I finish off the slice of cake Emma saved me, place the plate on the coffee table in front of me and wipe chocolate crumbs from my mouth. I hate how chocolate cake, particularly the one Emma makes, always tends to stain my teeth afterwards, but that’s still not enough to put me off eating it. I sometimes dream of it, if I know there’s some waiting downstairs in the fridge. There are still a couple of empty wine glasses on the table, with red lipstick stains on the rim. Callum and I tried to insist on helping with the washing up earlier but Emma refused our offer.

‘Enjoy your day, birthday girl?’ Michael asks, holding his hand over his mouth, he’s still halfway through a pint of Peroni. ‘God I’m knackered, and to think I’ve gotta head into work in the morning, I told your mum we should’ve done it yesterday, that would’ve at least given me a day to recover.’

I nod vigorously. ‘Yeah it was great; you and Emma always pull out all the stops.’

‘Well, we just want you to have the best time.’

I sit back in my seat. Michael flicks on the television, the ten o’clock news starts playing with the familiar BBC theme tune. He grumbles something, but I can’t quite work out what he’s said, it’ll be something about politics, I bet; his favourite subject to moan about, especially when he’s had a few drinks.

‘Just gonna take this into the kitchen,’ I say, picking up the plate.

As I get up, I glance out of the window. I squint. There’s a car sitting with its lights on, on the opposite side of the road. I freeze. It can’t be, can it? My heart begins to thump.

‘Everything OK?’ Dad asks, frowning at me.

‘Yeah, fine, I’m just gonna head outside for a sec, won’t be long.’

I breeze into the hallway. Looking to my left I spot Emma outside in the garden puffing on a cigarette. It’s only ever late at night, and sometimes in the morning when she smokes. She’s been trying to give up for years; at least she’s cut down from forty a day. She’s on the phone. I notice the two sticks Milo and Niall were using earlier are still lying on the patio outside. I place the plate on the hallway table and yank the front door open. There’s a man sitting in the driver’s seat of the car on the opposite side of the road. There are only a couple of houses on the other side, from my bedroom window, at the front of the house, all I can see are fields stretching for miles and miles, and beyond that, forest; I used to play there with Emma and Michael when I was young. The man in the car is staring at me, hands clenched on the steering wheel. It’s the same man from earlier. Shit, has he been sitting here since this morning? He must’ve waited for us outside the pub and followed us. What the hell does he want? I check to make sure Michael isn’t looking out of the living room window; his focus is on the television. He’ll no doubt be dropping off to sleep in a few seconds. I doubt he’ll even finish off the beer he’s still got left. I think back to my promise to Callum earlier, there’s no way I’m going to have time to ring him now. But what if I don’t have another chance to speak to this man?

I pelt across the road. As I come round to the car, the guy switches off the light and climbs out. He’s smiling at me, like he’s known me all my life. There’s that flicker of recognition again in my mind, but still I can’t put my thumb on who he is.

‘You spoke to me at the pub this morning,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘Sorry, forgive me for staring, but the last time I saw you, you were only six,’ he says.

I frown at him. What the hell? My knees begin to tremble. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, spittle flying out of my mouth.

He rubs the back of his neck, then buries his hand in his jacket pocket. ‘I knew your family, your birth family, years ago, before . . . before they were killed.’ He looks at the ground. I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say to him. He knew my family. I think of all the times I’ve tried to search for information on them before the murders and found nothing. God, he knew my family. I inhale a lungful of air. ‘You’ve been trying to speak to your brother for some time, haven’t you?’ he asks.

I nod. This is mad. My head is spinning. This is the first time I’ve met anyone who claims to have known my parents, it feels as though everything that happened in my life, before my parents were killed, has been closed off to me forever. How did he even find out where I live? Even the crazies haven’t tried this angle before to get me to talk to them, I’ve normally always been stopped in the street and Emma or Michael has come to my rescue.  

‘I’ve been trying to visit him since I was eighteen but he’s always refused to see me, I try every year,’ I say. ‘It’s been making my life hell this constant silence. I want to know why he did it. I need to know about my life . . . before this, where I came from, who I was. He destroyed everything. I should’ve been growing up with my real Mum and dad, and yet I know hardly anything about them.’

He nods. ‘I know. But, it has to be the right time. And the time is right now.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

I know what Callum would be saying to me if he was here. He’s a weirdo, get shot of him. I shake the thought out of my head; I need to focus on what he has to say. I can’t have any other voices in my head.

He sighs. ‘Your brother wants to talk to you, but it has to be with me present.’

I stare at him. ‘Why should I believe what you’re saying? I’ve no idea who you are. I’ve been trying to get my brother to talk to me for years and yet you’re here telling me that the only way he’ll talk to me is if you’re with me.’ Tears prick the corners of my eye, I do my best to fight them back, but one slides down my cheek. This is unbelievable.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a photograph. He hands it to me, I flick my gaze down, and almost clamp my hand over my mouth; I manage to stop myself. This is a picture of my family. My Mum’s standing behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders, there’s my Dad next to her and then . . . my brother, Harvey. Nausea sweeps through me. He looks so happy to be there, standing in front of my parents, hands clasped together. We look so ordinary, a happy family. What the hell made him want to kill them? I grip hold of the photograph tighter. There are other people in the background, at least six people. One man is standing behind my mother, staring into the camera with a brilliant white smile and piercing blue eyes. I rub my arms. There’s something familiar about him.

‘I’m in the photo too,’ the man explains, pointing to a younger version of himself in the background. He’s barely changed in twenty years. Emma would be saying she’d want whatever he’s having that makes him look so good.

‘Who are all these people? Who are you?’ I ask.

‘We’re all  . . . friends of your parents; well we were friends with your parents. This photo was taken in their house.’

‘Their house.’

A flicker of a memory passes through me. I’m sitting outside, picking at the daisies in the grass. Ahead of me there are a couple of people hanging washing on a washing line, they’re smiling at me; both of the women are wearing the same white clothing. The memory dissolves.

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, this is, this is mad.’

‘Look, Danielle, your brother is desperate to talk to you, but it must be with me present. You can’t bring anyone else, and I would advise against telling your parents. Shall I let him know that you want to go ahead with the visit?’

‘I . . .’ I can’t get the words out of my head. This is all too much. What the hell does my brother want to say to me and why now? ‘I need time to think.’

The man nods. ‘Of course, I understand. I’ll give you my number. If you could call me within the next couple of days, that’ll be fantastic.’

He draws a pen out of his pocket, takes the photograph from me and writes his number down on the back.

‘Do you not want the photograph back?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘No, no. It’s yours to keep. I don’t suppose you have many photographs of your family.’

‘No.’ He hands the photograph back to me. ‘Thanks, um, sorry, what’s your name?’

He smiles. ‘It’s Jeremiah.’

‘OK, I’ll . . . I guess I’ll speak to you in a couple of days,’ I say.

‘I really hope so, Danielle.’

I begin to edge back across the road to the house. Jeremiah gets back into the car, it chugs back into life. Dad still isn’t looking this way, thank God. God, if I tell Emma and Michael some stranger wants to take me to see my brother there’s no way they’ll want me to go through with it. His words roll around inside my mind, I would advise against telling your parents.

I push the front door open and step back inside.