Helen left as soon as Jenni arrived for her shift, once more not hanging around to chat. If Jenni thought anything of it, she didn’t let on, but her face was tight with concern. Helen walked home quickly. There were people around for most of the walk, thanks to the unusually warm sunshine, but Helen felt exposed, like there were eyes on her, tracking every step she took. She spun around every now and then like a madwoman, but couldn’t see anyone following her, watching her. She felt singled out, yet alone, like there was a solitary spotlight shining on her, blinding her to what was going on.

She walked with her keys in one hand and her mobile in the other, her eyes alert, her head swivelling from side to side.

On a whim, she continued past the bottom of the garden and along the coastal path behind the house. Once, years ago, she had found herself here almost by accident. Mills was a toddler and they had been out walking with Clive. Mills had run off along the path and Helen had chased her, only realising where they were when she caught up with Mills. That was the first time Helen noticed the memorial plaque. Simple, plain. Just a name and dates on black slate. It was almost completely obscured by sand and grass, set into cement on the edge of the worn footpath, teetering on the edge of the sheer drop into the ocean below and the angry, jagged rocks.

Today, as Helen drew closer, she noticed the differences time had brought with it. The path itself was narrower than ever, now more a worn track than a path. A sign attached to a wooden post told walkers to be careful of the drop, to stay away from the edge. The plaque was still there; the grass around it had been cleared, but now there was an additional flash of colour.

Someone had laid a bunch of lurid red roses on the plaque.

As Helen stood and looked at the words carved into the slate, the waves below shouted and snarled at her, as furious as they had always been as they flung themselves in anger at the landscape.

She suddenly felt vulnerable, standing so close to the edge. She spun around, expecting to see someone right behind her, their hands outstretched, but there was no one there. Just the flowers lying in cellophane that moved in the breeze, the petals fresh, vibrant, the colour of blood. As she stared down at them, it started to rain big, fat drops that fell on the petals. She felt like she was intruding on someone’s moment, someone’s grief.