CONTENTS

PROLOGUE DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1 DAY ONE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 2 DAY ONE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 3 DAY TWO – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 4 BEFORE

CHAPTER 5 DAY TWO – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 6 DAY THREE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 7 BEFORE

CHAPTER 8 DAY THREE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 9 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 10 DAY FOUR

CHAPTER 11 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 12 DAY FOUR

CHAPTER 13 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 14 BEFORE

CHAPTER 15 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 16 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 17 BEFORE

CHAPTER 18 BEFORE

CHAPTER 19 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 20 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 21 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 22 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 23 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

PART TWO

CHAPTER 24 BEFORE

CHAPTER 25 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 26 BEFORE

CHAPTER 27 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 28 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 29 BEFORE

CHAPTER 30 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 31 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 32 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 33 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 34 BEFORE

CHAPTER 35 BEFORE

CHAPTER 36 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 37 BEFORE

CHAPTER 38 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 39 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 40 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 41 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 42 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 43 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 44 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 45 BEFORE

CHAPTER 46 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 47 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 48 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 49 BEFORE

CHAPTER 50 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 51 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 52 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 53 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 54 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 55 BEFORE

CHAPTER 56 DAY 7 – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 57 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 58 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 59 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 60 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 61 BEFORE

CHAPTER 62 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 63 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 64 DAY EIGHT

CHAPTER 65 DAY NINE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

At first we loved the owls . . .

No – wait. Maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe none of this has been how I imagined. Maybe it was only ever me who loved the owls.

I look down at the knife in my hand. There’s blood on the blade and blood on my fingers too. I can see that I’m trembling yet cannot feel the movement – this strange disconnect between my mind and my flesh.

I do know that I feel faint – terrified I’ll pass out and that Lily will come back and see. All. This. I close my eyes and try to breathe more deeply. I long to hear the owls to take my mind somewhere safer. An anchor. Something to keep me conscious.

I keep very still. Listen. But there’s nothing.

Do not faint . . .

They’re why I booked this place. Owl Cottage. I try again to picture our first night.

And breathe . . .

The fabrics. The hooting. I open my eyes briefly to check the Rayburn stove – deep, rich, shiny blue with the tea towels still hung over the chrome rail. Owls printed on the cotton. Owls swooping across the folds of the curtains too.

Do not faint . . .

That first evening I sat just a few feet from here – out there on the front step. I can’t believe that was me – the slate cold to my legs, even through my jeans – sipping wine and listening to them hooting their hello. That other me who, for the first time in months, felt the call of those owls was like some tiny signal of hope.

I’ve loved them since I was a child – six, maybe seven. That first sight of a tawny at a country fair. Right up close. I held my breath. Didn’t blink.

Do you want to feel the feathers?

My mother nudged me to answer but I pretended not to hear – just me and the bird. Transfixed. The owl turned its head as the handler brought it closer. The woman took my hand gently and pushed it deep into the bird’s plumage, just beneath its wings. I expected to hit flesh but instead my fingers plunged deep, deep into nothing but softness. Like feeling the inside of a cloud . . .

So this was all my idea. Owl Cottage. I fell in love with the place online and then again that first night, rushing around to show Lily each of the little touches.

Aren’t they wonderful, Lily? Look. Owls everywhere.

I think their eyes look scary, Mummy. I don’t like them.

No, no. They’re not scary, sweetie. They’re wise and beautiful and incredible. You’ll see.

How wrong can a mother be? Lily never came to love the owls. And I should never have brought us here.

I look down once more at the knife still in my hand.

Do not faint . . .

He’s across the kitchen, slumped on the floor also. Silent now, but I imagine the blood gushing; I can smell it and sense it in the room too but I can’t look.

And then comes this wave of something even more terrible. I turn my head to the right. Resist. But there it is again. A shadow just out of sight.

The memory creeping in of this same gut-wrenching fear. This very same aloneness. I look down at my hand, still trembling, and remember my whole body shaking exactly like this once before.

I close my eyes and try to push the picture away, but the echoes from that other place close in. The cold. The dread. Darker, that last time. The owls there too.

I lie down on my side and curl into a ball and I try to soothe myself by rocking and thinking of the girl with her hand in the cloud.

I let go of the knife and push it away from me. I will wait for the light to fade and the shaking to stop; for the owls to call me.

To save me as they did the last time . . .

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

DAY ONE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Where to start? The day we meet? The day I find out about the affair? Or the day we drive to Cornwall?

I guess it doesn’t really matter, given all roads lead in the end to the same place. But I’ve always loved May, that transition in the light and the temperature from spring to early summer, so let’s begin with a blue sky at least; the sun shining. A Friday. Cottage changeover day. Six days before my world ends and yet in this moment and on this drive – this pause.

This state of ignorance. Not blissful – certainly not that – but I do at least have no idea what lies ahead. So let’s pretend, in this moment and in this late May sunshine, that the worst is behind me.

Your profile alongside me is unchanged. The same tiny mole by your ear. The same strong jaw. Sandy hair. And yet nothing’s the same, is it? And me? I’m just terribly sad – deep to my bones – and tired and hot too, despite the air con, hunting in my bag for spare juice, juggling this new norm of putting on a brave face for Lily.

I think of the tablets in my washbag. They’re strong. Antidepressants I never imagined I would need. Or say ‘yes’ to. The doctor says I’m still adjusting and I’m guessing they’re the reason I’m so tired. But I won’t tell you about the tablets.

Can’t.

The sky’s so clear and the light so bright that you’re squinting and, as we turn the next corner, you move the visor down to shield your eyes. In another life I might suggest we stop to check all the bags for your sunglasses.

But not this life.

‘I’ve only got apple juice left.’ I stretch my arm between the seats to offer up the carton to Lily in the back.

She wants orange. Always – orange.

‘Sorry. All gone, honey. It’s apple juice or water. Do you want water?’

The carton’s taken from my grasp with a sigh of disappointment and I try not to worry about her teeth. I should insist on water but can’t face the row.

It’s the thing I’ve promised us all this trip. Calm. I’m so tired of googling the impact on children.

We’ve finished the couple counselling and, for now at least, I’ve decided to stay, which means the focus and the pressure are suddenly and unfairly all back on me. I’ve said that I will try and so try I suppose I must.

I turn to take in your profile again. You have your hand up, the visor not enough, but you feel my gaze and turn also – your expression a question mark. I don’t know how to answer you. I think of my furious outbursts every Wednesday in that office, with its wretched green walls and wretched green furnishings. The colour of mediation.

You really think we come here, we have a bit of counselling in a sodding green room and I’m supposed to stop thinking about it? You in bed with someone else?

And you?

You say the same three words, over and over. It meant nothing. The problem is you have no idea what it meant to me. So I take my tablets in secret, and with the counselling done and dusted now, I have to work out how on earth to do this.

I take in your discomfort – the sunlight – and I want to travel back in time. To kind me. Loving me. To the me who believed so completely in us. I wonder what it will really take now to deliver on the promises we’ve made. You not to cheat again. Me to try to move on.

‘Do you want to stop at the next services?’ I clear my throat. ‘Buy some sunglasses?’

‘It’s not far now. I can manage.’ You pause, the surprise at my olive branch opening your expression a little, despite the glare. Next you put your right hand back on the steering wheel so you can reach out for my hand to squeeze a thank you.

I look down at our fingers. White knuckles. I think of us holding hands a million years ago. Our wedding. The honeymoon in beautiful Bellagio. All those walks down all those years. Watching box sets from the sofa when babysitters were in short supply. Back when your touch made me feel so safe and cared for. I resist the urge to pull my hand away, but the truth is it’s not comforting anymore.

I think again of all the shouting in that wretched green room and find that I want to cry, so I’m relieved when you have to change gear. Pull your hand away first.

‘Can I have a story, Mummy?’

‘Course you can, sweetheart.’ I scroll through my phone and find a favourite to play through the car’s audio for Lily. I listen a while then maybe I doze; I’m not sure, but probably, because much sooner than I expect, I’m aware suddenly of change. The car is turning sharply to the left. You snap off the audio. My head jolts and the satnav is announcing we’re here. Owl Cottage.

‘Did I fall asleep?’

‘You were snoring, Mummy.’

‘I do not snore.’ I grunt like a pig to make our daughter laugh and to cover my embarrassment too. I feel groggy and am cross that I slept, stretching my shoulders and neck as we pull up.

The parking’s to the right of the detached property, and there’s a picket gate between the gravel drive, which is directly in front of the garage, and the front garden. The woodwork is smart. Freshly painted, which is a good sign, but it also seems a little odd to me; I wonder why the fencing doesn’t encircle the whole footprint of the land, including the garage. But Lily’s already out of the car and lifting the latch on the gate.

‘Hold on, missy. We need to bring all the bags.’ I lift my holdall from the passenger well and am thinking of the mountain of cases and bags in the boot, wishing again that I hadn’t dozed off. Longing for more energy.

‘Oh, come on. Let’s explore first. Unpack later.’ You’re smiling at me, head tilted by way of a plea, and I manage a small smile in return as we follow Lily through the gate and up the path to the front door.

It looks freshly painted too – shiny navy blue with an owl knocker in brass.

‘Oh wow. Look at all the owls.’ And now my mood’s changing, lifting, as I take in the owl cast in stone on the slate step while you check your phone for the combination for the key box on the wall.

The front door leads straight into the large kitchen, and as Lily runs ahead, through to the sitting room beyond, I notice the owl clock and the owl curtains. Tea towels with owl motifs stacked by a Rayburn stove.

‘Look, Lily. Owls everywhere. Aren’t they wonderful?’

‘I think they look scary.’ Lily is now back in the kitchen. ‘I don’t like their eyes.’

I tell her they’re not scary at all but she’s not listening, tugging instead at your shirt. ‘Can we go to the beach? Please, Daddy?’ You were talking on the drive about sandcastles and moats. How close we’ll be to the sea. Making more promises . . .

‘Well, time’s getting on.’ I check my watch, thinking of the supermarket delivery – due in less than two hours. Will it turn up? Will I have to find a shop for milk and bread and bits?

‘I could take Lily to find the beach while you unpack, if you like?’

You’re staring at me and I feel the sting of this. The truth of this. Good cop. Bad cop. Me the practical one. The organiser, with the tissues and the juice cartons. In our other life, I would offer happily to stay. Unpack. Sort the shopping. Not mind being the one to worry about milk in the fridge and what’s for Lily’s breakfast. I would let you be fun daddy. But not today.

‘Let’s all go,’ I say. ‘It’s only supposed to be ten minutes on foot to the nearest cove. Let’s dump the bags in the hall and maybe Daddy can walk back to meet the food delivery later.’

You look as surprised as I feel.

‘We’ll just need to throw a few bits in the beach bag. Lily – you need to find your bucket and spade. Change of clothes. Towel. Come on. While it’s still sunny.’

And so we head back to the car to bring in the bags and I catch you looking at me sideways as if I’m a whole new person. I want to tell you that I’m sorry if it came out wrong; that I’m feeling tired. Not mean. And that we can draw lots for the shopping if you prefer. But you’re right to look at me this way because I am very definitely a whole new person.

And if this is going to work – this break, this supposed fresh start – then things are going to need to be different, and not just for me. Sad, hurt and exhausted me.

But for you too.

CHAPTER 2

DAY ONE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

The strange knocking on the door starts the very first evening. You’re in the shower after the beach, and Lily’s outside with her dolls on a blanket on the lawn.

What’s weird is the knocking is on the back door, off the utility, not the front door. This both surprises and irritates me as I have no idea where the key is. Flustered, I shout ‘Hang on’ as I rifle through the cottage handbook. I finally find the key on its hook by the front door. Red plastic tag.

But by the time I get the back door open, there’s no one there. I step outside and glance around. There’s a concrete path to a small gate adjoining a side lane. It’s all very overgrown and clearly not in regular use. No sign of anyone.

I walk round the side of the house to join Lily. ‘Did you see anyone come into the garden? Use the side gate?’

‘What side gate?’

‘Over there.’ I point.

Lily just shakes her head and turns back to her dolls. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘I know, lovely. Supper won’t be long.’

I hurry back inside and wonder who on earth would be out here this time of an evening. And why use the disused gate? There’s no road access. More of a bridle path than a lane. You said the food shop arrived via the front door with the van parked in front of the garage.

I share all of this when you emerge from your shower. Fresh tee shirt. Wet hair.

‘No idea. Probably kids messing about.’

‘You think? Out here?’ I frown. The quiet location is one of the reasons I chose this cottage. Off the beaten track.

‘Well. I’d better get the barbie going. I’m starving. Lily must be too.’

‘Yes, she is. I’ve given her some hummus and carrots to keep her going. The burgers are ready in the fridge. Just coleslaw and buns. Keep it simple, yeah?’ I find a smile.

‘Definitely. And wine.’ You move across to the counter by the sink where we’ve stacked the bottles in a small metal rack. ‘The chef needs wine.’

I take the key through to relock the back door and notice for the first time the large corkboard covered with postcards on the utility wall. Some from other parts of the country. Most from abroad. I unpin a couple to find they’re from previous visitors. Thank you, Owl Cottage. Back home in Ireland . . . Cheers, Owl Cottage, from Paris.

‘You seen these postcards, Sam?’

‘Yes. Nice touch. It’s mentioned in the handbook. A tradition. Maybe we should send one when we get home.’

I scan a few more of the cards, then move back into the kitchen to watch you fumble from drawer to drawer until you find a corkscrew and pour us each a glass. I still can’t help wondering about the knocking. Kids playing pranks – out here?

You hand me my wine. ‘Let’s do the rest of the unpacking tomorrow. Yes?’ You’re smiling as you clink my glass and I feel a sweep of guilt.

‘I’m sorry about the shopping, Sam.’ I genuinely regret how it came out at the beach. ‘I wasn’t making a point, asking you to walk back for it—’

You lean forward and kiss me on the forehead. ‘You were. And you had every right. I’ve taken way too much for granted in the past. It’s fine. Honestly. Fresh start, like we said. You know how sorry I am. How much I want this to work. I’ll step up. Help with the unpacking. And poison us with barbies.’ You sip your wine. ‘Deal?’

I manage a smile in return. In the moment and in this lovely place, I find that I wish I could tell you about the tablets. The doctor. I think you’re suffering from depression and it’s important we help you with that.

I wonder for just a blink what would happen if I told you everything.

‘Deal.’

CHAPTER 3

DAY TWO – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

I find the first dead owl the next morning.

I assume a cat. Nature wonderful and yet so cruel. But even as I work out how to clear up the horrible mess before Lily wakes, there’s something which doesn’t feel right.

I can’t explain why, but I’m still thinking about the knocking on the wrong door last night.

It’s early, barely 7 a.m., and thankfully Lily’s still out for the count. Sea air. Late barbie.

The owl – just a baby – is a sad and bloody mess on the kitchen doormat. Limp head. Twisted neck. I feel this awful pang of loss and anger, my hand up to my mouth. Last night I heard the owls calling. It was magical. I loved it. Now I’m thinking of the poor mother bird and wondering why nature has to be so brutal.

I need to hurry, and start rummaging in the cupboard under the stairs. I remember a pile of newspapers. A dustpan and brush.

‘What are you doing?’

I start so violently that I bash my elbow on the wooden door of the cupboard. ‘Ow!’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump.’ You’re wearing pyjama bottoms. No top. Once, I would have enjoyed this. Teased you. Once, I might have stood up straight and put my arms around your neck, but even thinking of this makes me sad and so I turn away from you, rubbing my elbow, then grabbing a small stack of the papers.

‘Cat brought in an owlet. I don’t want Lily to see.’

‘Owlet?’ You’re frowning.

‘Baby owl.’

‘Jeez. How horrible.’ You move across to the door and lean over to take a closer look. ‘So is the cat still in here?’

‘No. Don’t think so. Haven’t looked properly yet.’

‘How did it get in?’

‘No idea.’

‘Here. I’ll do it.’ You reach out to take the papers from me. ‘I know how you feel about them.’

I watch you scoop the mess into the newspaper and fold it into a bundle.

‘I can see if there’s a compost heap, maybe.’ You glance at me, gripping the grim package.

‘Can we put it out in the bins outside or burn it, please? I don’t like the idea of anything getting to it . . .’

‘Sure. I’ll sort something.’ You head outside with the bundle and I wait, washing my hands and making coffee in the large cafetière.

While you’re gone, I check the cottage, downstairs first and then on tiptoe upstairs, but there’s no cat. And no open windows.

It’s several minutes before you return, and we sit at the small kitchen table.

‘Can’t work out how the cat got in,’ I say. ‘Did you open any windows last night? Close them later?’

‘No.’

‘Nor me. Odd. Maybe we can message the company. Ask if a cat hangs around here. Maybe there’s some way in we haven’t figured out yet.’

‘Sure. Good idea. I’ll give them a call.’ You take a large slurp of coffee. ‘You sleep OK?’

‘Not really. Strange bed.’

I wait for you to ask again, as you did last night, if I plan to sleep in with Lily the whole week. Last night I took the single bed opposite hers, on the pretext of helping her settle. But we both know it’s not about that.

At home you mostly take the spare room these days.

‘Look. About last night. Sharing with Lily. I’m not saying never, Sam—’ I break off, unsure if this is another lie between us. A small part of me worries that my dreams may disturb Lily but I’m trying so hard to balance so many things. Can’t face sharing your bed. Not yet.

