The sadness of the whole situation suddenly hit her full force. Emma let her hand drop from Connie’s skinny little arm and stood up. She went over to the window and looked out at the naked winter tree. There was still that one lone leaf which hadn’t let go. It was a beautiful day out there. She leant her head against the pane. It felt cool against her skin.

‘Next time I come, I’m going to take you out of this godforsaken room,’ she said to the pane, to the Connie inside her head who was listening. ‘You need some air . . . how is anyone meant to get better in here?’ Her words formed a patch of breath on the glass. She wiped them away with her finger.

When she glanced back at Connie, she noticed a faded red exercise book lying messily under the bed. Emma went over, squatted down beside Connie and reached for it, her face inches from Connie’s. She pulled the book towards her with her fingertips and held it in her hands: Annie Mortensen, aged 9 and a halve. Private. Keep Out. She looked back at Connie: no acknowledgement. She smoothed the cover with her fingers. Little Annie Mortensen – the real victim in all this. She opened the diary and scanned the neat nine-year-old handwriting. She flicked through the pages. Annie had been prolific. Emma sat back down in the chair and began to turn the pages. What she was looking for she didn’t really know. She flicked through to May, when Connie had discovered the affair.

May 10