For the next few months, Rosamond went to her dark place. It was the same dark place she’d spent six months occupying after Eloise’s death, a place she thought she’d escaped forever. Suddenly she was plunged right back there. She recognised it. It felt familiar, like some windowless room in her mind, a room with a cold concrete floor and walls painted black. She would go there to re-live the final day she had spent with her sister, remembering how they had argued about who should drive that hire car. How she, Rosamond, had insisted on taking her turn at the wheel; despite Eloise’s reluctance to let her drive. You only got your license two months ago, Eloise had said. But Rosamond had insisted. And it had started to rain. Somewhere between Salt Lake City and a place called Rock Sp