‘It’s fine. No pressure.’ You’re looking right into my eyes and I hold your gaze; count the beats. ‘I just miss you, Hannah.’ Your expression’s softer. Kind. You tilt your head and I find again that I wish I could just spit it all out. Tell you the truth about the doctor and the pills and the tiredness. The headaches and the dreams too, all melded into an ever-darker muddle.

‘Beach was nice,’ I say.

‘It was, wasn’t it?’

I think of Lily, plastered in wet sand. Her sandcastle and moat. Holding her hand at the water’s edge. I think of her in the garden later, asking for a second burger. I’m starving. The three of us sitting on the front steps, watching the light fade and the moon appearing.

I think of how fast she seems to be growing. Just turned eight and so like the little girl I used to be. The girl in the photographs all around my mother’s house.

The little girl in my dreams.

The one I don’t want to remember.

CHAPTER 4

BEFORE

Hannah

The counsellor’s staring at me. Waiting.

She’s called Jessica and is wearing a bright red shirt and a silver heart pendant. It keeps catching the light, flashing like some Morse code message. It’s irritating my eyes and I want to ask her to move slightly to stop this. But I don’t.

It’s my first session and we’re meeting one-on-one. That’s the norm, apparently. She’s already met with you and I’m wishing now that I’d gone first. Turns out you’ve already brought up my dreams, nightmares, whatever you choose to call them.

In fairness, you warned me that you would.

‘Look. I’ve told Sam I don’t want to talk about all that. He shouldn’t have said anything.’ You have it in your head that my dreams are somehow at the root of things going wrong between us. Spiralling this past year. But then, you would say that, wouldn’t you?

‘We’re here because my husband slept with another woman, not because of what happened to me when I was a child.’ I open my mouth to say more but close it again.

Jessica waits. Her pendant flashes again. For some reason I find myself thinking of the Brownies. Flags. Did I ever learn Morse code? I can’t remember.

‘I want you to know that this is a safe space, Hannah. That I’m here for you. As individuals and as a couple.’ She pauses. ‘Sam tells me that in the year before his affair, your nightmares had become more frequent.’

I shrug.

She presses on. ‘I’m very happy to listen. Sam may be right. Talking about your dreams, about what happened in your childhood, may be painful. I understand that. But it may also be helpful, Hannah. Before we move to the couple counselling. Do you not want to at least give it a try? We can take it very, very gently. See how we go? We could have some more sessions. Just you and me.’

‘No, thank you.’

I think of Lily. How much she’s grown. How everyone says she looks just like me as a child. I close my eyes and try to picture her most recent school photo. I know she was wearing a red sweatshirt. Pink clip holding her fringe to the side. I try so hard to see her face in the darkness. But there’s only blackness. Can’t find her.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ve been living with what happened to me since I was a child. I put it behind me a long time ago. I’m not the problem.’ I open my eyes. ‘I’m not the one who slept with someone else.’

I think of my own primary school. The scene on Father’s Day. Me throwing chairs around. My mother having to collect me. Take me home.

Jessica smooths her skirt.

‘So – has Sam told you the whole story?’ What I mean is – does Jessica know who I am? What they called me, rather.

I wonder just how much you shared in your own one-on-one. Bet she’s googled me.

The girl in the woods. The tabloids came up with that little gem. They needed a label because they weren’t allowed to name me but, of course, everyone knew. At my school. In my village. They couldn’t put my name or my picture in the paper but everyone in our area heard the helicopters that night.

I was eight, going on nine. Just a little older than Lily. And yes, it’s upset me to see her reaching the same age. But I’ve learned to live with it; I’ve put it behind me. That’s not what this is.

‘I’ve told Sam that this has to be up to you.’ Jessica’s locket is flashing again and I wonder if it contains pictures. Her parents. Partner? Child? I wonder if she’s ever lost anyone close but I won’t ask. ‘I just want to be clear that I’d be very happy to listen if you want to talk here about what happened when your father died, Hannah. It must have been very traumatic for you.’ A pause. ‘I would like to help you with that. But it’s up to you.’

‘No. I really don’t want to. I was offered counselling at school. It is what it is.’ I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I can’t tell her that I said ‘no’ to counselling when I was younger because talking made it worse. Not better. That I’m only here for Lily; because the alternative was to throw in the towel. Split up straight away.

‘I promise you I’m not unhappy now because of what happened when I was a child. I’m unhappy now because my husband made me promises he hasn’t kept.’

And there’s the nub of it.

Until I found that text on your phone. Until we had the showdown and I melted to the floor, my skeleton no longer able to hold me up, you were the man who saved me.

You were the man who took the girl in the woods – the wild girl who once threw chairs around her classroom in school – and turned her into a woman who learned to believe in happiness again.

I used to tell people that you saved me. From myself.

And now? I look at Jessica and I don’t want to say it out loud because I’m afraid that, if I voice it, I can never row back from it; that our marriage can never be saved.

But here’s the truth of it: I no longer see my husband as a man who saved me.

I see you as a man who tricked me.

CHAPTER 5

DAY TWO – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

‘You sure you don’t want me to go?’ You’re standing in the garden holding a bright yellow frisbee with Lily all impatience alongside you.

‘No. You guys play. I won’t be long.’ I check my watch. Nearly 6 p.m. The garage in the nearest village should still be open and we need more charcoal. Out of practice; nearly out of coals. We have a gas barbie at home.

For some reason I have Amy’s voice in my head. Self-catering? How’s that even a holiday, Hannah? I feel a shudder go through me as I think of her. Amy, my friend. Ex-friend? Our terrible row.

You’re tilting your head, saying something I don’t quite catch.

‘Sorry?’ I’m still tired. Foggy brain.

‘I said we could just eat at the pub.’

‘No, no. They’ll all be way too busy. I won’t be long. See you in a bit, Lily.’

‘Bye, Mummy.’

I hurry through the gate, closing it behind me, to see a grey-haired woman deadheading flowers in the garden of the neighbouring cottage. She’s carrying a basket from plant to plant and the picture reminds me of my mother. She raises her hand and I wave back.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Her voice is a tad loud and she moves her hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight.

‘Yes. So lucky with this weather.’

‘Isn’t it lovely? Well, if you need anything, just knock. I’m normally home.’

‘Thank you. Just popping to the garage. Will they still be open?’

‘I’m sorry?’ She cups her hand now to her ear.

‘I was wondering if the local garage will still be open?’

‘Oh yes. Until eight right through the season from now.’

‘Excellent. I’ll leave you to it.’

I unlock the car and climb in. A little self-conscious – aware she’s watching – I reverse along the approach to the garage and swing round the narrow verge at the front of the woman’s house before heading off on to the wider, main lane.

It takes no time to get to the garage and, just as I remember from passing previously, there are small bags of charcoal on display outside. I grab a couple and pick up a bar of chocolate inside too. A reward for Lily after supper for her patience. She’s not used to this later eating.

‘You staying local?’ The woman on the till is very clearly sizing me up as she uses the barcode reader to scan the price tags on the charcoal.

‘Yes. Owl Cottage. Near the beach. It’s lovely out there.’

‘Ah, yes. We know it. Nice parking.’ A pause. ‘Nice and convenient to have a garage, I mean.’ The woman raises her eyebrows and shares a knowing look with the man alongside her. He stares at me. Stony-faced.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’m just saying that it must be nice to have a garage.’ Again, she puts a strange emphasis on the word. ‘Somewhere for the supermarket deliveries to pull in.’ There’s a distinct edge to her tone. For a moment I consider challenging her. But I pause. Think better of it. I remember reading there’s been friction over second homes and holiday lets, especially back during the Covid lockdowns. Best keep out of all that. I force a smile and hold up my card for the payment.

As I pick up the two bags of charcoal again to wait for the receipt, I notice a display board by the window. Various posters for fundraising events. A regatta later in the summer. A bring-and-buy. And alongside these, a neon poster. Notification of a protest march in the nearest town. Tomorrow’s date. I scan the details as quickly as I can, aware that I’m still being watched. It references a Facebook group. Something about the percentage of holiday and second homes relative to local residents. Save our communities.

Back in the car, I google the Facebook group and my heart sinks. Evidently quite a lot of bad feeling. I find a link to a previous protest. There’s some footage posted to YouTube. Quite a turnout. Placards. People slow-marching and banging drums.

I find a couple of newspaper articles and skim-read as I stretch for my seat belt. I click it into place and pause. Think of my own media coverage.

The girl in the woods.

I feel a quickening of my pulse. Take a breath. Regret looking this up now.

My mother, of course, tried to shield me at the time. But kids are kids; they talk. And my story’s still in the archive. On the internet forever. Just like these protest stories.

I think of Jessica, the counsellor. And wonder if I was wrong not to talk to her about it. I don’t know.

Truth is, I wonder how the media get away with it. All the headlines. All the stirring.

I was only eight. A girl who went on a picnic with her father. And then got stuck deep in the wood all night, all alone, because he died. Right there in the forest. Undiagnosed heart condition.

I turn the key in the ignition. Wonder what my life might have been if my mother had come with us. Hadn’t been at home, packing for a conference. Wonder what my life might be now if I could remember what really happened in that wood.

I try so hard not to think about it. Not to dream about it. But it’s like a haunting sometimes.

I get these flashes. Like now. Sometimes like a daydream. Sometimes in the night. The long walk. Crossing a stream. Lying on the ground. A picnic rug. Wrapping it around us both and holding on to my father – tight, tight.

The dark. The cold. Owls hooting. I think I remember walking off to try to get help but I’m not sure. I know I remember being very, very afraid. Going back to curl up with my dad. His flesh so clammy. Then cold. Falling asleep, then waking to a terrible sound which I thought was thunder. But turned out to be the search helicopter. Wetting myself in my blind panic. The terrible shame of the smell when the woman police officer finally crouched down beside me.

Hannah, you need to let go of Daddy now.

I open my eyes to find that I’m outside the garage still, gripping the steering wheel. Heart pounding. A large white truck is passing on the road to my right.

I watch the dust rise and linger in the air, then glance left to find the server still staring at me through the window.

I feel exposed. Cross for letting my mind wander. But I can’t help it. I’m thinking of my father. I’m gripping the steering wheel just as I held on to him. My lovely father. The lovely writer. The sweet and lovely man who wrote stories about fairies and to me was the most perfect father in all of the world.

I crunch the gear into first and pull forward, straining my neck to check the road to filter, my knuckles white. Hands still too tight on the wheel.

I try to loosen my grip but I can’t. Not yet.

I’m still in the wood. I’m remembering that I refused to let go of my father in that wood because, small as I was and terrible as that night had been, I knew deep down that when I let go of him, I wasn’t getting him back.

CHAPTER 6

DAY THREE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Sunday 8 a.m. – and I can’t believe it. Another dead owlet on the doormat.

I stand stock-still on the bottom step of the staircase, my shock and disorientation heightened not only because this is a repeat horror but also because just seconds ago, I was daring to feel so much better.

I slept well and we had such an unexpectedly good day together – the beach and the second barbie – that I woke up feeling somehow lighter. More hopeful.

I turn my head to take in your closed bedroom door at the top of the stairs. You were so patient yesterday with Lily – playing cricket and pretending to miss catches so she could make extra runs. Bowling again and again, even when I’d had enough and peeled away for a coffee from the kiosk. I passed that bedroom door just a blink ago, thinking of your effort. Of Lily trying to do cartwheels on the sand, you holding her legs as she turned. Of the frisbee, and the steaks for supper. And I just felt so much warmer towards you.

I started down this staircase and realised I was actually looking forward to seeing you this morning; to our next family day together. I was thinking too of something the counsellor said about building new memories to take us forward. New snapshots beyond the hurt. Untinged by the hurt. It’s why Jessica suggested this break. She said new and happy shared experiences could become the building blocks to our future, to mending, and I was beginning for the first time to see what she meant.

And now this again.

I turn back to the grim mess on the kitchen doormat, frowning as I then glance through the far door to the utility. Window shut. Back door locked. The key with its red tag back on the hook by the front door. We did another thorough check last night for any way a cat might get in. You even left a message on the cottage firm’s answerphone querying any history of cat problems. And we kept all the windows closed in the sitting room last night too; I double-checked when I fetched a glass of water before bed.

So what the hell’s going on here?

The stairs lead directly into the kitchen diner, and from this bottom step I can see Lily’s bright orange jelly shoes by her fishing net over by the coat hooks. There’s sand still on the shoes and the two plastic buckets alongside them, and I find that I hate the juxtaposition: Lily’s lovely things, reminding me of our nice day yesterday, so close to the sad little body of the owl.

This one’s just a tiny bit bigger than the first. Neck twisted again and some dried blood on the chest.

I glance at the large clock above the Rayburn stove. I’ve wasted nearly five minutes already. Enough, Hannah. Lily was out for the count – all that sea air again – but I daren’t risk her seeing this; I move quickly to the understairs cupboard to get the paper and dustpan and brush. I spread several sheets of newspaper on the floor tiles and use the dustpan to scoop the bird into the centre, folding the paper around it. I stuff the grim package into a plastic bag cast aside on the kitchen table after our gift shopping on the way home yesterday, and turn the bolts at the top and bottom of the front door. Next I fetch the key from its hook by the coat pegs to finally unlock and pull the large, heavy wooden front door free and move outside, holding the bag at arm’s length.

It’s cooler than I expect, with that dewy, morning smell – a sweet tinge in the air. Probably the last of the wild garlic, which is scattered across the base of the hedge running the length of the garden. I pace across the terrace in front of the cottage to the shed by the hedge. I lift the lid of the large black rubbish bin next to it and drop the bag inside, replacing the lid and reaching for a stone to put on the top. Don’t want foxes or, heaven forbid, rats rummaging.

I pause to look across the garden to the trees which climb up the bank in the distance to the much denser woodland beyond. I heard the owls calling again last night and wonder about the mother bird. Barn owl or tawny? No idea. But I imagine her watching and wonder if birds suffer grief. Does loss truly hurt them or are they programmed to simply cope with the natural order? Survival of the fittest.

Mostly I just wonder what the hell is really going on here.

For one moment, I sense a shadow at the end of the garden. Too big for a cat. I watch a while and it seems to move, but I can’t quite make it out. A fox? Badger? No. Something bigger. I cast about, wondering if it was a trick of the light, and feel a shiver at the thought of the owl looking for her baby as I hurry back inside to wash my hands.

‘Heard the door. You OK?’ You’re whispering as you come down the stairs, wearing shorts and pulling a pale blue tee shirt over your head as you move, your torso already a little golden from the sun yesterday.

‘No, actually. Another dead owlet.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No. On the doormat again.’

‘But how? I don’t understand. We checked all the windows.’

‘I know. I’m quite upset about it, actually.’ I move to fill the kettle with water. You’re immediately in sync, opening the top cupboard to fill the cafetière with coffee. Two heaped spoonfuls.

‘We must have missed something,’ you say. ‘I wonder if there’s some way in through one of the cupboards in the utility. Old plumbing or something like that.’

‘So did you get a reply back from the cottage company?’ I’m again remembering your answerphone message.

‘No. Nothing.’

I wash and dry my hands, wait for the kettle to boil then pour hot water into the cafetière and move to the table to sit down, taking out my phone. ‘I’ll email them. I mean, it’s not OK, is it? To come on holiday and be faced with this.’

You watch as I start typing. ‘What are you going to say?’

‘I’m saying that it’s a horrible experience. To stay in Owl Cottage because, surprise, surprise, I’m someone who loves owls, and to be faced with dead owlets on the doormat. How do they explain it? How is a cat getting in? Has this happened here before?’

I keep typing. ‘I also think they should have answered your message. I mean, we’ve paid through the nose for this week. Ridiculous how rates have rocketed since Covid. The place will be stifling if we can’t leave a window open. Even when we’re home. The least they can do is reply.’

You finish making the coffee for me, pouring it into two matching mugs. Blue with white stripes, placing mine in front of me.

‘Thanks.’ I think again of passing your door earlier. Feeling better about you, about us, and feel my anger towards the cottage company growing in contrast. I finish my email, adding that we have a young daughter who’s an animal lover. She’ll be inconsolable if she sees the baby owls. What do you suggest? How do we keep the cat out?

I press Send and put the phone down on the table and reach for my drink. I find that I’m thinking of my trip to the garage. The strange comments. The odd looks. I frown, wondering if I should mention the Facebook group to you. The bad feeling. But you’ll say it’s not our business. That I’m obsessing. Seeing things that aren’t there.

‘Lovely coffee. Thank you.’ I glance to the door into the sitting room, a new thought landing. ‘I think I’ll check the guestbook. There was one on the table when we arrived, wasn’t there? Maybe someone’s mentioned a cat causing trouble before.’ I take another sip, casting my eye around. Trying to remember where we put the book. Secretly wondering if anyone will have mentioned any hiccups with the locals too.

‘You still up for the Helford River trip? Tomorrow maybe?’ You’re widening your eyes and I recognise the expression; also the tactic.

‘Yes. I think it’s a great idea.’ I watch you closely as I speak, aware that you’re changing the subject quite deliberately. I told the counsellor that this infuriates me, but you told Jessica you do it to calm me. To help me. When I’m upsetting myself. Working myself up.

Am I upsetting myself?

I take in a long, slow breath; press pause. ‘Lily’s excited about the boat.’

I’m looking forward to it too, actually. I found all the details about the Helford River online. Apparently you can catch a water taxi across to a pub; it sounds rather charming and so far removed from our life back in Hampshire. I want to show Lily different things here; make the most of the coast.

We both sip our drinks in silence for a while and then you look at me, right in the eyes. Holding my gaze, unblinking. A rarity these days.

‘You were so great with Lily on the beach, Sam.’

