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Flicking on the radio, she whizzes through the stations in search of something he'll like. But all the songs seem fraught with pointed lyrics or painful memories, so she hits the off button and the silence returns. Maybe it's better, so they can talk on the way home. Leo has been subdued during her recent visits. She'd thought he'd be buoyed by the prospect of early parole, as it began to look more likely, but instead he seemed to withdraw, seemed to flinch at her tentative excitement. Now she realizes: He must've been terrified—must be terrified. She flings open her car door, unable to sit any longer.

Her curls blow across her face as she paces toward the prison. She can hardly believe he'll come walking out this time, that she'll be able to take him home with her. The wrench of those fortnightly good-byes. And the rush of guilt, always close behind, that Alice never got to say one to Robbie.

How will it be, though, once Leo is back with her in the village? Will they be ostracized even further? Will the whispers grow louder?

Just shy of the gates, fresh panic stops her dead. She was so sure it was the right thing to do, bringing her boy home, refusing to be driven away. But now her heart pounds in every part of her...Is she making a terrible mistake?

"'Shit,'" she hisses, looking back at her phone as if it will tell her what to do.

All she has is a solitary email, but her head jerks back when she sees who it's from.

Alice, who never speaks to her anymore. Alice, who blocked her number a week after Robbie's death, when Chrissy said the stupid thing, the careless thing, and ruined their friendship forever.

Her stomach turns to liquid as she opens it and sees the words Dear Christina. Only her husband ever called her that. And Alice knows this all too well.

Dear Christina,

I am writing to inform you that your son, Leo Dean, is strictly prohibited from entering Cromley's pub (previously the Raven) once it has reopened.

Violence will not be tolerated under the new ownership. Strong action will be taken if he attempts to enter the premises.

Although we cannot impose any restrictions beyond this, we also ask, on behalf of the village, that you consider the effect of your continued residency here.

Sincerely,

Alice Lowe and the Pub Committee

Chrissy exhales shakily, then reads it again, staggered by the formal wording, the sting of that final sentence.

It was manslaughter, she thinks, her eyes blurring with tears. Involuntary manslaughter. He pleaded guilty. Haven't we been punished enough?

If a parole board can decide Leo is no threat to his community, why can't people who've known him all his life try to do the same? People who saw the two boys grow up to be as inseparable as their mums. People who couldn't be certain, when questioned, whether it was a push or a punch that caused poor Robbie to fall.

And Leo has no plans to go bursting back into the pub. He looked stunned when Chrissy finally told him, only a couple of visits ago, that it was going to reopen. He knew she'd had to put it on the market, of course, after hanging on to the shell of it for longer than she could afford. But she'd put off admitting that half the village had joined together to "reclaim" the place.

"About...twenty of them put money in, I think," she finally explained three weeks ago, squirming in her plastic chair. "With a smaller committee doing most of the actual decision-making. Fixing it up"—she remembers pausing at the implication that it needed fixing, needed exorcizing—"and... reopening it."

Leo sat forward. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me, Mum?" 

"I don't know..."

"Who owns it now, exactly?"

"Well..." She muttered a few names, including Georgie, the newcomer Leo has never even met; then she came, eventually, to the point: "It's being led by...Alice."