It was a chilly evening, but the cold was invigorating, so I walked the long way home to make the most of the fresh air. It was just beginning to get dark and I caught a flash of the lighthouse perched on top of the Farnes.
Walking back into Puffin Cottage was like coming home. I raced upstairs and changed straightaway into my grey cashmere pyjamas. With the fire lit, I poured myself a glass of wine. My phone pinged. Hannah:
Thanks for looking after us this week. It’s nice having you here. H
Why couldn’t she have said that to me tonight? I found it tough to match up the sullen teenager who was absorbed by her phone with the sweet girl who sent me the loveliest texts.
After finishing the bottle, I climbed the stairs to bed. That night, I had horrible dreams. I was sitting beside Amy in her car, with her asleep at the wheel. The tyres screeched around a bend and the engine burst into flames, and the shadow of an enormous tree loomed towards us through the smoke. Amy slept on as I screamed.
I woke in a cold sweat, panting, and whispered a silent prayer that Amy had felt neither pain nor fear. I sobbed myself back to sleep.
It was already light outside by the time I woke up. I grabbed my phone and pulled the duvet back over my head, planning on half an hour of catching up with social media – but I had a text from Mum:
Auntie Sue baked bread this morning. We’ll be over at 9.30 for breakfast.
It was already ten past. There goes my idle scrolling, I thought, rushing to get ready.
When they arrived, Auntie Sue made a pot of tea as I set the table with a mishmash of some of the fabulous vintage crockery I’d found in the cupboard. The bread was still warm and steaming as I unwrapped it from the cloth Auntie Sue had carried it in.
After we’d eaten, Mum started to fumble about in her handbag, finally retrieving an incense burner and pack of joss sticks.
‘Oh Mum, seriously?’ I said in protest.
‘It’s just a quick meditation, dear. I thought it did you some good last week and you could use a little more practice,’ she said, her eyes pleading.
‘Go on,’ Auntie Sue said as she nudged me. ‘I’ll wash the dishes while you can go and do your ohm-shanti-whatevers.’
Mum elegantly folded herself into a sitting lotus position and motioned for me to do the same opposite her. Despite my regular Saturday morning Power Pilates sessions and her being thirty years older than me, she was way more flexible. I grumbled as my joints refused to bend any further and huffed as my knees made worrying cracking noises.
She guided me through a breathing exercise and I began to relax. It was true that my mind was racing these days, my questions about Amy keeping me awake at night, and this did help to quiet the voices in my head. It pained me to say Mum was right, but meditation was doing me some good. By the time we finished, I felt almost serene.
As Mum packed away her props – including a tiny drum that I didn’t want to know the backstory to – I asked her about Amy’s possessions from the police.
‘Yes, they did give us a box. It’s at home.’
I was anxious to get Amy’s phone, but didn’t want to sound desperate – the last thing Mum needed was a slice of my anxiety. ‘Mind if I come over to take a look?’
I waved off Mum and Auntie Sue, after making arrangements for me to call over mid-afternoon. Rachel was coming over for our girls’ night, and I wanted to impress her with something fancy. I had just enough time to squeeze in a beach run before shopping for the ingredients.
I got dressed and threw Amy’s fleece on. I instinctively sniffed the collar for any trace of my sister but all I could smell was fabric softener.
Before I reached the end of the street, my phone started ringing.
‘Isabelle? It’s Richard Pringle here.’
He was doing his serious, I’m-the-headteacher voice.
‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m unable to get hold of Mike. We’ve had an issue at the school with Betsy. Can you come and pick her up please?’
‘Oh my god! Is she all right?’
‘Betsy is fine. But Mrs Neeply will need her blouse to be replaced and Katie McGee – well, let’s just say I’ll have some explaining to do to her mother. Betsy can tell you all about it during her three-day suspension.’
‘You’re suspending her? What am I supposed to do with her?’ The panic was rising in my chest.
Richard cleared his throat. ‘You can bring her back to school on Friday,’ he said, before adding, ‘I’m so sorry.’
I clicked off the phone and ran back to the house to grab my car keys.
Betsy sulked the entire way home, insisting that she had been set up and that Katie had consented to having a moustache and glasses drawn on her face. It wasn’t quite the same version of the story I’d heard from Richard, nor from Mrs Neeply – the teacher that Betsy had attacked with a felt-tip pen when she’d tried to pull the fighting girls apart.
Betsy didn’t strike me as a bully, just a very angry little girl. I didn’t want to be too lenient with her, but she had just lost her mum and probably felt that the world was against her right now. Richard had given her homework and had promised to email me more stuff for her to do tomorrow. Great – so everyone just automatically assumed I’d be the one to watch her.
By the time I’d collected her, there was just enough time to dash to Mum’s and do the shopping for that evening’s dinner. We pulled up outside the house.
‘You wait here. And stay quiet.’
I shuffled on the doorstep, refusing to come in and fighting off Auntie Sue’s questions about