‘Nice place. Excellent research, Mumma.’

I feel a small glow at the return compliment. The local cove we visited on foot that first evening is nice enough, but mostly shingle with only a small patch of sand for Lily’s digging. I checked out all the local beaches and decided on a bigger one with parking and a decent café for yesterday’s outing.

And then I’m surprised as my phone signals a new email.

The cottage company already.

The message is apologetic. They’ve checked the records and there have been no reports of any problem with cats or dead prey at Owl Cottage. They’re very, very sorry for the upsetting experience. They agree it all sounds horrible but cannot understand it.

‘It’s the cottage company.’ I scroll further as you watch me, eyebrows raised. And now I’m frowning.

The email continues that they’re sorry for the delay in getting back to us but they’ve double checked the answerphone and spoken to all the staff. There’s no record of any message from us yesterday. They say they’ll look into slatted blinds for the kitchen window so we can get air into the cottage when home without a cat getting in. Would Tuesday be OK for a visit to fit them? Meantime they remind us we should only open upstairs windows when out, for security reasons.

‘They’re saying they didn’t get your message.’

I look up to take in your expression, which is difficult to read.

‘Typical,’ you say. ‘Making excuses.’ You rake your fingers through your hair and look up to the right.

‘You did ring them?’ I don’t even know why I say this. A year ago I wouldn’t have. I would have taken your word and your side without thinking. A year ago I would never have googled eyes right to find it’s supposed to be a ‘tell’.

For dishonesty.

‘I told you I rang them.’ Your expression’s hardening now. No mistake. ‘Are you accusing me of lying, Hannah?’

I don’t answer. I just keep looking at your face, tears suddenly pricking my eyes.

Here we are again. I reach for my coffee and close my eyes to drink. I take myself back to waking. Passing your door. Thinking nice thoughts about you.

I open my eyes to see your familiar, defensive expression – colour flushing your cheeks.

‘Seriously. Are you saying you don’t believe me, Hannah?’

Still, I don’t answer. Fifteen minutes, tops, since I woke. Precisely a quarter of an hour since I was daring to feel more hopeful.

And here we are again.

CHAPTER 7

BEFORE

Hannah

‘Well, I think you’re being stubborn; possibly reckless.’ My mother’s deadheading roses as she speaks, throwing the dry and ragged blooms into a basket on the ground.

It’s three months before my marriage to Sam, and the shock of being summoned to discuss the uncomfortable issue of ‘money’ has thrown me. I let out a long, slow breath as I watch my mother’s careful concentration, gripping each stem with one hand and snipping away with angry secateurs with her other.

‘But a pre-nup is so clinical, Mummy. So untrusting. Depressing, actually.’ I move the basket for her as she progresses along the line of bushes. ‘It’s starting off on the wrong foot. Setting yourself up to fail.’

She pauses, raising her eyebrows at me. ‘Is that what Sam says?’

‘No, actually. Sam is completely fine about a pre-nup. He had no idea about the trust fund until your lawyer brought all this up.’

‘So if Sam doesn’t mind a pre-nup, where’s our problem? He signs. You forget about it and live happily ever after.’

‘But it matters to me, Mummy. Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been for me? To get to this place where I actually trust life enough to even want to get married.’

My mother pauses again and I take in the hurt on her face. I glance up to my bedroom window – a sudden flashback of her rushing in when I was small.

It’s only a dream, Hannah. Just a bad dream. There now . . .

‘I’m sorry, Mummy. That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have said that.’

At last she stops working, triggering the lock on the secateurs and tossing the tool on to the dead blooms in the basket. She sits back on her heels while I look across at the lawn.

There are daisies scattered across the green. Little bursts of joy. My love/hate mystery. Technically they are my favourite flower, but somehow it has never been that simple. Is anything ever simple with me? Here’s the thing. Daisies both delight and confuse me, sometimes triggering something I don’t understand at all. I had the weirdest dream once that I was picking them and the flesh on my fingers crumbled like ancient stone. As if I were some kind of statue. Very disturbing and seriously weird. I remember telling Sam and wondering what on earth was wrong with me; that only I could turn something so lovely, a favourite flower, into something upsetting.

Why am I so bloody weird?

You’re not weird, Hannah. Not to me.

‘Shall we go inside? Get some tea. I made apple cake.’ My mother’s standing as she speaks and I find a smile for her. My visits home are rarer now I’m with Sam. After all the things that happened growing up, she worries about me. And I don’t want to upset her.

But I also don’t want a pre-nup.

We move across the garden, making small talk about the new trellis near the shed. She’s thinking of a clematis rather than a climbing rose to cover it and wonders what I think. I tell her that she’s the better gardener and either will be lovely. It’s not until we get back inside, the basket left outside the conservatory, that we face it again.

‘I do see this is a First World problem, Hannah. We’re very fortunate. Your father’s family money has literally saved us all these years. But I do also feel a responsibility. A pre-nup is not a legal requirement of your trust fund, but the terms do demand you take legal advice on this before you marry.’

‘Yes, yes. You told me all this when you asked me to visit.’ A meeting with the lawyers has been set up for the morning, and I am apparently required to make a formal decision.

‘Look, Hannah. This is uncomfortable for both of us. But you need to sign tomorrow with your decision, one way or the other. I’m just making sure you think carefully, that’s all. It’s a lot of money, and without a pre-nup, it would be divided fifty-fifty in the event of divorce.’

‘So we’re not even married, and you’re talking about me and Sam getting a divorce. Charming.’

My mother places her hand on the kettle, which is almost at the point of boiling on the Aga. I look around the kitchen. The fitted wooden cupboards, the marble worktops. The huge triple-doored Aga, which must have cost a fortune. And suddenly there’s a new thought.

‘Are you OK in all this, Mum? Does me getting married in any way impact you? With Dad’s money, I mean? Because if it does, you have to tell me.’

When I was little, I never even realised we had money. Serious money, I mean. I was probably in secondary school before it dawned. My mother gave up her career with all its travelling after Dad died. She’d been an educational consultant, giving lectures around the country, sharing best practice. New approaches. But she decided to concentrate on me and also her art. She now has a studio attached to the house; she exhibits and she sells.

I was at first both proud and deliciously naive. My mother’s an artist. I didn’t realise until I was older and saw the price tags on her pictures that her art couldn’t possibly be supporting us. Watching other friends’ parents working all hours, I started to question how on earth we managed. Not just a comfortable life at home but all the extras. Nice holidays. The new piano. Ballet classes.

I assumed life insurance from Dad’s death, but was nearly fourteen before she told me the whole story. That Dad’s family had made a lot of money in property development. It was the reason he was able to work as a freelance writer, doing what he loved. He was left a trust fund by his parents. And he in turn left funds for me and Mum.

‘I’m fine financially. Your father provided for me separately, Hannah. This is not about me. This is about you. I’m trying to think what your father would say here.’

‘Dad would say believe in love, wouldn’t he? Isn’t that what you say my problem’s been all my life? Glass half empty. No faith in happy-ever-afters. And now, when I finally make the leap of faith, the lawyers want me to play the cynical card and spoil it all. Right at the beginning.’

I think of the irony that Sam’s a lawyer himself. He earns good money; doesn’t need any of mine.

My mother’s now pouring the hot water into the familiar blue and white teapot. She is leaning back to avoid the steam in her face, and watching her is like travelling through time. She’s had that same teapot my whole life. A miracle it’s never broken. I remember her making tea just like this when I arrived home from school. I can smell the apple cake too. The whiff of cinnamon – the exact scent from my childhood. This room and all of its treasures unchanged.

‘Did you sign a pre-nup when you married Dad?’ I wonder if that’s what this is really about.

My mother carries the teapot over to the table and nods towards the dresser as a signal for me to fetch the cups and saucers. I set them out between us, reach for the drawer for teaspoons and move to the fridge for milk. ‘Get the jug will you, darling? Second shelf of the dresser.’

I shake my head, smiling at the ritual. No milk cartons on my mother’s table.

‘So did you sign a pre-nup?’ I repeat, pouring milk into the familiar blue jug.

‘No I didn’t.’

‘What? So you refused to?’

‘No. I was quite happy to, but your father didn’t want me to.’

And now I feel this strange little burst of joy inside.

‘Seriously? He felt the same as me?’

‘He was a romantic, your father.’ She’s now pouring the tea into our cups. ‘Look. I do see it seems a little clinical, but I honestly think a pre-nup is the wise thing here. The practical thing, Hannah.’

‘But you’re telling me my father didn’t want a pre-nup either?’ My tone’s risen as I process this, relief coursing through me. I feel like a little girl skipping across that lawn out there, with all of its beautiful daisies. Not just relief but a sense of something bigger.

I think of my father sitting on my bed, sharing his stories. I don’t remember the words; often when I think of him, I can’t hear his voice anymore, which makes me sad. But I remember exactly how it felt to stare at his lovely face. Warm brown eyes with dark lashes. Adjusting his glasses. His expression animated, pulling different faces to represent each of the characters in the story to make me smile.

‘I am my father’s daughter then.’ I reach for my cup, tilting up my chin. And for me, it’s decided.

I am my father’s daughter. The echo rings in my head and I feel relieved and sure and somehow sad and happy all at once.

There will be no pre-nup.

CHAPTER 8

DAY THREE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Katie joins us at Owl Cottage on Sunday evening.

Online advice is to stay calm. Which I don’t.

It starts as I stir pasta sauce on the Rayburn’s hotplate while Lily sets the table. It’s drizzling a little this evening. Not warm enough to eat outside. I’ve already put the mats and cutlery ready on the kitchen table but I hear Lily struggling to open a drawer. I turn, worried about the weight of the drawer. It’s quite stiff and I’m concerned she may pull too hard; that the contents, maybe even the whole thing, will end up on her foot.

‘It’s all on the table, sweetheart. You don’t need the drawer. Leave it.’

‘But I need another mat.’

‘No. You’re fine. It’s all there ready. Three of everything.’

‘But Katie wants to have supper with us tonight.’

Lily’s staring at me as she speaks, head tilted. Her eyes are wide and unblinking, as if deliberately testing my response. I’m not going to lie: a shiver goes through me.

‘Who’s Katie, sweetheart?’

‘She’s my new friend. She’s in the sitting room.’ Lily pauses as I glance to the sitting room.

‘Where in the sitting room is she?’ I am careful to keep my voice calm. ‘I can’t see her from here.’

‘On the sofa, Mummy.’

‘Oh right.’ I can see both sofas and the tall-backed chair. All empty.

‘Well, supper’s not long. Does Katie like pasta?’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ My brain’s in overdrive as I fight a frown. I’ve heard about imaginary friends. Read about imaginary friends. But I thought it was something toddlers used as part of their development. You know – someone to boss around, to take back control and try things out on.

Lily’s eight. She’s never had an imaginary friend before. Why now?

I move over to the drawer to help, passing her an extra mat and set of cutlery. She puts them carefully alongside her own – moving the chairs closer together so they’re touching.

‘Will Katie need a glass for water?’ I can feel my heart beating just a little faster, worried about getting this wrong.

‘No. She’s not thirsty. Can we go and play now?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll call you both when I’m ready.’

I watch Lily move into the sitting room and take my phone from my pocket to start googling advice. I check the pasta sauce is OK and then creep up the stairs, intending to update you on the quiet. But when I reach the door, you’re on the phone inside.

‘I’ve told you. I don’t have access to the money.’ You’re keeping your voice low and I have to lean closer to the door. Your tone is determined but also stressed. There’s a long pause before you speak again. ‘I need to make myself clear. You don’t ring me again. Do you hear me? You do not call me again.’

I hurry away from the door and down the stairs, only just making it back to the stove as you appear on the staircase yourself. You seem in a hurry too and are frowning by the time you reach the kitchen, immediately noticing the four places set at the table. I put my finger up to my lips, listening as Lily mutters away in the sitting room as if in conversation with someone. I lean forward to see that she’s working on one of her puzzles, with pieces set on either side of the coffee table. A batch for her. And a second batch. For Katie? Then I catch your eye and signal to the utility with my head. We both move through and push the door to so I can whisper.

My heart’s beating and I long to ask you first about the phone call but it will have to wait. Our daughter first.

‘Lily’s got an imaginary friend suddenly. Katie. She’s set an extra place for her.’

‘Right. Goodness.’ You look puzzled. A deeper frown.

‘So what do we do, Sam?’ I’m looking at the phone tucked in your pocket. When dare I ask?

‘What do you mean, what do we do? We don’t need to do anything.’ Your expression is now changing to a warning. You look away as if weighing this up, then back at me. ‘It’ll be a phase. No big deal, Hannah. I had an imaginary lizard when I was small.’

‘A lizard?’

‘Yes. Fred. I carried an empty shoebox round for a while, apparently. Blamed things on him. Accidents. Fred did it. That sort of thing. I wanted a lizard as a pet but wasn’t allowed one.’

I’ve never heard this story before. In another world – that other life – it might lighten things. Amuse me. The picture of you as a small boy with a shoebox under your arm. But I’m still thinking about the call – I don’t have access to the money – and find that I’m not sure I believe you. Strange that your mother hasn’t cycled this lizard story along with all her other anecdotes.

‘So what age were you when you had Fred?’

‘Oh. Very young. Pre-school.’

‘But Lily’s eight. That’s a bit old for an imaginary friend, isn’t it?’ I can’t help it. The feeling of unease is growing. I won’t say it out loud but I’m thinking about the dead owls again. I’ve told you about the knocking on the door that first evening and you’ve dismissed that too. Implied I’m making mountains. Need to relax.

You shrug.

‘You don’t think it’s because of how things are between us?’ I say. ‘You know?’

And now your expression changes yet again, your eyes narrowing. ‘You haven’t said anything to Lily about this phantom friend, have you? It’ll just be a phase. Harmless. But if you overreact . . .’

I feel myself prickle. ‘I’m not overreacting. I’m just saying it’s a bit of a coincidence. Parents having a rough patch. And suddenly Katie turns up.’

‘So this is another thing that’s my fault?’

‘I didn’t say that. I’m just worried.’ I lean back against the row of cupboards. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Like I say, we don’t do anything. We go with the flow, Hannah.’ You move your hand to touch your phone. ‘OK?’

I don’t reply. I want to ask you about the phone call, but fear how you’ll react; I can’t face a row with this new thing going on with Lily. You lean in towards me, eyebrows raised, and then you do something totally unexpected. You touch my face quite gently – which in theory should feel nice, but doesn’t. Too many things swirling around my head.

In the end I just nod and you head back into the kitchen. I feel thrown and cross and confused and go straight back to Google. Which confirms that children as old as twelve can have imaginary friends for all sorts of reasons.

The first article says that in the vast majority of cases there’s absolutely no need to be worried. That it can even be a sign of a very healthy imagination. I like this feature. I think of my father’s writing. My mother’s art. My own love of interior design. Maybe this is just Lily’s creative side blossoming.

I move through to finish the supper as you walk into the sitting room. My phone vibrates. A text from my mother. Are you OK today, sweetheart? She messages daily. A sort of agreement between us. I stare at the message a while and think back to her calm acceptance and non-judgemental support when I turned up on her doorstep with Lily the day I first found out about the affair. I should reply, otherwise she’ll worry, but I’m distracted. I can hear you asking Lily who’s the better puzzler. Her or Katie. She says that Katie isn’t in the mood. She’s tired.

‘Why’s Katie tired?’ you ask.

Lily lowers her voice. She glances at the door and then leans in to whisper something to you. You look across at the door and then you stand up and move over to close it.

By now my heart’s truly thumping. I move quietly across the kitchen and lean to the door.

You and Lily are talking in low voices. Something about owls. I definitely pick up the word owls but it’s hard to hear. You whisper some more – a few things I can’t make out. And then I hear you comforting Lily. ‘It’s OK, honey. Don’t cry. But we don’t tell Mummy. OK? You mustn’t say anything to Mummy yet.’

CHAPTER 9

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Curled on the floor, I open my eyes and see the knife set aside, blood from the blade now dripping on to the floor.

I have no idea how much time has passed. The sunshine’s faded, but the sky, through the gaps in the blinds, is still blue. Way too bright and too early for the owls. I remain afraid to turn my head towards the body and so I squeeze my eyes closed again but this takes me back to the forest in my childhood: the smell and the shame of my ‘accident’, the itch of the picnic blanket. It’s hard to know which is worse. This room – eyes open. The damp and the dread of the forest – eyes closed.

I look down at my hands and think of the daisies. I wonder why I did not remember them before; remember all of it before now.

And finally, I think again of Lily. Stay away. Stay away. But suddenly there’s loud banging on the door and the shock of this makes my head jolt – eyes wide.

‘Let me in. You need to open the door!’

The man’s voice is distorted – seeping through to me as if I am swimming. Yes. The kitchen a pool now – me diving deep, deep, and listening underwater, trying to get away from the voice. And the daisies. And the blood. There’s more banging and a shiver goes right through my whole body as I again remember the guestbook. The message.

The first time this happened.

Knock, knock, Hannah. Who’s there?

A new wave of fear and dread. I want to dive even deeper below the surface of the water to hide from the banging and the voice.

Angry now because, too late, I see this is my fault. Two people dead.

All my fault.

CHAPTER 10

DAY FOUR

Maud

Maud pulls her phone from her pocket. Still no reply from Hannah.

She skims to the contact page and her finger hovers over the Call button, rehearsing in her head. Just a very quick call, darling. Are you having the most marvellous time? And then she thinks how badly this will go down if they’re indeed perfectly fine; right in the middle of something wonderful. She imagines Hannah and Sam and Lily having fun – a day trip, a beach trip – the phone ringing in Hannah’s pocket or bag just as they share a joke. Sam asking: Who’s that?

