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to, then about the real stuff. The nuts and bolts, the nitty-gritty of cherished hopes and dreams, and how her family, like anyone’s, is everything to her.
    Today even the kettle looks too heavy for Jo. She’s so thin, so brittle, ethereal in her grief, with huge eyes and pale skin. I notice her hair, the same shade as Rosie’s, only fractionally shorter, so that from behind, you could almost—but not quite—mistake them.
    “Is Neal here?”
    “He’s with the police. . . .” The mug in her hand shakes. “I should have gone.... Couldn’t face it.... They’re tracing calls to her phone. . . .” Her voice wobbles.
    “Can I do anything? Anything at all?” I ask quietly.
    She shakes her head, then gathers herself and pours boiling water into the mugs, while I look around at the spotless white and steel units, the massive range-style oven. Immaculately clean and tidy. And expensive, I can’t help thinking, hating that I even notice.
    She brings the mugs over and pulls out a chair opposite me.
    “It’s nice of you to come, Kate. I appreciate it. People send things.... They don’t come here. It’s like it’s contagious.”
    Her voice is flat, her eyes bright with unshed tears, as incredibly, she maintains her composure. I shiver inwardly at the thought that you can catch death like a virus.
    “They probably don’t want to disturb you,” I say gently. “That’s all, Jo.”
    “So many cards,” she says, sounding blank. “I can’t believe how many. Even from people we don’t know.”
    Does it help? Is it in any small way a comfort to know you’re in the thoughts of so many people? It prompts me to pull Grace’s card from my pocket and place it on the table.
    “Grace asked me to give you this.”
    She reaches out slowly and takes it. I wonder if she’s thinking the unthinkable as she thinks of Grace, knowing I would be if it were my most precious, most loved person whom someone had taken from me.
    Why my daughter? Why not someone else’s?
    “Can you tell her . . . thank you?”
    I sip my tea, but Jo’s remains untouched. Then a quiet sound from behind makes me turn round.
    Perhaps because Jo rarely mentions her, I always forget Delphine. I know from the way Rosie talked, the way her face would light up when she mentioned her sister’s name, they were close. As she stands there, I take in the same pale hair, the familiar look of uncertainty. So like Rosie—until I notice her eyes. In place of Rosie’s quiet friendliness, her watchful look unnerves me.
    “Hello. I’m Kate, Grace’s mum,” I tell her, remembering too late that because they’re school years apart, she may not even know Grace.
    “Hello.” Her voice is quiet, but like her sister, she is well spoken. “Mummy, please may I have lunch?”
    “In a minute, Delphine. When Kate has gone. Why don’t you go and watch the television?”
    Delphine goes without a murmur, but I take it as my cue. Swallowing the last of my tea, I get up. “Really, I should be getting back.”
    Jo doesn’t protest, just puts her undrunk mug down and leads the way to the door. Then, as she opens it, raising pain-filled eyes to meet mine, she says quietly, “They found her in the woods.”
    Suddenly, I can’t move, my mind struggling for words of comfort that don’t exist, but Jo goes on.
    “She was buried . . . under leaves and moss. Someone saw her hair. . . .”
    Her voice is suddenly high-pitched, jogging my mind back to the present; then, as she says “hair,” it cracks, and she crumples, sobbing in my arms.

    Two hours later, hours in which I do my best to console her, knowing that nothing I do can ease her loss, I make lunch for her and Delphine, lunch that Jo doesn’t touch and Delphine only picks at.
    “You’ve been ages,” Grace says when at last I get home. “Did you see them?”
    “Yes. It was awful, Gracie. Just so, so sad. For all of them. I saw Delphine, too. And the press was hanging around.” I’m exhausted. The weight of