Ellie took two steps forward. ‘Can you hear me?’

He didn’t move or speak. His chest rose and fell, small movements.

She took another step.

The fingers on his right hand twitched. His hand lifted off the bloody floor for a moment, as if he was trying to reach for the knife, then it dropped back down with a little splash of blood.

She looked around the kitchen. No sign of any other disturbance, nothing smashed or broken. Sliding glass doors led into the back garden. They were closed, no obvious sign of a break-in.

She looked at the man. He didn’t look like a burglar. She thought about the bloodstains on Sam’s T-shirt. Looked at the knife in the man’s belly. It had a serrated edge, wooden handle, she had one similar at home.

‘Mr McKenna?’

He gave out a breathy moan.

She stood absolutely still, trying to think.

The man’s fingers twitched again and one eye opened. He looked at her, but his gaze was unfocussed. She didn’t know how conscious he was, how aware. He grunted again then his eye closed and he gave a heavy sigh, as if the effort was all too much.

Ellie heard another noise. The scrape of a key in a lock, then the front door opening, a bag being dropped on the floor.

‘I’m home.’ A woman’s voice, shouting up the stairs. ‘You lazy gits up yet?’

The man on the floor wheezed.

Ellie stepped over him, careful not to stand in the blood, and ran to the patio doors. She slid the snib up then pushed the door open just enough to squeeze through, gliding it shut behind her.

She ran to the side of the house, out of view, then climbed over a low fence of wooden slats into the neighbours’ garden. At the bottom of the garden were a couple of cooking-apple trees. She sprinted down to them and launched herself at the stone wall behind, scrambling up and over. She dropped down without looking, desperate to get away. She hoped no one was in the neighbours’ kitchen or she was spotted for sure.

She glanced around as she got her breath back. She recognised where she was, Ferrymuir Gait. Over the embankment across the road was the A90, heading to the bridge. Further round the road she was standing on were the visitor centre and the offices for the new bridge. Back the other way was the cemetery where Logan would’ve been buried if they hadn’t decided to have him cremated and scattered in the Forth. Everything so close by, everyone in the Ferry living in each other’s pockets, the road and the railway and the bridges slicing through it all.

She waited and listened. After a few minutes she heard a siren, and imagined the ambulance arriving.

Now she had her bearings she knew there was a quicker way home, past the visitor centre and down the access road, the same road she’d walked with Sam earlier today. She headed in that direction.

7

She let herself in the back door and went through the rooms, checking Ben wasn’t there. She hadn’t come directly back to the house, instead ducking left off Hopetoun Road on to Shore Road, then cutting down to the beach, avoiding the police station two minutes away from the front of her house.

The house was silent. She listened for sirens from the cop shop. Nothing. You hardly heard them here, the Ferry wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. No sound from upstairs either. She went up and stopped outside the door to Logan’s room. Rested her fingers against the chunky wooden letters that spelled out his name. She ran her hand from the L to the O and slowly onwards, stopping with her fingers pressed against the N. The sign had been on Logan’s door for ten years, and he’d moaned about it being childish when he hit his teens, but he never took it down and neither did she.

There was a rough splinter of wood at the end of the N, it had been like that for as long as Ellie could remember. She deliberately snagged her thumb on it, feeling the skelf push against her skin. She remembered for the hundredth time that day that her son was dead, that she would never see him again, then she breathed and pushed the door open.

Sam was still asleep, blanket pulled over him. Ellie sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hands through his hair, brushing against his ear.

He moaned in his sleep.

She moved up the bed, still stroking his hairline along his forehead, behind his ear, letting her hand linger on the nape of his neck for a moment, before starting again. She breathed in through her nose, caught the smell of Lynx and urine and something underneath, his unique scent.

He was coming round. She didn’t want to disturb him, but she had a stronger urge to hear him speak, to hear his voice and reassure him. He looked like he was having a good dream, and she wondered how that was possible. She tried to remember when she’d last had a good dream.

His eyes fluttered open and he looked at her, confused.

‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘You’re safe.’

She saw it on his face as he began to recognise where he was and who he was with, as he remembered what had happened. The confusion turning to distress, panic.

She was still stroking his head, but he pushed her hand away and tried to sit up.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. Her hand lay limp on the bedclothes where it had landed. She looked at it as if it wasn’t part of her.

Sam seemed more together than he’d been earlier, more aware of his situation. He went into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his phone. Checked for messages with a trembling hand, then pushed call and held it to his ear.

Ellie could hear it from where she sat. She prayed for it to go to voicemail. Five rings, then it did. Sam hung up without leaving a message.

‘Who are you trying to get hold of?’ she said.

He shook his head, trying to drive the sleep away.

‘Is it your little sister?’ Ellie said, thinking about the coats and shoes in the hallway earlier.

He stared at her. ‘How do you know I have a little sister?’

She tried to put her hand on his, but he slipped away from her touch.

‘I just want to make sure you’re OK,’ she said.

‘How do you know about Libby?’

‘Libby, that’s a lovely name. How old is she?’

‘I asked you a question.’ He shuffled back against the headboard. ‘Who are you?’

‘You know who I am,’ Ellie said. ‘Do you remember being on the bridge earlier?’

‘Of course.’

‘I found you. Brought you back here to get you sorted out.’

He glanced at his phone then rubbed his face. ‘How do you know about my sister?’

She looked at him, held his gaze. ‘I’ve been to your house.’

‘What?’ He seemed younger than his age suddenly, had the scared look of a toddler in trouble.

‘I was worried. You fell asleep. I wanted to get in contact with your parents, let them know you were safe.’

He rubbed at his fist with his other hand. ‘And?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t. At least . . .’

‘What?’

She took his hand. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened at home?’

He pulled away from her and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed in a tangle of blanket. ‘I need to speak to my sister.’

She put a hand on his thigh, felt his muscle through the material of her son’s jeans. ‘Wait, I can help. Tell me what happened and I’ll help you find Libby.’

He looked at her hand on his leg. ‘I can’t.’

She stood up, positioning herself between him and the door, arms folded across her chest. Not that it would do any good if he wanted to leave.

‘Let me tell you what I found,’ she said. ‘I went to your house, 23 Inchcolm Terrace. There was no answer but the door was unlocked, so I went in. I found a man in the kitchen with a knife in him. I think that man is your dad. He was still alive. I heard your mum come in the front door and I ran out back. A few minutes later I heard an ambulance arrive, then I came home.’

He looked down at his lap and played with the zip on his hoodie. Ellie thought about the bloody T-shirt underneath.