Maud puts the phone back in her pocket and stares out to the conservatory adjoining the kitchen. The geraniums need watering. Deadheading too. She sighs, wondering at this constant battle against decay. Why is it, Mummy, that whenever I visit, you’re dealing with dead plants?

The truth is the garden, the greenhouse and the conservatory pots are too much for Maud these days, but she cannot face the defeat of organising more help, nor the prospect of downsizing either. The doctor’s diagnosed early arthritis. She hasn’t told Hannah. Is much too scared, worrying what it may mean for her wrists. Her work. Her art.

Maud tidies away the cookbook, used last night for fish – How to get a crispy skin on cod. It didn’t work. Skin as soggy as ever. She puts the book back in its place on the dresser and stares at the box of new paints on the worktop. Very soon the light will be perfect in her studio but she’s in no mood to face the canvas today. The chasing of that most elusive of dreams – a painting with which she’s entirely happy.

It’s like the cod, Maud thinks. It isn’t going to happen.

She tends to find the solution to one painting as she works on the next. She used to go back to try to fix her mistakes but found the new strokes stood out as if by a different hand. It took her a while to realise she’s not the same painter this month as last, the bittersweet curse of progress.

Now she never goes back, bracing instead for the sweep of disappointment when she looks at an old picture through the eyes of the new painter she has become.

Maud pauses and reflects that this is also how motherhood can feel. You work out how to handle each phase of childhood just too late – as your child moves to the next.

And of course, it has all been so much more difficult, complicated, even dangerous, with Hannah. That horror over her father’s death when she was eight. And that terrible, terrible time later.

She thinks of the ambulance. The police. Was she wrong to agree not to tell Sam all of it?

Maud hears the whistle of the kettle and pours the water into the waiting teapot. She sits at the scrubbed pine table and glances to the favourite picture framed on the dresser – Hannah, aged around four, up on her dad’s shoulders. He’s carrying a coolbox and Maud is swinging a wicker basket with one arm, a thick blanket tucked under her other. Who took the photo? She can’t remember.

Picnics were always a family favourite. Sometimes all together, but often just Hannah and her dad while Maud was working. It was the reason she didn’t worry at first on that dreadful day when they failed to return for supper. Home around six, darling.

She blew him a kiss, no clue those were the last words her husband would say to her. The shameful truth is she remembers itching for them to be gone – badly behind with planning her next talk. Sometimes in her dreams, she replays the tape on a loop, just to hear his voice.

Home around six, darling.

Maud moves her hand to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. If only she’d gone with them, or at least asked where they were going, what might their lives have been? Hannah’s especially.

She’s thinking now of the biggest puzzle of all – the white wooden frame wrapped in tissue and an old curtain deep inside the trunk at the end of her bed. She checks the frame once, maybe twice a year – always on her own – and each time wonders if this is the year she will find some way to share it with Hannah.

Can’t we just show it to her? Can’t we see if it triggers something . . .

Maud’s pressed so many people for advice. Therapists. Doctors. They’ve all tried their best but the consensus is that Hannah’s mind is too fragile to be pushed over what happened in that wood. That the memory locks things away for good reason.

But what if they’re all wrong? What if they should be doing more?

Maud sips her tea and checks her phone again. Come on, Hannah. You promised to stay in touch.

Maud needs to know how her daughter is really coping in Cornwall, but there’s guilt too over the echo in her head. The deeper longing to ask that other question.

She thinks of the post-mortem. The inquest. She thinks of the puzzle of that picture in her trunk.

What Maud has for decades longed to ask Hannah is what really happened that night in the wood with her father.

All of it.

CHAPTER 11

DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Monday – and the sun is out again. We’re standing on a small concrete platform at the bottom of some steps and you’re frowning at the noticeboard. ‘So we just open out this yellow sign?’

‘Hang on. I’m double-checking.’ I’m on my phone, wishing I’d screenshotted the instructions. Finally, I get a stronger signal. The page loads. ‘Yep. Just open the circular sign and the ferry will come.’

‘I thought you said it was a water taxi.’

‘Water taxi. Ferry. Whatever.’

There’s a large circular sign, hinged in the middle – currently closed, hence a half-disc.

You open the sign to its full, bright yellow glory and put your hand up to shield your eyes from the sun while checking for signs of movement across the river. ‘Not very high-tech, is it?’ A pause. ‘Hang on. I think something’s moving.’ You take a couple of steps to the left for a better line of sight. ‘Quite a small boat. Are you sure this is safe?’

I smile to myself. You’re not the best swimmer, certainly not as strong as me and probably not as confident as Lily either. I insisted on swimming classes for Lily as soon as the waiting list allowed. Didn’t want her to inherit your phobia. She hated the classes at first but is quite the fish now.

‘Of course it’ll be safe. It will be all regulated. Don’t listen to your father, Lily. It’s fine.’

‘But there’s a bit of a current, Hannah.’

‘Lily will look after you,’ I say.

On cue, our daughter moves to stand next to you. ‘Which boat is it, Daddy? You’re not really scared, are you?’

‘No, no – of course not.’ You change your tone. ‘Mummy’s right. I was just being silly. Look. It’s got a motor, and benches for seats.’ Your expression starts to relax. ‘And look on the roof – there are lifebuoys. Nice, big lifebuoys. Can you see?’

‘It looks rather wonderful,’ I say as the boat moves towards us. ‘And very safe.’

And then our daughter unzips her rucksack and feels around inside. To my surprise she’s brought her own little bag, bulging with goodness knows what, on every outing since yesterday morning. This is unusual. At home she hates having to carry anything. Today she’s handling it rather strangely, twisting her body away from me.

‘Lost something, sweetie?’

She blushes. ‘No. Nothing.’

Curious now, I crouch down as she closes the rucksack and holds it tight to her body. ‘Is everything all right, Lily?’ She asked for her water bottle earlier but I wonder what else she has inside. Dolls? A book? Sweets? We packed all her toys for this trip together in a bright pink holdall. Most are now strewn around our shared bedroom back at Owl Cottage, despite my pleas for her to tidy them.

‘Yes. I’m fine.’ She puts her rucksack on her back and stands alongside her father, turning away from me. There’s this strange shiver of unease and I wonder if this too has something to do with ‘Katie’. Should I ask? I decide against.

Instead, I kiss Lily on the forehead and we all watch the little boat getting closer. There’s just one ferryman, steering into position and then standing with a rope to secure the boat to the little quay. Only two passengers – an older couple in matching sun hats and wearing walking boots stand, ready to get off. I wonder if they’re off to the coastal path. It’s something you and I have always promised to do more once Lily’s older. Not a relaxed experience with a free-range child near the sheer drops.

And now, as the couple are helped from the boat, I find myself wondering if we’ll ever make it to that chapter. Me and you.

I meant it when I pledged at the end of counselling to try my best, but some days I just don’t feel strong enough.

I think you’re suffering from depression. We can help with you that . . .

And now all this strangeness at Owl Cottage. The dead owls. The imaginary friend. Your phone call – I don’t have access to the money. No way do I want Lily to face the upheaval of a split, but my emotions are a pendulum. I’m starting to worry that the stronger tablets don’t agree with me; might be making things worse rather than better.

In my teens, I agreed to milder medication for my anxiety. After the ‘misunderstanding’. But those tablets just made me tired. Sort of out of it all the time. I gave them up. Managed. Now I’m wondering if it was another mistake to agree to this stronger medication. Wondering if I can even get through this week.

‘You ready, madam?’

I’m jolted back to see the boatman stretching out his hand.

‘Sorry. Yes. Of course.’ Me first, then Lily and finally you. The boat rocks a little as we board and you sit very quickly on the wooden seating which runs each side of the craft, eyes wide.

You buy our return tickets and then we’re off, Lily beaming ear to ear. I point out the gulls following a larger boat ahead of us. It’s a lift to feel the breeze on my face and to see Lily so excited. I take in your profile, your eyes fixed on the opposite shore. I can sense your anxiety and I find that, for just a moment, I feel sorry for you. That pendulum again.

How I wish there were a time machine to take us back to when we were OK. I think of my friend Amy, in our village, who warned me the relationship would never be the same. She’s old-school. Catholic. Says she’d never forgive her husband an affair. If you forgive him, Hannah, you’re just giving him a pass to do it again.

Is that the real problem here? That it’s impossible to get past this? I remember Amy’s face when I told her I was going to give the marriage a second chance. You’re my friend, Hannah, and I’ll support whatever you decide. But you know what I think.

It ended badly with Amy; blew up into a row which I regret and have no means to fix.

I wish I had longer to turn over all these thoughts – just me and the gulls and the sea breeze – but the crossing’s short.

The arrival pontoon’s larger than our departure quay, with half a dozen children in wetsuits juggling their nets and large buckets of water.

‘What are they doing, Mummy?’

‘Crabbing, lovely. They’re fishing for crabs and putting them in the buckets.’

‘What do they do with the crabs?’

‘Oh – just throw them back usually. It’s just for the fun of it. We can have a go another day, if you like. We just need bacon and nets. Crabs love bacon.’

Lily moves across the little jetty to peer into one of the larger buckets. A girl breaks away from the group to talk to her and I smile. They seem to be chatting easily and then both bend down together, the girl pointing at the bucket as if explaining how it works.

I watch them for a few minutes, hanging back with you standing alongside me, and the usual emotions churn. We never meant for Lily to be an only child. I fell pregnant with her very quickly and we always presumed a second would be a straightforward option once we decided to try again. I set up my business just before Lily was born and found it a lot harder than I’d imagined, juggling the work and a baby. Naively, I’d assumed that being self-employed would be more flexible, but even with my mum visiting on and off to help with childcare, it seemed to be constant chaos. I was trying to build my brand as a freelance interior designer and couldn’t afford to turn work down. I didn’t need the money. But I needed the boost to my sense of self. It was just such a struggle, trying to work out how to be a mother and launch a business at the same time.

In the end, exhausted, I decided I’d need more than a two-year gap to manage everything. We started trying for another child soon after Lily’s third birthday. But nothing happened.

Eventually, after a year with no luck, I went to the doctor and we both had tests. They could find nothing wrong but still I didn’t fall pregnant. The doctor said fertility treatment was an option but I was worried about having twins. I’d struggled to manage one baby; how would I cope with three children?

We had a few discussions about IVF, even adoption, but in the end decided to let nature decide. I still don’t know if that was the right decision.

‘Do you think this Katie business could simply be loneliness?’ I say to you suddenly, keeping my voice low. ‘Being an only, I mean.’

‘Crikey. I honestly don’t know. She never talks about wanting a brother or sister.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t like to.’

‘You didn’t mind being an only growing up, did you?’

I turn to you and feel a small punch inside. We tend not to discuss my childhood. Stirring those memories always makes my dreams worse.

‘It’s just how it was.’

‘Maybe that’s how Lily feels. That this is just how it is.’ You look at me tenderly again, which makes me feel confused.

We both wait until Lily says her farewells and turns, beaming as she skips the length of the pontoon to join us.

‘I definitely want to do crabbing, Mummy. It looks amazing. Zoe says it’s easy. And it’s not cruel. You just put them back. Her family come here every year. She says there’s loads to do.’

‘Good. That’s good to hear.’ I’m delighted to see our daughter’s eyes shining.

‘Zoe says her favourite place is a cool maze at some gardens near here.’

‘A cool one?’ I tease. Zoe looks maybe a couple of years older than Lily and I wonder how much our daughter’s vocabulary will change when she moves to secondary school. Not so long now. ‘I’ll look that up online and we can plan a visit, if you like. Now, let’s check out this pub for our lunch.’

‘I want chips,’ you say, tickling Lily’s waist, which makes her shriek and pull away. ‘Mussels and big fat chips.’ It’s only noon but I find that I’m hungry too, and hurry to claim a good table with a view of the water. We order mussels and chips for me and you too, and a baguette with chips for Lily. She eats maybe half before asking if she can go back to the pontoon. It’s within sight so we agree, providing she stays where we can see her and doesn’t go into the water beyond paddling.

‘Nice one, Hannah,’ you say when she’s gone. ‘It’s lovely here.’ You have your feet up on the chair opposite and are moving on to Lily’s leftover chips, having polished off your own. Still amazes me that you can eat so much and stay so slim. Lucky genes. You carry on eating, leaning back to enjoy the sun on your face between mouthfuls while I keep my eyes glued to Lily. To my delight, she’s talking again to Zoe and a few of the other children. They move to the little stretch of sand to play with a frisbee, and after maybe half an hour, I ask if you mind taking a turn to keep ‘eyes on’ while I read.

You smile and sit up straighter while I take out my book. It feels lovely to relax. Sun on my face. No pressure of time. No arguments.

After maybe another half an hour, we decide to join Lily for a walk along the shoreline before catching the little ferry back to the quay on the other side. You seem more relaxed about the boat and Lily’s in high spirits, chattering away about her new friend and our plans for crabbing and visiting the maze, until we arrive at the other side of the river and she suddenly starts thrashing from side to side. First her head. Then her hands.

‘My rucksack. Where’s my rucksack?’

‘Didn’t you have it on the pontoon with your new friend?’

Still she’s looking all around her, face now white. ‘No. I can’t remember. Where is it?’

You turn your head to look back across the river to the pub in the distance. ‘Oh dear. Must have left it back at the pub, sweetie.’

‘We have to get it!’ Lily says, eyes wide before bursting into tears. It’s unlike her, and you and I exchange a worried look as I pull her in close.

‘Come on, Lily. Don’t be upset. It’s just a bag. We’ll find it.’

The ferryman’s staring too. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Just stay on board and you can go straight back. Ask at the pub. No extra charge.’ He winks at us. ‘I’m sure the bag’s safe.’

A family of four join us – parents and twin boys in matching shorts and navy tee shirts. Lily looks away, embarrassed by her teary eyes, and we cross the river yet again, me pulling her in close for another hug.

On the other bank, we hurry back up to the pub to find a new family at the table we were using, but a quick explanation soon finds the rucksack tucked down alongside a low wall.

‘There. I told you it would be OK.’ I hand the bag to Lily.

Her face flushes and I watch as she turns away to carefully unzip the bag and check inside. She’s moving some toys and her water bottle and I lean over, half expecting to find chocolate. Or biscuits from the cupboards at the cottage? But instead I take in a flash of something familiar.

I’m thrown. ‘Lily. What’s that you have in the bag?’ It can’t be.

‘Nothing.’

‘No. Let me see.’ I move my hand to try to reach the bag.

‘No.’ She pulls away and begins to close the zip.

‘I mean it, Lily. I want to see what you have in the bag.’ My heart’s beating faster.

‘Hey, Hannah. Cool it. What’s all this about?’ You reach out to touch my arm, glaring a warning over my tone.

‘She’s got Brown Bear in there. I saw him.’ I feel furious with you for undermining me. If I’m right, Lily’s in a lot of trouble.

‘Now, come on. I’m sure you’re mistaken. Lily, show your mother. It must be something similar.’

Brown Bear is my most treasured possession. He was the last thing my father gave me – an eighth birthday present. The bear’s a classic Steiff but it’s the sentimental value that matters – the last link to my dad. He sits on the top of my bookcase at home and Lily knows that he’s precious. That he’s not to be taken down; not a toy to be played with.

When we packed Lily’s toys together for this trip, she picked dolls and a skipping rope and all her usual favourites from her own room. Brown Bear was sitting in his usual place in my study.

You gently take the rucksack from Lily and look inside. Your expression darkens.

‘Katie put Brown Bear at the bottom of the garden for me,’ Lily says suddenly.

‘Which garden? What are you talking about?’ you say, taking out the bear. My bear.

‘I didn’t bring him, Mummy. It was Katie. I found him at the bottom of the garden when you were doing the barbecue. He was on the hedge. I put him in my bag to keep him safe for you.’

I am so angry and confused and shocked all at once that my mouth just gapes. This makes no sense.

It’s not like Lily to lie. Not only is she forbidden to touch Brown Bear, I also distinctly remember him sitting on the top of the bookcase when I checked all the rooms for lights and windows before we got in the car.

Brown Bear was on the top of the bookcase when we left; I know he was.

So how the hell is he here?

CHAPTER 12

DAY FOUR

Maud

Maud stares at the canvas and regrets moving to the studio. All she can think about is Hannah.

From the minute she turned up on her doorstep with Lily in the middle of the week and in the middle of a school term, Maud has had grave fears where all this will end.

From the off, she knew this new crisis was serious. Her daughter never turned up unannounced. Never reached out.

And yet there she was, one o’clock on that Wednesday, wearing an expression as heavy as the two large suitcases alongside her. Wide-eyed, back unnaturally straight and an almost manic faux-jolly voice. ‘Just a surprise visit, Mummy! Do you mind?’

Maud took in the cases, made a big fuss of Lily and quickly made tea, while Hannah sat in this dazed and scary state at the kitchen counter. By the time Lily was settled in the snug with a drink, a snack and a Disney film, Hannah had silent tears pouring down her face.

‘What on earth’s happened? You shouldn’t have driven in this state, darling. I would have come to pick you up.’

‘I don’t remember driving, Mummy. I can’t make my brain work.’

Maud tried to gently press for details but it was as if Hannah couldn’t even hear. The script for Lily was that Sam had to take a work trip unexpectedly. Maud went with that until Lily was asleep and then poured two small glasses of wine.

‘So what’s going on, darling? You have to tell me.’

