Part One

Jess

Emily is across the room, her shape made silhouette by the earthy glow of lamplight beyond the front window. There's someone with her; their head is tilted in concern, their hand resting on her shoulder, and even through the vapor of my dazed mind, I can see that she is crying, from the way her chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath. It's a tiny movement, but one I remember from earliest childhood, the way she'd turn inward as she tried to keep it together, tried to hold it all inside. I see her now, aged four or five, casting aside her new red scooter, wanting instead my purple one; I was bewildered as she turned her back to me and stood at the low garden wall, unspeaking, taking these same shallow breaths, trying to contain herself. Like a volcano, that's what Dad used to say. She's about to blow.

The paramedic tells me to stay still for a while, and I'm so tired I don't argue. I just close my eyes and drift, and wait for them to tell me what to do next. I'm rocking, standing alone on the deck of the ferry, seeing the island for the first time, the sea sunglass-bright, sailing past cheerful yellow buoys and bobbing yachts as the densely wooded land and stony beaches come into clear view, a picture-postcard setting for idyllic grand houses and country- quaint cottages. Behind me, beyond the white spumed wake of the vessel, dark Napoleonic forts rise up through the distant waters, and I'm afraid. What is this, I wonder, this strange meandering train of thought? I can feel the hard surface beneath me, and my fingertips move listlessly, recognizing the rough furrows of the kitchen floor tiles. Am I drunk — or dreaming — or dying even? My head feels submerged, as though I'm looking up through water, yet at the same time there's a feeling of clarity that frightens me. I feel the weight of a hand on my wrist, of fingers tugging at my eyelids, the assault of bright light on my retinas, and I gasp for air, my memories suddenly, horrifically breaking through the surface: awake, aware, remembering.

* * *

"There's a doctor on the way," the plainclothes officer says as she passes me a glass of water, indicating that we should move into the living room. I've been perched on a chair under the archway of the open-plan kitchen, a blanket draped around my shoulders as I gaze out into the dining room, where James and Emily answer questions, their eyes drawn back to me from time to time, their faces distraught. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a tea or coffee?"

I shake my head, almost afraid to speak, as I attempt to take in the reality of the situation. Daisy has gone. Gone? I want to feel more, but I can't, my senses deadened by the impact of the fall, my thoughts and emotions slow to respond. It seems impossible that life can change so swiftly, so entirely, from one moment to the next. Already my mind is crawling over what I can remember — and scrabbling for what I cannot — and I pray to God that I'm not responsible for this in some way, that there wasn't something I could have done to prevent it.

As we leave the clean light of the kitchen and pass through the dining room, I glance back at Emily and James, now seated around the family table with two other officers, a photograph of Daisy placed starkly in the space between them. Emily's neat dark bob has lost its party sheen of the night before, and she looks tiny beside James, whose posture is like that of a great wide-shouldered boy. His youthful peaks of hair seem incongruous in contrast with his abruptly aged expression. "What now?" he asks the officer opposite him. His voice is husky, his tone softly urgent. "What happens now?" The pain that exudes from him and Emily is unbearable. They look drained of life, transparent beneath the bright glare of the dining room lights, and I know she's aware of me standing there, but my sister won't look up, she won't meet my eye.

"It doesn't look as if anything's broken." We're in the living room, an open doorway separating me and my traumatized sister, and the woman is looking at me for a response. She points to the sofa, and I sit.

"What?"

She gestures toward my bloodied shirt as she takes out a notebook. "It looks like a nosebleed to me. But we'll get you checked out all the same. So, Jess, I'm DCI Jacobs," she enunciates carefully, and I realize she's told me this already, that she's not sure if I got it the first time.

They don't always send a detective out straightaway, do they? But what do I know? I have no idea what's normal, or who arrived here in what order tonight. My gauge of time is completely off. I look beyond the inspector, out into the empty space of the doorway toward the dining room as another officer passes by. The place is thrumming with people. Did they all arrive while I was lying on the kitchen floor? Or did I just not notice them turning up as I sat on that hard chair, trying to bring my mind back into focus?

"Jess?" the inspector repeats, and I snap to attention, trying to blink myself toward some sense of clarity. She's older than me, maybe nudging fifty, and her hair is cut in a close, ear-tucked style, entirely gray. She's not vain, I can tell, but there's an attractive energy in her dark eyes, a sparkle of life. She stares back at me, as though trying to work me out, and then the questions come. Were you alone all evening? Did you hear or notice anything unusual? Was the back door locked? Are you certain? When did you last see your niece, Chloe? How old is she? Fifteen? What time did she go out? Are you sure? Do you get on well with your sister? And your brother-in-law? When did you last look in on Daisy? When did you last see Daisy? I try my best to answer them all, but I'm sure I must come across as guilty in some way, because I can't quite seize all the details, and even in my confused state, I can see how some of the gaps seem oddly placed.

"So you can't remember anything from around seven p.m. until your sister and brother-in-law returned home together at two a.m.? Did you speak to anyone on the phone? Or maybe you watched something on television?"

I turn my head toward the TV and close my eyes, recalling a remote image, barely a memory at all. "There was something with a dragon in it," I say. When I open my eyes, she's looking at me as if she doesn't believe me, or else she thinks I'm insane. "A film, I think," I press on. "Animated. But I wasn't really watching it. It was just background noise. I remember thinking I was hungry. Maybe I made a sandwich."

Her brow crinkles as she scribbles...