Helen headed straight for the kitchen and dumped the heavy bags on the kitchen table. A vase of freshly cut roses on the table caught her eye and she smiled. Arthur was the only man to bring her flowers these days.

She unpacked the shopping, most of it requests from the family. The sourdough that her husband liked from the bakery and some of his favourite cheese from the deli; her stepson’s protein powder as he pursued bigger muscles with the free weights he’d stashed in the garage; her stepdaughter’s tampons. The only thing she had bought for herself was a packet of extremely indulgent chocolate biscuits from the little M&S around the corner from the bookshop.

She hummed as she filled the kettle and sat at the table while it boiled, absently flicking through the mail. Her phone vibrated next to her and she smiled as she read a text from her friend Julie, thanking her for the birthday flowers. Thank goodness for online reminders and deliveries. She read through a letter from the local business association about a meeting to discuss the new retail park being constructed on the outskirts of the village. She made a mental note to put the date in her diary. She may not voice many opinions at such meetings, but it was important that her face was seen. The gas bill was an unnecessary reminder that this ageing house consumed energy greedily and that perhaps it was time to replace the noisy boiler in the basement.

At the bottom of the pile of post was a white envelope, addressed simply to HELEN, her name handwritten in blue capital letters. No address or stamp. She opened it while still humming the old Carpenters song that had been stuck in her head all day. She expected an invitation to a school function or a celebration of some sort. Her husband, Hugh, was now in the age bracket where such invitations were not to weddings and christenings any longer. Instead, they were thinly disguised attempts to make divorce and retirement parties look like joyous achievements rather than the depressing signposts of failure they actually were.

The kettle clicked off loudly.

The hum died in her throat.

Inside the envelope was a Polaroid photograph.

Two girls, smiling into the camera.

One of those girls was Helen.

The other was dead.

2

THEN

“Have you seen the new girl?” Eloise says as she sits down next to me in the canteen. “Oh my god, I wouldn’t be caught dead in those shoes.”

The first day back at school is dragging on, but at least I’m not at home. I’ve had enough of my own company almost as much as listening to the constant bickering through the walls. There is only so much catalogue clothes shopping you can do before even spending money gets tedious.

I look over to where the new girl is standing, tray in hand, eyes wide.