Hannah shook her head. Drank the wine for a while in silence. And then came more tears. And with them, at last, the story. Maud’s heart and stomach sank in tandem. And so the fear set in . . .

‘Could there be any mistake? Any misunderstanding?’

‘No. He denied it at first and very stupidly I believed him for a while.’ Hannah was then pounding at her own forehead. ‘Stupid. Stupid me.’

‘Hey, darling. Don’t do that.’ Maud reached forward to take her daughter’s hand, holding it gently in her own to stop the slapping. ‘So what happened today?’

‘I’ve been worried for a while. He’s been odd. Distracted. Ever since I was on a school trip with Lily. Today I found a text on his phone. No mistake. He admitted it.’ Hannah had to pause. ‘I—’

‘Take deep breaths, darling.’

‘He says it meant nothing. A mistake. Someone at work. A one-off. But I couldn’t stay there, Mum. I’m sorry. I should have phoned but I was in this complete panic. I really don’t remember packing. Or driving. Do you mind us staying?’

‘For goodness’ sake, I’m your mother. Of course, I don’t mind anything. So let’s tick the boxes. Have you spoken to the school?’

‘No.’

‘Right. I’ll ring and say there’s a family emergency.’

‘OK.’

‘And does Sam know you’re here?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I’ll just let him know that Lily’s fine.’

‘I don’t want any contact.’

‘Yes. Well. I understand that, but we need to sort contact for Lily. Leave it to me.’

And so began the juggling – trying to support Hannah while hiding the truth from Lily. It was very quickly a train wreck. Hannah’s singsong script failed to wash; Lily was upset and wanted to speak to her dad. Sam kept ringing both Hannah’s mobile and then the landline. Hannah refused to answer. Then he started messaging Maud. Texts and emails.

At first Maud didn’t read them; how dare he try to plead his case behind Hannah’s back. But there was the need to broker contact for Lily.

Hannah, raw and disorientated, resisted. ‘I don’t care if he misses Lily. He should have thought of his daughter instead of thinking with his dick.’

Slowly Maud talked her daughter round. Maud helped Lily use the landline to ring her father at bedtime. Hannah, meantime, slept a lot. Cried a lot. And then the dreaded disturbances at night started up again.

Maud had put Hannah in her old bedroom, and after a couple of nights was woken by the familiar sound of Hannah calling out in her sleep. Loud but unintelligible words. Maud rushed in to comfort her but her daughter was both defensive and in denial.

‘Have your nightmares started up again, Hannah?’

‘No, no. Goodness no. I’m just too hot in this room. I’ll open the window.’

Maud tiptoed across the landing to find Lily awake in her room too.

‘Is Mummy all right?’

‘Yes. Just a bit hot.’

‘Can you make them go away?’ Lily’s tone was distressed now.

‘Make what go away, darling?’

‘Mummy’s bad dreams.’

Maud stroked her granddaughter’s hair and did her best to soothe her, tucking the favourite doll, Annabelle, alongside her. ‘You’re not to worry. Everyone gets bad dreams sometimes. I’ll leave the night light on. How about that?’

Once back in her own room, she took out her iPad to read Sam’s emails after all. In the latest, he thanked Maud for brokering the calls with Lily. He said he was very ashamed of the hurt he’d caused. There was no excuse and he wasn’t about to make one. But he did want Maud to at least know the context. He and Hannah had been growing apart for the best part of a year. He’d suggested couple counselling. She’d refused. She was having more and more nightmares but was in denial; just wouldn’t discuss them. She’d started sleeping in the spare room. Again, he said he was not making excuses for himself. He’d messed up big time – a stupid distraction at work. Unforgiveable. But he wanted Maud to know that Hannah had not seemed well for some time. He still loved her very much and was mortified to have made her situation worse. But he just didn’t know how to help her anymore.

Maud felt a shiver move right through her. She knew well enough Hannah’s inability to reach out for help. She thought of that second crisis, when Hannah was older. The bathroom next door to Lily’s room. The flashing lights of the ambulance outside, reflected in the hall mirror. The police. Social services.

A long time ago she’d made a pact with her daughter not to tell Sam the full extent of Hannah’s troubles as a teenager. Hannah had rewritten her script, and Maud was never sure if her daughter really didn’t remember it all. Or chose not to.

A beam of sunlight lights up the canvas, bringing Maud back into the moment. She picks up a brush but puts it straight back down. She thinks again of the box frame carefully wrapped in the trunk in her bedroom.

Enough. Maud presses the button on her mobile. Four rings and Hannah answers.

‘Hi, darling. Sorry to trouble you – I know I promised not to fuss, but you didn’t answer my texts. Just checking you’re OK? Like we agreed, honey.’

There’s a pause and Hannah starts whispering. ‘We’re on a boat, Mum. I can’t talk. I’ll ring you later when we’re back at the cottage.’

‘You sound upset, darling. Is everything OK?’

A longer pause. Maud can feel her heart beating faster.

‘No, it isn’t, actually. I’ll talk later.’ And then the line goes dead.

CHAPTER 13

DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

I will come to look back on all these events and wonder if I could not have saved at least one life in this story. I fear the answer is yes.

The problem is that each of the strange happenings in Owl Cottage seems small at first. Odd – yes. But not quite sinister or threatening enough in isolation to trigger certainty of the new darkness coming.

I see later that I should have put everything together and trusted my instinct. But the problem in the wake of your affair and all of its fallout is I have lost faith in my judgement.

Take the strange knocking on the door. The shadows in the garden. That sense of being watched. I see now that I should have taken it more seriously right when it began that first evening.

Because now it happens again after we return from the unhappy boat trip. This time I’m angry, cooking in the kitchen after the scene with Lily over my father’s bear. The knocking’s on the back door again. And once more, I’m thrown. Who the hell would be knocking for us out here? And why the back door, which we keep locked, when the front one is so obviously the main door?

‘I’ll get it,’ I call through to the sitting room, but there’s no reply.

I throw the tea cloth on to the work surface, still angry with you both, fetch the back door key from its hook and move through the utility to unlock the door. The lock’s a bit stiff and it takes a moment to sort it, so that by the time I open the door, there’s no one there.

I stare out but there’s nothing. No movement. No shadow. Just like the last time, I walk around the side of the cottage to check more carefully but still nothing. Finally, I move back into the kitchen, confused and still cross, to continue opening and shutting cupboards more loudly than necessary.

I look across at the closed door to the sitting room and realise that I don’t like this passive-aggressive version of myself. For starters, you clearly can’t even hear me. Didn’t even hear the knocking.

I take a large slug of my second glass of wine, also probably not a good idea, as I tip canned tomatoes on to the browned chicken thighs in the dish, then toss the can into the sink. It makes a satisfying clatter. I pause. Still no response.

And who even cooks a casserole on holiday? I turn up the heat and think once more of Amy. Are you mad, Hannah? Self-catering? How is that a holiday? She messaged again earlier, actually, not long after the call from Mum, but I haven’t replied. How can I? Even thinking of Amy and our row makes me feel physically sick.

I stir the pot, adding more paprika before transferring it to the oven. I check my watch – six o’clock – and pause to see you and Lily come in through the front door and move into the sitting room, laughing together. That’s weird. I thought you were already in the sitting room. You must have moved outside when I went to the loo. Whatever. I feel so cross that you both seem so absolutely fine while I’m the one still so upset.

When we got back after the boat trip earlier, you took me aside and begged me to let you deal with Lily; to try to get to the bottom of what really happened over the present from my father. My precious bear. I agreed because I was upset and because I fully expected you to support me. To calmly help her face up to what she’d done wrong. But it seems to me now that it’s just been a ruse to give Lily a free pass. No consequences at all.

Your take is that this is all part of the invisible friend phase and we need to tread more carefully than you thought at first.

Maybe. But what’s troubling me the more I pick over the details is that this whole bear thing just doesn’t add up. Lily was in the car when I did that final check of the house before we left home for Cornwall, so technically she couldn’t have brought the bear.

Unless I’m remembering it wrong? I think of the tablets and how some days they can make things so foggy. Like watching life through the wrong lens. I checked the list of side effects last night. The paperwork in the tablets’ box. And online too. Apparently, in rare cases there can be manic or psychotic reactions. Paranoia. Bizarre ideas or delusions. I don’t remember the doctor warning me of that. It’s scared me so much, I didn’t take last night’s dose. And I’ve not taken today’s either. Going to try to just manage without them.

I narrow my eyes to go over the scene when we left home again. We loaded the car with the stream of bags and cases, and then, after Lily got in the back, I had to help her with her seat belt. Yes – I leant in from the passenger door behind the driver because she was struggling with the clip. And then I shut the car door and I went back into the house to do my final check of the windows, hot-water switch and so on, before picking up my handbag from the hall. I glanced through to the study and saw the bear in his usual place on the top of the bookcase. I went out to the car. And then. Hang on.

Now I remember: you said you’d forgotten your sunglasses and dashed back in the house to look for them.

I don’t recall what you said when you came back out to the car – I was chatting to Lily – but you obviously didn’t find them, did you?

I remember all that squinting on the drive here and feel a strange chill. What on earth is going on? Did you really look for your glasses, or was it something else? You had your rucksack on your shoulder, I remember that because you opened the boot to squash it in.

I feel this horrible wave of confusion. Disorientation. Suspicion? Are these wretched tablets truly messing with my brain, or is this something else? I think of you in the bedroom on your phone. I don’t have access to the money.

I grab my glass of wine and call through to the sitting room, ‘Just grabbing some air in the garden.’

No reply. Just more laughter.

And so I head outside through the main door and down the garden to double-check the lane re the knocking. Still no sign of anyone. How odd. I move to the iron bench at the far end. I take my phone from my jeans pocket and rest it on the seat beside me, sipping again at my wine. I won’t phone Amy back, no way do I know what the hell to say to her, but I need to phone Mum and I want to calm myself first.

I stare up at the trees which climb the hill to the denser woodland beyond. It’s too early to hear the owls but I imagine them, scattered among the branches. Hidden. Watching and waiting. I wonder if there are tawnies as well as barn owls. There are plenty of farm buildings around and a good mix of trees, so anything’s possible. It makes me sad that Lily doesn’t like their calls at night.

I breathe slowly in and out, five cycles, and take in one final, long breath before picking up the phone to dial.

‘Mum?’

‘Hello, darling.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. We were on this boat. Just a quick crossing, but to be honest it’s not been the best day.’

‘So what’s happened, love? You sounded upset. I’ve been worried.’

Another long, slow breath in. ‘It’s Lily. She’s suddenly got an imaginary friend. She’s misbehaving and blaming it on this friend. At least, that’s what we think is going on. It’s knocked me and I just don’t know how to handle it, Mum.’

‘And when you say misbehaving, what do you mean?’

I pause. I don’t want to mention the bear because I don’t want to reference Dad and upset her. Also, out of context, I’m afraid it will sound trivial. ‘It doesn’t matter what – just doing stuff she knows she’s not allowed to do. Then claiming it’s her friend Katie’s fault.’

‘Right. Goodness. A tricky one. What does Sam think?’

‘Oh, Sam and Lily are thick as thieves. Currently giggling in the sitting room.’ I let out a huff. ‘He says to ignore everything. Give her rope and play it down. But then he doesn’t exactly have the moral high ground just now, does he?’

My mother doesn’t reply.

‘Can I ask you something difficult, Mum?’ I’m thinking again of the overheard phone call. I don’t have access to the money. ‘Do you still think I was mad to refuse a pre-nup? Have I got this all wrong?’

Again, she doesn’t answer and so again I plunge on. ‘Am I just being a total mug here? Giving this a second go. Do you think Sam is capable of . . .’ I break off, thinking of his return to the house to look for his glasses. His rucksack on his shoulder. I’m thinking too of the real worry haunting me. That Sam has no access to the trust fund without my signature. Unless, that is, something happens to me . . .

‘Capable of what? What do you mean?’

Suddenly I regret saying so much. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Ignore me. Seeing things. Tired. I’m all over the place today.’

‘Darling. I really don’t like how you’re sounding.’ A pause. ‘Do you want me to come and join you? I mean – I know I said that it would do you good, this break. Just the three of you. But if it’s all going pear-shaped?’

‘No, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll be fine. Just a bad day.’

‘I could bring books. Entertain myself and give you space. Just be on hand to help a bit with Lily.’

‘No, Mum. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ I look again towards the trees and feel a sweep of true exhaustion. ‘I wish I knew how to stop feeling so angry, Mum.’

‘And I wish I knew what to say to help, darling.’ She pauses again. ‘The thing is, I really worry. And you know why I worry, Hannah.’

There’s no good answer to this. The very reason I usually resist ringing her. I turn my head to the left, trying to work out what to say, and that’s when I see it.

Annabelle on the hedge.

‘Hang on, Mum. I need to check something.’ I stand, holding the phone up to my ear as I march the several strides further down the garden to the hedge. No mistake. It’s Annabelle.

And now this is too much because Annabelle is in pieces – her limbs torn off. A disturbing sight – the arms and legs lain alongside the torso.

Annabelle is Lily’s favourite doll – a sort of rag doll with bright yellow plaited hair and a blue and white gingham dress. She’s more of a comforter than a toy. Annabelle lives on Lily’s bed. At home, and every bed she has ever slept in on holiday. When she was little, Lily couldn’t go to sleep without her. The point is Annabelle is supposed to be up there right now, nestled – clean and whole and safe – against the pillow of Lily’s bed in Owl Cottage.

I think again of the knocking on the door and wish I’d looked more carefully. I glance back to the house and wonder if you’re still in the sitting room with Lily. Can’t see.

I turn again to the mess of the doll. Annabelle is precious to Lily in the same way Brown Bear is precious to me. So what the hell is Annabelle, torn into pieces, doing out on the hedge? The very same place Lily claimed that she found my bear?

CHAPTER 14

BEFORE

Hannah

It’s our third joint session in the green room, and this evening Jessica is wearing a navy-blue roll-neck. No distracting pendant today.

It’s stuffy but I already know that the window doesn’t open – health and safety – so there’s no solution. I turn to take in your profile and see that you’re tense too, shoulders tight. Given this whole thing was your idea, I wonder if you still think it’s going to work.

I don’t.

For myself, I see too late that I brought false hope into this room. I agreed to these sessions because breaking up was the only alternative. I came here because I wanted, and still want, someone to tell me what to do. While Jessica – infuriatingly and persistently – dodges my every plea for advice. Her role, she says, is not to steer us to one particular decision but rather to help us explore our own feelings and then our options.

Good for you, Jessica, but guess what? I’m still rudderless here.

Sessions one and two covered the ‘crisis’. My anger. How we both feel about trying to fix things. Over and over you’ve said how sorry you are. Ashamed. That it was a madness and will never happen again. But I just can’t seem to shake off this anger.

And now today, Jessica seems to be trying to loop back to concentrate on the positives. How we met. How much we’ve invested in the relationship (for which read Lily). How things were before you decided to forget every promise you made me and try someone else out in bed. Sorry, sorry. I still do a lot of shouting in my head. Not out loud so much now, because Jessica has this really soft and gentle voice. Which is great for her job; I do see that. But it makes me feel a failure every time I raise my voice, which isn’t fair. Because I didn’t do this. I didn’t break us.

‘So what do you think it would take, Hannah, to restore your trust in Sam?’

I freeze, then glare at Jessica because these impossible, unanswerable questions are, quite frankly, doing my head in. I pretend to look as if I am thinking about my answer. I’m not.

I’m thinking of Italy. That thing you said to me in Bellagio that made me think you were ‘the one’.

I’m thinking how you were the only boyfriend I ever told what a messed-up childhood I had. How I was the girl who made the papers. The girl in the sodding wood who got stuck deep in a forest all night with her dead father. A girl who still has bad dreams and can’t even remember what really happened.

And yes – how you took me to Bellagio for my birthday. Said something special. Made me think you were the one who was going to save me. From myself. The person to make me believe in happiness again.

But I can’t tell Jessica this. How, sitting here right now, I’m worried that you didn’t save me; you tricked me.

She’s still staring at me. ‘I was asking what you think it might take, Hannah, to restore your trust in Sam.’

‘No idea,’ I say at last. ‘I’ve never been in this situation. I’m here precisely because I don’t have the foggiest if I can ever trust him again.’

And there’s the nub of it, isn’t it? How does anyone know if a liar has stopped lying? Where’s the line between being forgiving and being a mug?

I take in Jessica’s small, tight smile and think that maybe my friend Amy has been right all along. That if you forgive a cheater, you’re just giving them a free pass to do it again. And how the hell will you ever know, unless you catch them out again? By which time, of course, it’s way too late and the hurt will go even deeper.

Jessica’s still looking at me. ‘Is there anything that you think might help, Hannah? Is there anything at all that Sam can do to help you – to restore the faith and the trust you’ve lost?’

I shrug. Maybe I should tell Jessica the truth: that I ask this question of the internet every single day.

Type in should you forgive a cheat and Google will give you around 27 million answers. Trust me, I’ve been down the rabbit hole.

When I returned home after two weeks at Mum’s, mostly to get Lily back into the routine of school, you moved into the spare room and we agreed to live separately in the same house for Lily’s sake, to buy some time to decide what to do. Split up, or try counselling. From the off, you wanted the latter, which surprised me. For myself, I didn’t know what I wanted.

Still don’t.

‘You want me to say that I’m prepared to give it time, don’t you?’ I’m looking at Jessica but can sense you turning your head towards me.

‘I only want for you to be honest here, Hannah.’

I think again of Bellagio. Beautiful Bellagio, where we were so very happy.

