I creep down the stairs and past the living room door, which is slightly ajar. Mum’s asleep on the sofa, snoring gently, her feet resting on Dave’s lap; Dave’s watching a James Bond film with the sound right down, cradling Evie in the crook of his left arm and feeding her a bottle, his eyes glued to the screen. I sneak into the kitchen and open the back door into the garden. The way I see it, I’m in so much trouble already it doesn’t really matter if I do get caught. Mills is sitting on the garden bench, waiting. She smiles at me a little shyly. “Hi,” she says, standing up but not moving towards me, her hands hanging limply at her sides. She’s wearing black jeans, a black cardigan and cute blue polka-dot flip-flops which rather ruin the CIA special agent look. “Hi,” I say back. For a moment we both stare at each other awkwardly. Then she says, “It was Sophie.” “What was Sophie?” “Sophie took Piggy’s pearls.” I’d forgotten she’d nicknamed Mrs Piggott, Piggy.
