The air filled with the hiss and rumble of water boiling. She went over to the washing machine. The load from earlier had finished, Sam’s jeans and pants inside. She could see them bunched in the bottom of the half-empty drum. She wondered about forensics and evidence. She found herself reaching over to push the door button on the washing machine, force of habit, not wanting to leave the sodden clothes in there to go mouldy. She pulled her hand away from the button and turned.

She should go to the police station round the corner and give Sam up, that was the right thing to do. Then again. She tried to work out the different paths the future could take, depending on what she did right now. The multiverse theory. But there were too many variables, too many potential futures, she couldn’t get her head round it. She just needed everything to settle down, needed time and space to think it all through, then she could be sure about making the correct decision.

Meantime she had to keep it a secret, even from Ben. Before Logan died she could never have imagined keeping secrets from her husband, they were such a tight unit, best friends as much as lovers. Their relationship didn’t feel like either of those things now. She didn’t want to keep this a secret from him but the truth was that it would be easy. Their lines of communication had been eroded so much it made her want to weep right here in her kitchen, in the house they shared. But mostly, right now, she wanted him out the house so that she could deal with everything at her own pace.

Ben shook his head. ‘Mental.’ Refresh, refresh. ‘Doesn’t look as if there’s much new info coming out.’ He straightened up.

‘Why did you come back?’ Ellie said.

‘What?’

She pointed at the laptop. ‘Couldn’t you have checked all that on your phone?’

‘I needed to get more of these.’ He pointed at the pile of flyers on the far corner of the table. ‘I ran out quicker than I thought. Still got a fair bit of leafleting to do.’

The kettle had boiled.

‘Don’t you want to stay for a cuppa?’

He looked at her. ‘I can’t believe you’re not more interested in this thing up at Inchcolm Terrace.’

She shook her head. ‘We don’t know any of the facts. I prefer to wait until I know what’s happened before I get outraged about anything.’

‘But someone’s been stabbed, ten minutes up the road,’ he said. ‘A cop, that’s crazy.’

She slung a green teabag into a mug, poured in the water, felt the steam swirl around her face.

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘Don’t you want to know what happened, the details?’

She shook her head as she dipped the teabag in and out of the mug. ‘Dwelling on the details doesn’t make any difference to the truth, does it?’

She felt him looking at her as she kept her head down. It made her uneasy, and she couldn’t believe that being watched by her husband, the man who was supposed to be the love of her life, made her feel like that.

‘You’re talking about Logan now,’ Ben said.

She sighed as she carried the teabag to the bin, her other hand under the spoon to stop drips on the tiles.

‘I’m always talking about Logan, Ben. Everything is always about Logan, you know that. You know what it’s like. It’s always there, in every single word that comes out of our mouths.’

He came towards her and she felt the muscles in her neck and back tighten as he stroked her arm. His hand was right where the new tattoo was. She wondered if that was deliberate, if he was trying to hurt her. No, just an accident, his touch was meant to be supportive. He was rubbing at the ink under the surface of her skin, and she felt like she deserved the discomfort. She flinched but didn’t move away.

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’

He squeezed her shoulder, more pain under her clothes, then he placed his lips against her temple, kept them there for a second. For a moment his bulk was reassuring, the smell of him, and she felt a remnant of the gravitational pull that used to draw her to him.

He pushed himself away, checked Twitter one last time then closed the laptop. Picked up the flyers from the table and put them in his bag.

‘I’d better get going,’ he said.

She stirred her tea. ‘OK.’

He hesitated a moment, silence between them, then left.

9

Sam stood at Logan’s window staring at the road bridge. Ellie watched him. He hadn’t turned when she opened the door, as if he was transfixed by the view. She imagined Logan standing on the same spot, gazing out to sea. Was that all it was, proximity? Had Logan killed himself because he saw that damn bridge every day when he opened his curtains? Maybe he wasn’t any more depressed or angry or suicidal than any other teenager, it’s just that he had the idea implanted in his head by that metal-and-concrete monstrosity looming over his life. There were increased suicide rates near high buildings and bridges. Many more suicides in countries where guns were easily available. And there were clusters, Ben was correct, but Ellie knew in her heart that was just down to human nature. Not exactly peer pressure, kids weren’t egging each other on to do it. It’s just that once you saw it was possible, a viable alternative to living, that really opened your eyes. She knew that from her own experience. Since Logan, she’d thought about following him into the water every day. The truth was she didn’t have the nerve.

Sam turned. He had tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t believe we were up there. It seems like a dream or something. A nightmare. This whole thing is a nightmare.’

Ellie went over to him. ‘I know.’

She looked at the stubble on his chin. He was definitely older than Logan, whose facial hair had been wispy fluff. Sam’s was more like Ben’s, but many years away from going grey.

Sam wiped at his nose with his sleeve and she wanted to tell him to use a tissue. All those years of motherhood ingrained in her now, impossible to shake off. Not that she wanted to shake it off, once she was no longer a mother, she was nothing.

She put an arm round him but he pulled away. Already she longed for the closeness they’d had earlier, when she’d helped him back to the house. That was real mothering, like looking after a toddler whose every need is your responsibility. She craved that burden on her shoulders.

He had his phone out his pocket.

‘I need to find Libby,’ he said.

‘I’ll help you,’ Ellie said. ‘But you can’t go out looking for her just now. The police are everywhere.’

He stared at her, doubtful. She needed to be an authority, needed to control this situation before it got away from her, like everything else.

‘And you can’t stay here either,’ she said. ‘Ben will be back soon.’

He glanced out the window. ‘Maybe I should go to the police.’

She reached out and touched his chin, moved his head until he was facing her.

‘No,’ she said, her voice steady. ‘You want to protect your sister, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘Think about it,’ Ellie said. ‘What you did was attempted murder. You’re old enough to go to prison, then who would look after Libby?’

He was shaking with sobs. She stroked his face.

‘Shhh, it’s fine, I keep telling you I’ll take care of everything.’

His breathing calmed and he nodded.

She had the urge to say ‘good boy’, as if he was a three-year-old who’d eaten his broccoli, but she held back. Her hand was still on his cheek, wet now with tears. She took it away and sucked at her finger, the saltiness that had been part of his body until a moment ago now inside her, part of her.

‘The first thing you need to do is get out of that T-shirt and hoodie,’ she said.

He frowned.

‘The blood?’

A look of realisation on his face. Had he really forgotten he was walking around with his father’s blood on his clothes?

She began undoing the zip on his hoodie but he put his hand on hers.