And I feel scared, too, because I really don’t know what to do for the best. I know that I don’t want to be this angry person anymore. I don’t want the bad dreams from my childhood. And the new ones from all of this.

But I also don’t want to break my daughter’s innocent little heart.

CHAPTER 15

DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Back in the kitchen, I quickly check the casserole then poke my head around the door of the sitting room. ‘You got a minute, Sam?’

You look wary. I catch Lily’s eye and she looks wary too. ‘Supper will be about half an hour, Lily. Maybe a bit longer. Is Katie hungry?’

‘No. She’s gone upstairs. She’s tired.’

‘OK.’ I try to conceal my relief – in no mood for fake chit-chat with Katie.

You follow me back into the kitchen and shut the door; I move across to lean back against the Rayburn.

‘When you were in the garden, did you see anyone?’

You pull your chin into your neck. ‘What do you mean? See who?’

‘Someone was knocking again. The back door. But there was no one there. Like last time.’

‘Out here? There’s never anyone out here. Sure you didn’t imagine it?’

‘Of course I didn’t imagine it.’ I pause, trying to control my tone. Don’t want Lily to hear us. ‘Also – I found Annabelle – out on the hedge.’ I’m whispering as I signal, with a nod of my head, through to the utility, where I’ve placed the dismembered doll on the side surface, out of Lily’s line of sight. You move across to the doorway.

‘Christ. What happened?’

‘No idea.’

You turn back to face me, frowning. ‘But Lily keeps Annabelle safe in her bedroom.’

‘Exactly.’ An understatement. Lily’s almost as OCD about keeping Annabelle safe indoors as I am about the beloved bear from my dad. ‘So what the hell’s going on, Sam?’

‘No idea. You really think Lily did this?’

‘Absolutely no clue. But it’s alarming, isn’t it? And if not Lily . . . who?’

I join you in the doorway and we both stare at the mess of the doll. I don’t want to think our daughter capable of this – it’s quite frankly disturbing if she did this – so we surely can’t just let this go. ‘What if this is a cry for help? What if she wants us to talk about what’s going on between us?’

You don’t answer, your face difficult to read.

‘Unless you know anything about any of this?’ Even as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ You’re still whispering, but with an angry edge now.

‘I don’t know, Sam. I just don’t know. My head’s all over the place.’

‘Are you seriously saying you think I’d pull the limbs off Lily’s doll? And bring your precious bear with us on holiday? And why the hell would I do that? Come on, Hannah. Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?’

I wish I hadn’t said that now. I want to row back. It is insane. It’s all insane.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘I heard you on the phone. Something about money. You sounded angry. It upset me.’

You flush. ‘That was work, Hannah. They shouldn’t be hassling me while I’m away. That’s why I was angry. And what is this now? Are you spying on me?’

‘No. No. I was just passing your door.’ I pause and again feel anger bubbling up inside at the need to defend myself. ‘Never mind the phone call. What do we do about the doll? Confront her?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I still think we should let this go; play it all down.’ You’re looking at the Rayburn as you speak. ‘Do you think you can fix the doll?’

‘You really think that’s the right thing to do? Dodge the problem? Pretend it isn’t happening?’ I think of all the whispering between you in the sitting room. ‘Has she spoken to you? Said something?’

You shrug, and I hate the feeling that there’s more; that you’re keeping something from me.

‘My view is that Lily will talk to us when she’s ready, Hannah. We can seek help when we get back home if this Katie thing doesn’t resolve itself.’ You glance again at the doll. ‘If this is attention seeking, then surely we need not to react.’

I sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted with it all. The truth is I don’t want to be angry at Lily as well as you. She’s just a kid. Stuck right in the middle of this.

What’s worrying me, after the knocking and the sense of someone watching, is that if Lily didn’t do this to her doll, she will be utterly horrified to be confronted with it.

I sigh, so torn and just horribly confused by what’s going on here.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Agreed. I’ll try to fix Annabelle, put her back in Lily’s bedroom, and we wait for her to bring it up – to try to figure out what’s really going on in her head, I mean.’

You look up and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment.

‘I’m sorry I got angry.’ You pause. The tone’s alien and I realise I have no idea how to read you anymore.

I move to scoop up the parts of the doll. I remember there was an emergency sewing kit in the study. I’ll have to use it secretly while she’s watching TV. See if she comments on the repairs later.

‘I’ll finish supper,’ I say. ‘You go to Lily.’

I lay the table – no place for Katie tonight – and potter from cupboard to cupboard, drawer to drawer, prodding at the baked potatoes and trying to pretend everything is going to be OK. Later, once the chicken is at last nice and tender, I call you both through to eat.

‘Lily has something she wants to say.’ Your voice is hesitant as Lily comes into the kitchen from the downstairs cloakroom after washing her hands as instructed. ‘It’s OK, sweetie. Mummy won’t mind. You can tell her now. She’ll understand.’

Lily looks at me with nervous eyes.

‘What is it, honey? Daddy’s right. I won’t be cross.’ I’m expecting a confession over the doll. And the bear? But no.

‘I really, really don’t like the owls, Mummy. At night. I don’t like the noise.’

‘Oh, right. Goodness. I was hoping you’d be used to that by now. I’m sorry, darling. They’re just talking to each other.’

‘You talk too, Mummy. In your sleep sometimes.’ Lily says this very quickly and glances to you as if for support.

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. It all wakes me up. I don’t like it.’

‘Right.’ I can feel a jolt to my stomach. Guilt. Dread . . .

‘Lily was wondering if she could try sleeping on her own, Hannah. Just with her night light.’ You’re staring right at me as you speak, eyes wide, and I’m struggling to contain my response. I was truly hoping for an apology from Lily – over the toys. I wasn’t expecting her to say she doesn’t want her own mother in her bedroom.

I stare at Lily, taking in her sad eyes, and realise this must be what you were discussing. All that whispering in the sitting room. A sweep of terrible sadness moves through me.

I think of my dreams. The darkness that I fight so hard to control. What have I become? This mother who can’t even work out what’s going on with her poor daughter, right in front of her eyes.

‘Of course, darling. Whatever you like. I was probably just having one of my silly dreams. I’m really sorry it upset you. I didn’t realise.’

Lily gets up then and walks around the table to put her arms around my waist, squeezing tight. ‘You’re not cross?’

‘No. Of course I’m not cross.’ I squeeze her back and kiss her forehead, more guilt coursing through me. Is this what’s stirred her to behave so very strangely? So totally out of character? ‘But you promise you’ll let me and Daddy know if you need us? In the night, I mean.’

‘Yes. Daddy says I can keep the night light on. And the landing light too.’

‘Good. That’s all decided then. I’ll move out tonight and we’ll see how you get on with just the owls being noisy, silly billies.’

Lily moves back to her seat and I watch as she starts to eat, making exaggerated noises of appreciation. ‘This is really scrummy, Mummy. Delicious.’

‘Good.’ I stare at her tucking in, clearly trying to overcompensate for the upset, and I feel utterly wretched.

I play with my own chicken, suddenly not hungry and trying to keep my face bright as I fight tears. Trying to suppress the feeling that I’m getting it all terribly wrong with my daughter; with everyone.

What’s really going on here? The dead owls. The toys. The knocking and that sense of being watched. Could you be right; is all this me upsetting myself? Could it be the tablets messing with my head?

I go through to the utility to fetch ice cream from the freezer for Lily’s pudding, and that’s when I notice it. Among the postcards on the corkboard from previous guests. A postcard from Bellagio.

No mistake. Right in the middle of the display.

A new postcard from Bellagio.

CHAPTER 16

DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Nearly midnight and we’re sharing the main bedroom now. It’s awkward. We’ve had a horrible row – spit-whispering at each other. Trying not to let Lily hear. I’m in the bed. You’re on the chaise longue. You’re finally snoring but I don’t want to sleep – afraid that if I call out from a dream, you’ll wake and there will be another argument.

We rowed earlier over the postcard because I thought it had to be something to do with you. Who else would know how special Bellagio is to me? To us. Not just our first trip abroad together. But our honeymoon . . .

Did you put it there, Sam?

Don’t be ridiculous. Why ever would I do that?

You said it must have been on the corkboard all along. I just hadn’t noticed it before. There were postcards from all over the world. A coincidence. That’s all.

But I know I wouldn’t have missed a picture of Bellagio when I first checked the cards. I just wouldn’t have.

And now I’m lying here afraid to go to sleep. To dream. I just don’t know what to think. Could it really just be the medication that’s been messing with my memory? Making my nightmares worse? The nature of the dreams certainly seems to have been changing these past weeks, and I don’t know whether that’s the chemicals. Or that other thing . . .

Today and yesterday I didn’t take the tablets, hoping I’ll do better without them. We’ll see. I lie very still, thinking again about the postcard. The horrible sight of Lily’s torn doll. I can’t imagine I’ll sleep but, in the end, I must lose the fight with exhaustion because I suddenly wake with a start. Eyes wide. Room dark. Heart pounding. Did I dream? I pause to search my brain. The shadows. A sense of running. I touch my palm to my chest to check my heart rate. Too fast, too fast. More snippets of the dream return – more running, and then jumping. The sense of screaming as I fall. I wince, eyes tight.

My old dreams used to be straightforward. Upsetting but unsurprising. Flashbacks to the forest with my father. Puzzling – yes – always raising more questions than they answered, but I came to accept them as a part of my life. The forest images are mostly fleeting and confusing – just swirls of darkness and trees. A bad smell. The dreadful feeling of extreme cold and fear. But these new and disturbing dreams are very different.

Too late I realise it was reckless of me to share a room with Lily. I didn’t want to share a room with you. But I should never have run the risk of my dreams upsetting our daughter.

I lie for a while, hand pressed to my chest until my heartbeat at last starts to slow. I open my eyes, and as they adjust, I can just make out your shape on the chaise longue. Even with the pillows and blankets, it can’t be comfortable.

I watch your chest rise and fall to be sure you’re sleeping still, and then I think again of Lily, in her bed just along the landing, and feel the punch of guilt. Dread too, because I have no idea how to stop all this. I had thought, naively, that in this lovely place with the lovely owls, it would all be different. Our fresh start.

How foolish and, yes, reckless of me to put Lily through this.

I turn my head to take in the glow of the clock in the dark. Four a.m. I’m thirsty but forgot to bring up water. Damn. I try to think of the owls to soothe myself but they’re quiet for now. How sad that Lily still doesn’t like them.

I try to conjure a plan to change her mind. Make things up to her. Maybe take her to a display? I think of that country fair with my mother when I was a child and for a moment imagine Lily reaching out her own hand to feel inside the cloud, just as I did, but the urge to cough is growing now. I gulp to try to suppress it.

But the more I try to distract myself, the drier my mouth seems to feel. I worry the tickle will lead to a full-on coughing fit. That will definitely wake you. I move the duvet back ever so gently and swing my legs from the bed, standing and checking again that you do not stir before creeping from the room.

On the landing, I pause, clearing my throat as gently as I can. The light has been left on for Lily’s sake, as promised, and though it’s a low-wattage bulb, I still worry the glare will wake you so I decide to risk shutting the door to our room, turning the handle as slowly and as carefully as I can. Lily’s door along the landing is nearly closed but I can just make out the extra glow inside from the night light alongside her bed. No movement.

It’s a steep staircase leading directly into the kitchen below and I keep very still, listening out again for the owls. They must be hunting, surely. But hang on, do they hunt all night? Beyond dawn? Odd that I don’t know; I should know that. Yes. I must look that up tomorrow.

It’s a little chilly and I feel a tiny bit unsteady. Probably got up too fast. I’m wrapping my dressing gown tighter around my waist when everything suddenly goes black. The landing light out. Lily’s room black too. The shock of this absolute darkness, the ink black of the countryside, makes me gasp. I lose my bearings and, in a panic now, given how close I am to the first stair, I try to reach for the handrail to steady myself but I can’t find it. I grope in the blackness, unsteady still, and then suddenly – complete disorientation. I’m falling in the pitch-blackness.

I scream and feel my body twisting and bumping as I fly uncontrollably down the staircase. On to my head. Then my back. Lashing out with my hands to try to grab at something, anything, to stop the momentum. No good. It happens incredibly quickly and I am all at once in a twisted mess at the bottom of the stairs. In shock and in pain – my neck, my back and my right arm in terrible pain from crashing against the wooden edges of the stairs.

I try to breathe to regroup, the echo of my fall booming inside my head, but it’s as if the air can’t reach my lungs in this crushed position. I try to suck in tiny bursts of air – not enough, not enough. And then, still gasping, I attempt to roll over, to somehow open out my chest, but to my horror, I find I can’t move. Not at all. I try to call out for you but there is no sound. Instead it’s Lily screaming.

‘Daddy. Daddy! I can’t see.’

I try to shout again, this time to tell you to go to Lily first, but still nothing comes out of my mouth and the horror dawns that I cannot speak.

And that’s my last thought, in the dark of this kitchen. Twisted and in agony at the bottom of the staircase as I lose consciousness.

The realisation that I cannot move. And I cannot speak.

CHAPTER 17

BEFORE

Hannah

‘Well, I’m glad that you’re feeling better, Hannah. Flu can be dreadful.’

We’re back in counselling after a break for my ‘illness’. Of course, it wasn’t flu. Not even my mother believed it was flu.

Jessica’s smiling at me and I glance at the clock to take in that our session’s nearly over. All our counselling nearly over; just two more appointments booked.

I normally feel relief when we’re due to leave. But just now I still feel so tense sitting here, wondering what is going to be asked of me next. Trying to control my tone and my anger. All the darkness too. I also feel terribly guilty because these sessions are supposed to be honest and yet here I am lying.

The break for my ‘flu’ hasn’t helped the momentum. I bolted back to my mother’s; didn’t know what else to do. I felt awful, exposing her yet again to all the worry. I told her the same story I told Jessica. A bad virus that had drained all my energy.

No way could I tell anyone the truth.

And now? You and I are nudging closer to the point where we have to make decisions. You want my forgiveness. A second chance. Please, Hannah. You know I love you. You know I won’t make the same mistake again. Jessica’s still being infuriatingly professional – so careful not to give advice.

‘Are you coming any closer to deciding how you want to go forward, Hannah? Do you feel these sessions have helped? To explore what’s right for you? And Lily too. I know it can be difficult when there’s been a little break.’

It’s the mention of Lily that does it. I’m fighting tears. Can’t speak. I’m thinking about the ‘flu’ and the new antidepressants that my system isn’t used to yet.

‘OK. How about I make a suggestion.’ Jessica smooths the fabric of her trousers and picks at imagined fluff. ‘How about I ask each of you if there is anything else that you want to share, to be able to maybe start with a blank page. A truly fresh start.’ A pause. ‘If that’s what you both decide.’

‘I’ve not lied to Hannah before this, I swear. And she absolutely doesn’t deserve all this hurt.’ You’re looking at Jessica at this point. ‘Hannah had this horrible thing happen in her childhood and I’ve always wanted to be there for her.’ You turn to me now. ‘So I feel terrible that I’ve made things worse, Hannah. But I sometimes just don’t know how to help you. It’s like you have this protective wall. Things you don’t want to tell me. Not betrayals. I don’t mean that I suspect you of anything bad. I don’t think you’re capable of anything bad. But I do worry that you keep things from me. Is it because you don’t want to worry me? Is that it?’ A pause. ‘Do you keep things from me?’

I don’t answer. I feel this horrible tightening in my chest. I glance again at the large clock on the wall as the hand moves to eight o’clock to signal that our session is technically over.

‘Do you think there’s any truth in what Sam’s saying, Hannah? Is there anything that you would like to share with him to better understand you?’

I’m surprised to find that, for a moment, I actually consider saying it. But I can only liken the feeling to using all your body weight to hold a dam from breaking. You see the water. You fear the water. Your arms are so very tired as you push against the dam and a part of you would like to let go. Give in. Let it happen. But you’re frightened of the physical act of drowning. How much it will hurt.

I keep staring at the clock as I shake my head.

‘No. There’s nothing.’

CHAPTER 18

BEFORE

Hannah

I still say it wasn’t a true suicide attempt – this ‘thing’ I’ve never told Sam.

I know that my mother doesn’t believe me. Maybe the doctor and the police don’t either.

For myself, I just see it now as another horrid thing that happened growing up. A mistake. A blip. More fallout from losing my dad.

I was fifteen and it’s still something of a blur – that time in the bedroom and in the bathroom before I was suddenly in the ambulance. All I remember is that my head was hurting so badly, I wanted the hurting to stop. So yes, at the age of fifteen, I took more paracetamol than I should have done one night. But I honestly don’t remember a fatal decision, thinking: This is it. I want my life to end.

My mother was downstairs liaising with the school over a terrible drama I dearly wish had never happened. I was supposed to be trying to sleep after a bath to calm myself, but she apparently found me later, collapsed, back in the bathroom. When I came round in the ambulance, I remember seeing my mother’s face through the fog and being instantly and totally horrified. She looked petrified. Face grey. A million years old.

I was immediately wracked with guilt and terribly frightened too, because I wanted to row back time and undo it. I was saying it was all a horrible mistake and I couldn’t even remember how many tablets I’d taken, and knew in that moment that I wanted very much to live. I wanted to go forward and be a better daughter for my mother, who’d already been through too much in her life.

But it wasn’t as simple as I thought. I imagined I’d just have my stomach pumped. But no; I had some kind of charcoal treatment to try to stop my body absorbing the paracetamol. And then there were a lot of tests and suddenly all the talk, to my surprise, was about my liver. Apparently liver damage – or complete liver failure – is the biggest worry after a paracetamol overdose. Who knew?

