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Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Dawn Goodwin
  3. WHAT I NEVER TOLD YOU
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. Acknowledgements
  55. About the Author
  56. An Invitation from the Publisher

At the top of the wardrobe are even more shoeboxes. I tug on one I can reach on my tiptoes and it is released in a rush, the boxes above it thudding and settling once more. Something shifts around inside the box and I realise it doesn’t have shoes in it. Inside are two bundles, wrapped in silver paper and tied with different coloured ribbon. I untie a pink ribbon and lift a corner of the paper to reveal a bundle of letters. I take the box and throw myself onto the huge bed, shoving aside the bags, scarves and shoes, hearing them clatter to the floor. Someone will sweep through this room in the next few days and it will be straightened and tidied, dusted and cleaned, as though my parents had never made a mess. As though they were never here in the first place.

I pause, wondering if I should really be reading these letters, then shrug and open the first envelope.

25

NOW

Helen wanted to lock up the shop and rush home, but the bell above the door jangled. She closed the yearbook and slipped it under the desk. A man walked in with purpose in sensible shoes, his heavy coat rustling as he headed over to the latest releases. He took his time reading the backs of a number of books, paging through others, even reading chunks from some, and Helen wanted to shout at him to hurry up, to just pick something and get out, that this wasn’t a library. In the end, he bought five books, four of them hardbacks, which was a good haul, and he left satisfied with his tote bag of literature swinging from his shoulder, only for a woman to come in straight after him.

And so it was for the next few hours, uncharacteristically busy and no chance for Helen to close up. All she could do was sit at her desk, chewing on her pen, her brain swooping from one theory to the next as it tried to fathom where the yearbook had come from, who had sent it and what they wanted from her. Helen had a copy of the yearbook herself – everyone was given one just before they went on study leave for their exams. Of course, there was a whole memorial page near the front dedicated to her after what happened, all angelic smiles and Rest in Peace missives. Everyone saccharine sweet in their comments. That probably wasn’t what they were saying in private. Helen assumed her own copy was in the same place it had always been, hidden with the shoebox, in which case this was someone else’s yearbook.

Someone who knew what happened.

Or thought they did.