He’d just given her a strong painkiller. She normally resisted analgesics because she was so susceptible to them, but the pain in her head had finally become more than she could stand. Within minutes the pain had begun to melt away, but everything else was melting as well. She could feel her limbs becoming heavy and somnolent. The walls of the bedroom seemed to soften, and her thoughts became languid, as if she were sunbathing on a hot summer’s day.

“When you were little,” she said.

“Yes?” Perry sat beside her and held her hand.

“That year,” she said. “That year when you were bullied.”

He smiled. “When I was a fat little kid wearing glasses.”

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” she said. “You laugh about it, but it was a really bad year.”

He squeezed her hand. “Yes. It was bad. It was very bad.”

What was her point? She couldn’t turn it into words. Something to do with the frustrated anger of a terrorized eight-year-old and how she always wondered if that’s what this was all about. Each time Perry felt disrespected or humiliated, Celeste bore the brunt of a fat little boy’s violent, suppressed rage. Except that now he was a six-foot man.

“It was Saxon who helped you in the end, wasn’t it?” she said. Her words were melting too. She could hear it.

“Saxon knocked out the ringleader’s front tooth,” said Perry. He chuckled. “Never got picked on again.”

“Right,” said Celeste. Saxon Banks. Perry’s hero. Jane’s tormentor. Ziggy’s father.

Ever since the night of the book club, Saxon had been in the back of her mind. She and Jane had something in common: They had both been hurt by these men. These handsome, successful, cruel cousins. Celeste felt responsible for what Saxon had done to Jane. She was so young and vulnerable. If only Celeste had been there to protect her. She had experience. She could hit and scratch when necessary.

There was some connection she was trying to make. A fleeting thought she couldn’t catch, like something half glimpsed in her peripheral vision. It had been bugging her for a while.

What was Saxon’s excuse for behaving the way he did? He hadn’t been bullied as a child as far as Celeste knew. So did that mean Perry’s behavior wasn’t anything to do with the year he was bullied? It was a family trait they shared?

“But you’re not as bad as him,” she mumbled. Wasn’t that the only point? Yes. That was key. That was key to everything.

“What?” Perry looked bemused.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t do what?” said Perry.

“So sleepy,” said Celeste.

“I know,” said Perry. “Go to sleep now, honey.” He pulled the sheets up under her chin and pushed her hair off her face. “I’ll be back soon.”

As she succumbed to sleep she thought she heard him whisper in her ear, “I’m so sorry,” but she might have already been dreaming.

60.

I can’t bloody shut it down,” said Nathan. “If I could have shut it down, don’t you think I would have? Before I called you? It’s a public website held on a server that’s not inside the house. I can’t just flick a switch. I need her log-in details. I need her password.”

“Miss Polly had a dolly!” shouted Madeline. “That’s the password. She’s got the same password for everything. Go shut it down!”

She’d always known Abigail’s passwords for her social media accounts. That was the deal so Madeline could check in any time, along with the understanding that Madeline was allowed to silently creep into Abigail’s bedroom at random moments like a cat burglar and look over her shoulder at the computer screen for as long as it took Abigail to notice she was standing there, which often took a while, because Madeline had a special talent for creeping. It drove Abigail crazy and made her jump out of her skin each time she finally sensed Madeline’s presence, but Madeline didn’t care, that was good parenting in this day and age, you spied on your children, and that was why this would never have happened if Abigail had been at home where she belonged.

“I’ve tried ‘Miss Polly had a dolly,’” said Nathan heavily. “It’s not that.”

“You mustn’t be doing it right. It’s all lowercase, no spaces. It’s always—”

“I told her just the other day that she shouldn’t have the same password for everything,” said Nathan. “She must have listened to me.”

“Right,” said Madeline. Her anger had cooled and solidified into something mammoth and glacial. “Good one. Good advice. Great fathering.”

“It’s because of identity theft—”

“Whatever! Be quiet, let me think.” She tapped two fingers rapidly against her mouth. “Have you got a pen?”

“Of course I’ve got a pen.”

“Try ‘Huckleberry.’”

“Why Huckleberry?”

“It was her first pet. A puppy. We had her for two weeks. She got run over. Abigail was devastated. You were— Where were you? Bali? Vanuatu? Who knows? Don’t ask questions. Just listen.”

She listed off twenty potential passwords in quick succession: bands, TV characters, authors and random things like “chocolate” and “I hate Mum.”

“It won’t be that,” said Nathan.

Madeline ignored him. She was filled with despair at the impossibility of the task. It could be anything, any combination of letters and numbers.