My immediate levels were high but not lethally so. They started me on a special drip and I thought I was already in the clear until a nurse patiently explained to my mother that the worst of the liver toxicity doesn’t always show up until the third or fourth day. No way were we out of the woods yet . . .

Time seemed to pass so slowly. The repeat tests and all the waiting were dreadful for me but much worse for my poor mother. Eventually I got lucky. Thanks to the very fast treatment, there was no long-term damage. Except, of course, to my mother, whose eyes have never looked quite the same since. Always that edge of extra worry any time I have additional stress in my life.

The police were involved because I’d sort of attacked someone before I took the tablets. Not seriously – and again I would say it was not wholly deliberate. No way am I a violent person. But the fact is I did hurt someone that day. And I still say he deserved it.

It all blew up in school and spiralled very quickly.

A Thursday. Lunchtime rehearsal.

The drama group were putting on Miss Saigon and I’d offered to help with set design and costumes. Even back then, I was keen to get anything on my CV to do with clothes, colour schemes and design. It was the year my mother taught me about the theory of colour and I was obsessed. I knew that I wanted to be an interior designer, and so I felt the work with costumes and sets for the show would help with my application for college.

The problem is that I didn’t know much about the show itself. I hadn’t seen it in the West End and I hadn’t worked all the way through the script yet, so it had never occurred to me there might be a trigger over what happened with my dad. I was sitting in one of the early rehearsals, liaising over costumes and the set, when they came to plan a scene which I only now realise involved a helicopter.

Given I had no idea what was coming, I was pretty chilled. And then all of a sudden, they boosted the audio. Monstrously loud. Later I learned they needed to check the maximum volume that would safely achieve the effect they needed. Out of nowhere came the deafening sound of a helicopter. Honestly – it was as if it was right in the room. Apparently, it’s one hundred per cent deliberate. In the West End show, you’re supposed to feel as if the helicopter is landing right in the theatre.

The problem was that the thundering noise, for me, was not just a shock but like a physical attack. I’d see later that it took me right back to that terrifying moment in the wood with my father when the search helicopter woke me up.

To my shame, I became hysterical. Shaking all over as if I was having some kid of fit.

And then – the biggest humiliation of all – I wet myself. Fifteen years old and I wet myself right there in front of the people around me. Just as I had in the wood with my dad.

My friend Sarah was so kind, telling everyone to get help for me, moving people away, shouting for teachers and saying I was unwell. But there was this boy called Andrew helping with the lighting. A bully. Not nice.

He had a camera to record shots of the set and he took a picture of me, on the ground in the puddle of my own urine, and started shouting: She’s pissed herself! Hannah’s only gone and pissed herself . . .

Sarah told him to shut up and tried to grab his camera. A couple of teachers stepped forward and took him to task. But I was still in this sort of hysterical state on the ground and I did something really, really stupid. There were some long pieces of wood set aside that were being used to trim bits on the set. I grabbed one and swung it towards him as he leant down to take another photo. I didn’t even think it would hit him. But it did.

Four stitches.

Later, while I was being checked over in hospital, he started telling everyone what had happened. He shared the picture of me by email with a few of his friends. He shared the picture of his head injury too. Told everyone about my accident; that I was ‘mental’.

My mother involved the school immediately and he was asked to delete the photograph from his camera. But he retaliated by making a formal complaint about the ‘attack’ and the police were involved. I remember my mother in more floods of tears as I was questioned. We honestly thought he would take me to court.

But thankfully the school intervened again. The boy’s parents were the ones to insist he withdraw the complaint – no charges – once they found out what he’d done. And what had happened to me with my dad.

It all took hours to resolve. We got home early evening from the hospital and I was exhausted and in shock still. It was honestly the worst thing to happen since my father died.

My mother stuck to me like glue at first, but I said I just wanted a bath and to go to bed, and she agreed because she wanted to make some more calls to the school. Decide on a plan going forward. I was supposed to be trying to get to sleep but I just couldn’t. I was on my phone and word was everyone was still gossiping about me. My head started pounding and pounding as if it was going to explode.

My mother had said that I could change schools. A private school? A fresh start. We could even move house if that’s what I wanted. She said she’d do anything to help me move forward from this. It was all up to me. That’s what she was doing downstairs: working on my options.

But later, on my own, it suddenly all felt too much.

It made me think of my dad. The wood. The shame I felt back then over the smell when the police found me cuddled up to my father. And I just couldn’t get this really huge sense of shame out of my head.

So yes. I took some paracetamol for my head pounding. And then I took a few more than I intended.

I did change to a new, private school, but we didn’t move house. I was assigned yet another social worker. Eventually I got my act together, went to college and put it behind me. Later, I made my mum promise not to tell Sam because I felt the whole thing had been misunderstood and exaggerated. I saw it as an adolescent hiccup and didn’t want it to define me; I also felt I had enough tricky history for him to deal with.

And in any case, and this is key: I still say it wasn’t a true and conscious attempt to end my life. It was just a mistake. A misunderstanding. An attempt in the heat of the moment, once only, to end the noise and the pain in my head.

CHAPTER 19

DAY FIVE

Hannah

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not fine. You could have broken your bloody neck, Hannah.’ Your expression’s part concern and part frustration, my mind so muddled that I have no idea how to read what you’re really thinking.

We’re in A&E still. I feel shocked and disorientated but also embarrassed, a fraud, for wasting ambulance time. And blocking a cubicle.

‘I feel terrible, stuck here. And Lily. Where’s she now?’ I cast my head around, left to right. ‘She’s been here hours. She must be exhausted.’

‘Lily’s fine. She’s still with the nurse in the office. Biscuits and lemonade, last time I checked. They’ve been lovely to her.’

‘Look – they say I’m OK. No concussion. And only a grade-one sprain. Why don’t you head off back to the cottage? I’ll get a taxi back with Lily when they sign me off.’

‘Why on earth would I do that?’ You pull your chin back into your neck. ‘We’ll all stay.’

‘No, no. There’s no need.’ The truth is I want some time away from you; time to myself to figure this out. I’ve never had this kind of accident before. I’m fit. I do yoga and normally have good balance, so I still don’t understand how I fell. Stuck here in this bed, I feel irrationally worried and confused over why the lights failed. For such a short time.

I’ve tried asking you about it but you told me not to dwell on it. Power cuts happen all the time, Hannah.

But do they? We’ve had no other power problems at the cottage. I can’t help remembering you on the phone, talking about money. All the weird stuff. The knocking on the door. The toys. The postcard.

I can’t explain it, but I just want to be on my own for a bit. Figure this out. Talk to the doctor. Try to work out if all these feelings are just shock. Or some kind of paranoia from the tablets?

‘It’s crazy for you and Lily to be stuck here too,’ I say.

‘Well, I’m not leaving you to travel back to the cottage on your own. You can barely walk.’

‘I can hobble. Get a taxi. They’ve said I can weight-bear if I go gently.’ It’s true. Everything’s been scanned and checked and I’ve got away with an ankle sprain. No need for a cast, just a support boot.

‘No way, Hannah. Don’t be ridiculous.’

I pause for a moment – a terrible question suddenly in my head, remembering again how defensive you were about the phone call. Talking about money. And here’s the thing. You were in the bedroom. And there’s a switch for the landing lights in the bedroom . . .

I feel a tightening in my chest. I look at you and narrow my eyes. I feel stressed and scared too, because I just don’t know what to think anymore.

‘Oh goodness, Hannah. You’re crying. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound cross.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. Just a bit overwhelmed suddenly.’ I realise that I badly need to talk to the doctor in private. Work out if these feelings are to do with the antidepressants. A lingering side effect? Or a hiccup from stopping them so suddenly? Too late, I remember now that my GP said to check with him before messing with the dose. I don’t want you to know about the medication. So I need you out of the way.

‘OK. How about you take Lily for a walk around town at least. Fresh air. An ice cream and a visit to the shops or something while I wait to see the doctor again.’ In my heart I’d like Lily to stay with me. But I see that’s impractical. Also selfish. ‘When they sign me off, I’ll text you to fetch me. It’ll be another hour or so, but they’ll want the cubicle, so I can’t believe it will be much longer than that.’

You check your watch and I can almost hear your brain whirring.

‘Go on. Take Lily for an ice cream and I’ll message you. I’ll feel less stressed. I’ll try to rest.’

‘You absolutely sure?’

‘Yes. I’ll feel less guilty if she at least gets out of this place for an hour.’

At last you relent, and Lily’s brought quickly to say goodbye. I feel another fluttering of panic as I look at her, but I watch you put your hand on her shoulder, kissing the top of her head. I think of her in your arms as I came round from the caesarean. You taking turns to soothe her in the bathroom when she had croup. Running hot water to make steam.

You love Lily. I know that. It’s just how you feel about me I’m no longer sure about.

‘Mummy, are you listening?’

‘Sorry, darling. What did you say?’

She asks if I’m getting a cast and seems genuinely disappointed when I say no. There’s gabbling about a friend in school who got a pink cast which the whole class signed.

‘Can’t you ask for a pink cast?’

‘That’s not how it works, honey.’

Once you’re gone, I lean back in the bed and try to process the last few hours. I still can’t believe the horror of that short spell when I genuinely couldn’t move or speak. Shock? I had no idea it could do that. I think in the ambulance they were still checking for a stroke, but as everything slowly came back, speech and movement, it rapidly became clear I was fine – just bruises and a twisted ankle.

And now I go over the sequence after the fall. The lights stayed off a few minutes, which is why I assumed a power cut. You used the torch on your phone to soothe Lily and then bring her down – stepping over me, then fetching the larger torch from the kitchen drawer to light the room a little better for her. And then the light up on the landing came back on as suddenly as it had gone out. You tried to reassure me as you phoned for an ambulance.

I’m getting help. You keep still. It’s going to be all right, Hannah.

Keep still? I hardly had any choice.

I still couldn’t speak to tell you this, not for several minutes. On the emergency call, they told you not to move me, so you just crouched alongside me. And all I could think was: Keep away from me.

But why?

Why am I irrationally thinking that you might have turned the lights off deliberately? Then turned them back on, using the downstairs switch? It’s a dangerous thought. An extreme thought.

Why even would you do that?

CHAPTER 20

DAY FIVE

Sam

Sam’s now sitting in his idea of hell – a soft play area with trampolines as well as rope ladders and the health-and-safety nightmare of a climbing wall.

He couldn’t face traipsing round the shops with Lily, so this was the best Google had offered near the hospital. Plenty of parking. Open from 8 a.m.

‘Does Mummy not mind us leaving her?’ Lily’s tying her laces, eager for a second go on the climbing wall. It’s difficult to hear her over the din; it’s the noise Sam hates the most. These places are like echo chambers. And he has so much on his mind.

There’s a queue for the climbing wall again. He watched her up close the first time and has been reassured the protocols are good. Helmets, safety ropes and one-on-one supervision.

‘No. This was Mummy’s idea. She’s got to wait to be discharged and so she’ll message when we can take her home. It’s hot in the hospital. And boring. So you can have an hour playing. Mummy’s going to be just fine.’

‘OK. Good. So can I do the wall again?’

‘Sure. I’ll watch from here this time. Is that OK?’

‘Yes.’ Lily kisses his cheek and runs off to join another girl she was talking to at the climbing wall earlier.

He watches her get in line for her turn and feels the familiar lurch in his stomach as she turns to wave. Are you watching me, Daddy?

He gives a thumbs up to confirm, but in truth he’s soon back on his phone. He feels bad, but it’s been so difficult to find any windows to make calls at the cottage.

‘Hi, Brad. Just wondering if you’ve had any time to work on raising the funds?’ Sam tries to keep the panic out of his voice. Brad’s already expressed surprise in their email exchange. He’s well aware of their overall financial position. Hannah’s trust fund. He’s understandably curious why on earth Sam needs funds so urgently when the trust’s sitting there. Bradley is Sam’s friend going right back to university, but he’s become fond of Hannah too.

‘Wouldn’t it just be easier, and make more sense – interest-wise – to draw down from Hannah’s fund? You can do that within her annual limit. You didn’t draw down last year so we can roll the limit back across two years. That’s allowed.’

Sam squeezes his eyes tight for a moment. ‘Look. Cards on the table, mate. This is a private investment opportunity. Property. My call – through a work colleague. I’m not keen to run it past Hannah with the way things are.’ He pauses. Brad’s well aware of the delicate state of the marriage. ‘I need to make a quick decision so I need to sort this myself, without involving the trust fund. I’m good for the money myself, surely. Given our overall position, I mean.’

‘Sure, sure. But it’s still a lot to raise quickly, Sam. Interest will be punishing. You absolutely sure you want to do this?’

‘Look. I get it’s a big ask, but it’s a good opportunity. Time-limited. Can you email me the numbers so I can make a decision quickly?’

‘OK, buddy. I’ll let you know the score by tomorrow.’ A pause. ‘Listen. I don’t mean to pry, but you sound a bit stressed. Is everything all right?’

Sam feels a shiver of unease. ‘Yes. Fine. Well – you know the marriage is still in a difficult place, but we’re getting there. I’m trying to keep the pressure off Hannah. Sort my investments myself and keep my own situation secure. That’s all.’

‘Understood. But remember I’m here if you need to talk about anything. Anything at all.’

‘I’m fine. Honestly. Speak soon.’ He hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket, looking up to find that it’s Lily’s turn on the wall. He stands and gives another thumbs up as she turns her head before starting. She has real courage and is faster than the other climbers, a third of the way up the wall in no time. He’s pleased to see that safety rope in place, but more pleased to see that his daughter seems oblivious. He watches her feeling carefully with her feet and hands in turn, with the instructor guiding her, move by move.

Sam feels a punch of pride, then the flip of more guilt. He thinks of Hannah in the hospital. Lily so very worried about her mother.

The truth is – if he could go back in time, he would undo all of it. But it’s too late.

He’s here. He’s on a course now beyond his control. And he has to find a way out of the mess.

CHAPTER 21

DAY FIVE

Hannah

‘Hospital? You’re in hospital, and you didn’t tell me?’

‘Mum. I’m telling you right now. It’s nothing. Honestly. A twisted ankle.’ I pause, watching a nurse in one of the other cubicles pull the curtain for privacy. I’ve asked to speak again to the doctor; won’t tell my mother why. ‘We’re just waiting on the doctor to sign me off and then I’m out of here.’

‘So what happened? Is Sam with you? Why didn’t he ring me? Put him on. He should have phoned me.’

‘I’m ringing you, Mum. I wanted to get the x-rays done first. Didn’t want to worry you until I knew the score.’

‘Sorry, darling. Sorry. It’s just a shock.’ There’s a pause and I dread what she’s thinking about. ‘So what happened?’

‘It was a power cut. I tripped on the stairs. But, like I say, I’m fine. To be honest, I feel a complete fraud now.’ I pause again, wondering how much to share. ‘It gave me a scare but I’m fine. Bored, actually; we’ve been stuck here hours. They’ve done loads of tests and I’ve been lucky. Just a sprain.’

‘Was Sam there when it happened? A power cut. So you weren’t on your own?’

‘Yes, yes; he was there. It happened at the cottage. Early hours. I came in by ambulance. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘Ambulance! Oh my Lord. Right. I’ll get in the car and come right down. No arguments.’

‘Mum, Mum. I’m not even getting a cast. Or crutches. Just a support boot and a stick.’ This isn’t technically true. I’m apparently getting a crutch, more for confidence than anything, but a stick sounds less serious. ‘It’s going to be absolutely fine. We’ve talked about it, me and Sam. If there was the need for a cast, we would have headed home to Hampshire. But I can manage with a boot. I’m allowed to walk on it while it heals.’

‘But you’re going to need help with Lily. Will you be able to get up and down the stairs even? And how will you get back to the cottage?’

‘Sam followed the ambulance with Lily in the car so we’re all good. We’re going to manage just fine. I’ll need to go easy, but we’ve talked it through and we’re staying on so Lily can enjoy the rest of the holiday. I’ll put my foot up at the beach café when we visit the coast. And we’ve already phoned the garden we’re visiting tomorrow. We can book a wheelchair if I get tired. There’s a disabled route signposted. So it’s all sorted.’

‘Oh goodness. What a thing to happen.’

‘Yeah. Not ideal. But it could have been worse.’ I think again of those moments at the foot of the stairs. Unable to talk. Unable to move. A part of me would like my mother to come to Cornwall, but then I think of those two recent mercy dashes home. The first with Lily. The second with my ‘flu’. I’ve put my mother through enough.

‘OK, love. But you know that if you need me, I can jump right in the car.’

‘I do know that. But we’re honestly fine.’

‘OK, love. You take care of yourself and update me when you’re back at the cottage. Put Lily on and I’ll say hello.’

I take in a long, slow breath. ‘Actually, they’ve gone to the café, Mum.’ She’ll freak out if I share that I’ve sent them away for a bit. ‘We’ll all ring you again later, once we’re back at the cottage.’

‘You promise? It’s just you haven’t been returning my texts. Like we agreed.’

‘Mum. I’m not a child.’

‘I know that, Hannah. But you have a lot on your plate right now.’ There’s a long pause again. ‘And you know why I worry.’

‘And I would tell you if I wasn’t coping.’

‘Would you?’

We discussed this when I holed up at her house straight after I found out about the affair. I close my eyes, remembering how much she worries. The last time I was in an ambulance.

‘I know you worry, but I promise I will tell you if I’m not coping. And you’re to keep your promise, not to say anything to Sam about—’

‘You know I won’t. But you have to keep your promise too, Hannah. To keep in touch while you’re under all this strain. That’s what we agreed. You don’t shut me out.’

