I’ll have to tell all this to the detective. Tell him everything about my relationship with Greg, about Bella’s, about all the fears his own sons had about him and those two murdered girls. I’ll have to tell him the lies I told my sister and how she took me back there the night before the wedding and how she looked out into the woods and cried. How the house was empty, how he’d already gone. Oh God, I can’t. How will it look? I’m due down there this morning to answer more questions. How can I tell them all this and not have me, Dad, even Bella look guilty?

If it was Bella, if it was her who…it was my fault. I made her do it. But. But there was someone else with her, half revealed in the photographs. Who was it? Someone else knows what happened to Greg, someone else was with my sister when she went there looking for her proof.

Dad drives me to the police station and I’m silent the whole way, jittery with nerves. He parks outside and reaches to squeeze my hand.

“Did Bella tell you?” The words burst out of me.

“What?”

“Before the wedding—did she tell you about Greg and…what she believed he did?”

I look at him but there’s nothing but confusion on his face. And worry. There’s worry there too.

“Tess, sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re asking. What did Greg do?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Sorry. Ignore me.”

“I’m scared, Tess,” he says in a low voice. “Why do the police keep questioning you? Is there anything…? You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, and he squeezes harder.

There are tears in his eyes and he looks so much older and I hate that this is happening now, the day after his wife’s funeral. I hate Greg Lewis for doing this to him.

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking. “It’s just routine, isn’t it? It’ll be okay, Tess.”

But will it? I can’t remember what happened, which means I can’t remember anything to clear my name, either. What if they arrest me? Fear squeezes me tighter than Dad’s hand clutching mine and I can’t breathe. Oh God, how can this be happening? I want to run away, run and hide somewhere with my hands over my ears and my eyes tight shut.

I take a shaky breath and pull my hand away from Dad. I force a smile. “Okay, here we go. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to—I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’ll wait,” he says again.