl stopped again; shot a look at her father.

‘Go on, poppet,’ her mother prompted comfortably. ‘You’re doing the right thing.’

‘I just know that Willow Jackson doesn’t like her. Cecilia. At school, I mean.’

‘Right,’ I said slowly.

‘She’s made it very obvious. And she’s been’ – she glanced again at her parents, who made encouraging faces – ‘I think she’s been bullied quite badly by them. Willow and Lola and that lot. But mainly Willow. Lola and Cecilia used to be mates, but not now…’ She trailed off.

‘Bullied? Cecilia has?’

‘I think it started as soon as that Willow did. But then I heard her threatening Cecilia the other day in the toilets. She gets a hard time anyway, I think because of her dad, but this was’ – she paused, searching for words – ‘this seemed really nasty somehow.’

‘What did?’

‘Willow was saying something about her being a’ – she dropped her voice – ‘a slag.’

A tiny inadvertent noise sprang from the back of Pat’s throat.

‘Who, Ceci?’ I frowned. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. That’s all I heard. That – and there was something about having some pictures of her.’

‘Pictures? Of what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mary shrugged. ‘I guess, Cecilia doing something she maybe – you know’ – she dropped her voice again – ‘didn’t want anyone else to see?’

My mind whirred. Could Willow have persuaded Cecilia to lie? I thought of what Zach had said yesterday, about the money Willow used to curry favour.

‘I must say I’m concerned, Ruby. I’ve asked to see Mr Whitaker tomorrow at school.’ The vicar shook his head, his shaggy beard shaking too. ‘Pat and I – the thing we’ve wondered since Mary told us this earlier – well, is it possible that Cecilia might have been coerced into lying about your son?’

As I shut the front door behind me, I read the sign enclosed in a cross beside the bedraggled honeysuckle: ‘We accept all here with love.’

As I debated whether I believed I too was loved, a tall figure sloped into the vicarage drive with a Deliveroo bag, pushing a bike, hood pulled up against the drizzle.

As he passed, he glanced down at me. ‘Evening!’ he said, grinning. ‘How are you, Mrs March?’

Their eldest son, Lazarus.

It took a brief second and then – a bolt of recognition hit me.

I realised exactly where I knew him from.

Before the other day in the street; before the bar at the party; before it all.

Melissa

It was warm enough in his first-floor flat, but I couldn’t stop shaking, although I was doing my utmost to hide it.

He pulled the curtains across the living-room window – the room looking down onto the square. Minimalist in the extreme, the room was half empty: a packing box in the corner; the small leather sofa I sat on; a functional table by the galley kitchen; two folding chairs.