Jessica must sense her weakness because she reaches out a hand across the pine kitchen table and touches Margot’s fingers gently. ‘I know Heather wouldn’t have shot those people unless there was a reason,’ she begins. ‘She’s not a cold-blooded killer.’

Margot stiffens. Keith’s angry red face pops into her head, and a ten-year-old Heather, cradling the lamb in her lap knowing she wasn’t allowed to.

Margot blinks and tries to focus on Jessica. She has to clear her mind. ‘Of course she’s not a cold-blooded killer,’ she says instead. ‘I don’t understand what drove her to commit this … this mad act. It’s so out of character. You knew Heather. She’s a gentle soul, kind, loving …’

Jessica bites her lip and nods. But something passes across her face that makes Margot wonder whether she suspects the truth.

Chapter 8

8

Jess

I can sense Margot wavering. She’s contemplating confiding in me, I can tell. I don’t want to do or say anything to distract her. I need to lead her carefully now, no wrong moves. I take my hand away and sip my tea. Waiting.

Behind Margot there is a photo on the wall of Heather and Flora, taken around the time I knew them. Their heads are pressed together, their silky dark hair falling over their shoulders and merging so you can’t tell where Heather’s begins and Flora’s ends. They are giving wide, toothy grins. Eyes shining. Young. They are in sharp focus, the background muted greens and browns, but from their short sleeves and tanned arms I can tell it was taken in the summer. My heart contracts and I swallow a lump in my throat as I realize it was taken that last summer. There are others on the mantelpiece behind me that I spotted when I walked in. I long to go over to them, pick them up and examine them. But I can’t.

When I think of Flora, the familiar guilt tugs away at my insides.

I place my cup back on the kitchen table, yellowing and over-varnished but it’s the same table I sat at with Heather. I can tell by the knots and the whorls. There’s one near the edge that looks like a witch’s face. Once, Heather painted eyes on it as a joke. Nothing has changed. Even the roman blinds at the kitchen window are the same, with their green and white tree-print design, faded now in parts. The only difference is there is no longer any dog at our feet. Goldie used to follow us everywhere until she got too old to do much more than sleep. When I first stayed the night I wore a pair of oversized slippers shaped like pigs and Goldie chased me around the kitchen, trying to nip them. She thought they were toys, I suppose. I smile at the memory.

Margot notices. ‘What?’