The life I’d had was disappearing. Every adult who had ever held me as a baby was dead and no one would ever carry me again.

When Father brought us here to see Mother all those years ago, he told us that she wouldn’t leave our minds, that she would always be right here when we needed her. But he lied about that. The dead don’t come for you.

I folded Lizzie into small pieces. But the letters did not stop.

I could tell the officer all of this because it was the truth. All of this happened in the house at some stage. Should it matter when it happened?

How many years does it take to grow into someone?