‘Agreed. I promise.’ Even as I say this, I worry how to keep to my word without making her world worse. How can I tell my poor mother about the utter madness going on in my head right now? ‘Look. I’ve got to go. Another call’s coming in.’

‘OK, love. Take it easy and ring me later. Oh – and frozen peas. You’ll need frozen peas.’

‘What?’

‘As an ice pack.’

‘Bye, Mum.’ I end the call to see Amy’s name flashing on the screen. A bubble of new panic. I haven’t been returning her texts, either.

I press the green circle and take a long breath, lifting up my chin.

‘Hi, Amy. So sorry I didn’t get back to you.’

‘And I’m sorry to ring. But I’ve been worried, Hannah. How we left things, I mean. So is it going OK down there?’

What to say? I turn my head again to see the nurse signalling disapproval over the phone. She points to the sign on the wall, warning of sensitive equipment nearby. No mobiles. I mouth that I just need a minute, a new tightening in my chest.

‘Sorry, Amy. But I’m actually right in the middle of something. Can I ring you back?’

‘Look, Hannah. We both know you won’t, so I just want to say I’m really sorry it got a bit heated last time we saw each other.’ An understatement. She pauses. ‘But that’s not all.’ She lowers her voice. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’ There’s a strained tone to her voice. ‘As your friend.’

‘What is it, Amy?’ I can feel my heart rate increasing. The last time we spoke it ended badly; I was very stressed and she was still ranting about it being a bad decision to give Sam a second chance.

‘OK. I feel really torn here because Adam says I’m to keep my nose out. We’ve been arguing about it.’ So that’s why she’s whispering. Is he there? I close my eyes and try to steady myself. ‘But the thing is I’ve found out something new, honey. Through a mate. Something not great.’ Another pause. ‘About Sam.’

A chill goes right through me as the nurse walks across to my cubicle. I can feel the horrible tightening in my chest getting worse. Next I think of the sudden switch from light to darkness. The horror of the fall.

‘What about Sam?’

Amy’s tone is so strange, she’s actually frightening me.

‘Look. I’m sorry.’ It’s the nurse, right by my bed now. ‘But you’re going to have to put that away, please. We’re doing a procedure in the next cubicle.’ She again signals, this time with her head, to the SENSITIVE EQUIPMENT sign.

‘I only need a minute.’

‘I’m sorry, but you need to turn it off now, please.’

‘Who’s that? Who are you with?’ Amy sounds thrown.

‘Sorry, Amy. But I really am right in the middle of something. I’ll have to go. I’ll ring you later.’

I hang up, heart still pounding, and hold up the phone to show the nurse that I’ve ended the call, with the words echoing in my head.

I’ve found out something new . . . something not great. About Sam.

CHAPTER 22

DAY FIVE

Hannah

The doctor, once he finally appears, introduces himself, skimming my notes on a small screen like an iPad. He seems stretched and keen to hurry my discharge. Until I mention the tablets . . .

‘Right.’ His face has changed completely as he spools back through my records. ‘So you stopped the tablets when?’

‘A few days ago. I was feeling tired all the time. Not myself. Also having weird new dreams.’

‘What kind of dreams?’

‘Violent. Nasty. Attacks. I’ve never had dreams like them before, and so I thought it was the tablets. I just wanted them to stop. I’d forgotten that my GP said I needed to check in before doing that.’

‘Right. Yes. Well – the drug you’re prescribed can be very helpful, but it can take time for everything to settle. The tablets can have side effects for some patients and it’s important to monitor that. But it’s not ideal to just stop them. They do need to be tapered quite carefully to avoid the separate problem of withdrawal side effects.’ His expression darkens. ‘Like I say, it’s not ideal to just stop them.’

He asks a lot more questions. Why they were prescribed in the first place. How I got on with them initially. Were there any side effects immediately? Then he moves on to why exactly I suddenly stopped taking them on holiday.

I tell him what I can but I don’t say I’ve started to suspect my husband. That I’m worried about paranoia. Not yet.

‘So tell me again what you’ve felt like since you stopped the medication?’

‘I’ve always had bad dreams, but I started to get even worse dreams. Different kinds. Very frightening. Someone chasing me. Then the sensation of jumping.’

‘Jumping? And this happened before you had your . . .’ He pauses. ‘Fall?’

‘Yes. But it wasn’t deliberate or anything like that. The fall happened because we had a power cut.’ I wish now I hadn’t mentioned the jumping in the dream. I don’t like his expression. ‘Don’t worry. I would never hurt myself deliberately.’ I can feel my face flushing. ‘I mean – I’ve been down. Sure. Under a lot of pressure. But I have a beautiful daughter and the whole point is I’m trying to get myself stronger. Better. For my daughter. I would never hurt myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

I watch him skimming back further in my notes and my heart sinks. No way will I mention the paranoia now.

‘I just need to know what I should do now. I’m on holiday. I’ll see my GP as soon as I get home, obviously. Talk about trying a different medication maybe. But what should I do now? Stay off the tablets, now I’ve stopped them. Or what?’

‘Well – we may possibly need to yellow-card this reaction.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Report that you’ve had these disturbing dreams as a result of stopping the drugs. But most important is to get you stabilised and make sure everything’s OK for your release today.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m going to recommend an assessment before you’re released. Just to make sure we’re taking the best care of you.’

‘A psych assessment?’

‘Just a chat.’

‘Oh no, no, no. Surely that’s not necessary.’ I feel a shiver go through me.

‘Just ticking the boxes.’ Another pause. ‘Given your medical history.’

I flush even more; really wishing I hadn’t asked. Misjudged this and opened a whole new can of worms.

‘OK. But I’m fine, honestly. I just need advice about the tablets – whether to stay off them now. That’s all. And I need to get back to my family.’

‘OK, Hannah. Well, let’s get someone down to have a word with you and we’ll sort all that out with the nurse. It’s probably best to stay off the tablets now. We’d normally taper the dose very gradually but it’s a bit late for that. The problem is you may have side effects for a little longer, from stopping so suddenly.’

‘How long?’

‘Hard to say. Week to three weeks, max. Just something for us to keep tabs on. So, do you have someone with you? Someone to keep an eye on you until you can see your GP to talk this through?’

‘Yes, of course. My husband’s with me. He takes very good care of me. He’ll help me with this.’

CHAPTER 23

DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

The puzzle of the guestbook message begins soon after we get back to the cottage from the hospital.

I have the protective boot to cushion my ankle, with one crutch to help me hobble about. It’s not too bad actually, way better than a plaster cast and less limiting overall than I feared. I have painkillers and have been told to ice the foot and keep it raised when I can.

I’ve also (secretly) agreed to stick with the ‘cold turkey’ option re the antidepressants, praying any withdrawal side effects will be short-lived. I have the option of a phone consultation with my doctor back home if I have any worries during the rest of the holiday.

The psych assessment was a pain in the arse but I managed to keep it from you; I talked my way out of the hole and the hospital doctors eventually seemed happy. I’m glad I’m off the tablets and hope any confusion and paranoia will now recede. I’ll see what my GP thinks once we’re home. Maybe I’ll try a different medication; maybe not.

For now, I feel tired but OK and am coping with the foot, so we stop off to buy fish and chips for a late lunch on the way to Owl Cottage. I manage to manoeuvre myself on to a picnic bench with my bad leg stretched out to the side. To be honest, I’m not really hungry but I enjoy the fresh air and am doing this for Lily. Don’t want her holiday ruined any more than it has to be.

Providing I’m safe. Providing my distorted thoughts about you were to do with the medication. Just in my head. Not real.

The call with my mother reminded me that I got my thinking all skewed once before. That mad time when I was fifteen. I got past that, and I’ll get past this too.

Over food, you tell me more about the play zone you found near the hospital earlier. You look genuinely concerned for me. You sound genuinely concerned. And Lily is full of chatter about a climbing wall. I start to feel less guilty about the day being written off for her completely, but I still think a trip to the beach will help balance the hours stuck at the hospital. Also, I need some more thinking time to steady myself.

I’m pleased to see the cottage company put up a venetian blind at the kitchen window while we were out. I’m less worried now about any cat, even if I open the window a bit for air. And so, after an hour to anchor ourselves back at the cottage – you and Lily playing frisbee in the garden while I nap – I send you both off for a walk to the coast with all of Lily’s paraphernalia. The jelly shoes, nets and buckets and spades. Meanwhile, I put baked potatoes in the Rayburn for supper when you return. Baked beans and cheese will do as toppings after that big lunch. I plan to forget cooking after this and work out which pubs to try instead. I’m hoping to confirm the wheelchair booking on standby for tomorrow, so we can visit the garden with the maze that Lily’s so keen to try.

I’m finally alone, sitting on the sofa in the main room with my bad leg up on a footstool, when I notice that the guestbook has been put out on the coffee table. Odd. Must have been the housekeeper or whoever fitted the blind. The book wasn’t there before the hospital dash. I know because I looked for it after finding the dead owls, hoping to see if anyone referenced cat problems, but couldn’t remember where we’d put it.

The housekeeper clearly paid a visit while we were out along with whoever did the maintenance work, as the washing-up was all loaded into the dishwasher, the beds made, towels changed, bins emptied, and a fresh set of tea and scones set out on the kitchen table. I hadn’t even remembered that we had a midweek housekeeper visit.

Perhaps the cottage company likes to encourage comments in the book, and that’s why they’ve left it out. I reach for it, wondering what on earth I would have to say. My experience of Owl Cottage has not exactly been positive.

But as I open the book to the most recent comments, I’m instantly chilled.

The final entry is undated, and says simply:

Knock, knock, Hannah. Who’s there?

I pause, my heartbeat quickening as I stare at the words. I try to process how this could be. I take in the handwriting. It’s impossible and yet also right there in front of my eyes.

I stare and stare at my name. Another shiver goes through me. How can this be?

I flip back quickly through the book to find that all the other messages are entirely innocuous. How much the cottage has been enjoyed. Recommendations for local pubs and outings. Promises to send postcards once home, to add to the corkboard.

So why knock, knock? And how the hell is this in my handwriting?

For a moment I feel complete disorientation. Am I going mad here? Is it possible I could have written this . . . and somehow forgotten? But why would I do that?

I’m still staring at the words when there’s the surreal interruption of loud knocking for real on the front door.

Again.

I start. Gasp.

Knock, knock, Hannah.

I keep very, very still, my heart pounding even faster as I remember the two previous occasions – knocking and no one there. I think of how isolated the cottage is. How vulnerable I am with this blessed foot injury now.

My handwriting. How?

I have to press my palm against my chest to steady myself as the knocking repeats. I twist my head but can’t make out anything through the sitting room window, which has its shutters closed. Is this someone deliberately trying to spook me? Is the front door even locked? I can’t remember.

I want to get up to investigate, but in my distress to check, I move too fast. Pain shoots up my bad leg. I have to reach for my crutch and roll on to my good side to get the strength and momentum to pull myself up to standing.

By the time I hobble through to the kitchen to check first through the window, parting the slats in the new blind, and then by opening the door on its latch, there’s no sign of anyone. Same story as before. I release the latch and move out into the garden to look around, using the crutch to step, hop, step, hop my way down the garden a little. No sign of anyone until I look left past the gate, into the garden, to see the neighbour emerging from the larger detached cottage next door.

‘Hello?’

At first she just watches me, then finally waves.

‘Sorry. Were you just knocking on the door?’ I raise my voice to cover the distance between us. I’ve only seen her a couple of times since we spoke previously. At an upstairs window or working on her own garden. We’ve only waved.

‘Sorry. Bit deaf. What did you say?’

‘I wondered if you were knocking on the door a moment ago?’ I speak even louder as she cups one hand to her ear to channel my voice.

‘No. No. I didn’t knock.’

‘Did you see anyone here? It’s just there was a knock on the door and I missed them. It’s happened a couple of times.’ I lift my crutch to signal why I’m slow at the moment.

‘Didn’t see anyone at all,’ she repeats. ‘Actually, I was waving because I wondered if you’re all OK? I don’t mean to pry, but I saw the ambulance from my window and I was worried.’

‘Just a silly fall. Twisted ankle. It was the power cut.’

‘Power cut? That’s odd.’ She smooths her hands down the skirt of her dress. ‘We didn’t have a power cut.’

‘Oh. It was very short. Early hours. You were probably asleep.’

She frowns. ‘Actually, do you mind if I come into the garden? My hearing’s a complete nightmare. If I turn the hearing aid up too high, it just whistles.’

Suddenly I understand the raised voice in our exchanges. I give her the thumbs up and wait as she opens the gate, closes it behind her and moves through to join me.

‘Shall we take the bench?’ she suggests, staring at my boot and crutch. ‘I’m Jenny, by the way. Should have introduced myself properly before.’

‘Hannah,’ I say, unable to offer my hand for a formal hello, due to the crutch. ‘Sure. My foot is saying the bench is a very good idea.’ It’s a wrought-iron bench against the front wall of the cottage, carefully positioned to catch the best of the evening sun. I actually prefer the slate step, but that’s no longer an option, so I take the bench, stretching my bad leg out straight. Jenny joins me, fiddling with her hearing aid, presumably adjusting the volume. She doesn’t look very old to me – fifties – and I wonder if the hearing difficulty is from birth rather than age-related.

‘So you had a power cut?’ She’s again frowning but has lowered her voice, clearly managing much better at close range. ‘Very odd. Because I definitely didn’t.’

‘It was around four a.m. You were probably sleeping.’

‘Ah, but that’s the problem. I don’t sleep. Terrible insomnia.’ She’s turned her head to look at me directly. ‘I was reading from around three a.m. until first light. Had my bedside lamp on. No problems, so I definitely didn’t lose power. Also – my oven clock was fine this morning. It goes into manic blinking mode if there’s been a power cut in the night, even for a few seconds, and I have to reset it. But as I say, it’s been fine.’

‘Well – how odd.’

‘Also – I would have heard from the other neighbours if we’d had an outage.’

‘Neighbours?’ I glance around. ‘Hadn’t really thought about this place having neighbours. Feels pretty isolated here, apart from your cottage, I mean.’

‘Oh, there are a few properties on the same circuit, spread out around the hamlet. Of course most are second homes. Or rentals, these days.’ She pauses, and I remember the poster in the local garage. ‘I’m in a WhatsApp group for security for the few of us still here full-time. No messages about a power cut.’

‘Just us then – the power cut.’ I feel a sense of deep unease as I say this.

‘So, how bad’s the ankle?’ She’s looking down at my support boot. ‘Is it very painful? You sure you’re OK? You look quite pale.’

‘Just tired. It’s more uncomfortable than painful, providing I don’t move too fast. Just a sprain, but we were stuck at the hospital for hours. I feel bad now, about calling an ambulance, but my husband was worried about my neck. I fell down the stairs.’

‘Goodness. How scary. Could have been a lot worse then.’

‘Yes. I suppose I feel lucky really.’ I take a deep breath, glancing at the front door. ‘Look. It’s nice to meet you properly, Jenny, and I’d normally offer coffee or tea.’ I lift my crutch to illustrate my problem.

‘Don’t worry. I don’t want you hobbling about. The sun here’s rather nice though. Tell you what – shall I fetch us a coffee from my place? Do you have the time? It’s no trouble. And you look as if you could do with a biscuit.’

I open my mouth to decline but then pause, realising there are a lot more questions I’d like to ask. ‘Well, if it’s no trouble, that would be lovely, Jenny. My husband’s just taken our daughter to the beach for a play until supper. Been rather a boring day for her really, what with the hospital.’

She stands. ‘Decided then. I’d suggest an early wine but don’t want it on my conscience if you take another tumble.’ She laughs. ‘So coffee it is. Real stuff or decaf?’

‘Real deal, please.’

She walks back across the garden and I watch her closely as she navigates the gate and crosses to her front door. Her cottage is larger than ours, set apart with a huge garden behind. We can see the garden more clearly from the rear window of Lily’s room, and it’s a magnificent affair, divided into sections. Vegetables and fruit, herbs and flower borders. I wonder if she has help or manages it all herself. Feeling nosy now, I realise that there’s a lot of information she may be able to help with.

About ten minutes later, Jenny returns with two mugs of coffee on a tray with a jug of milk, a pot of sugar and a plate of biscuits. ‘Sorry – forgot to ask how you take it, so I’ve covered all bases.’

She reminds me once more of my mother, with her tray and nice crockery, and I smile. ‘Very kind of you.’

We chat a while about the hospital and the difficulty of rural locations and ambulance delays. Jenny tells me she’s been widowed for nearly ten years but doesn’t mind the isolation, though her sister frets about her living alone as she has diabetes. She finds the cottage upkeep a bit too much but is well supported by friends and loves to be so near to the sea. She volunteers that the hearing issue has been tricky for about five years, possibly the result of a virus. The doctors aren’t sure. I offer sympathy and then we sit a little quietly for a time, sipping our drinks.

‘Have another biscuit. You still look a bit washed out to me.’

I reach for another piece of shortbread and try to find a smile. ‘So – the issue of second homes and rentals. I suppose it’s a bit controversial?’ I picked up a slight change in Jenny’s tone when she mentioned the WhatsApp group. And I’m still curious after the reaction in the local garage.

‘Same everywhere that’s as lovely as this, I suppose,’ she sighs. ‘I’m not unrealistic, but it’s a shame in the winter when many of the communities are suddenly so quiet. It’s a bit feast-or-famine in these parts. Heaving everywhere in the summer and deathly quiet in the winter.’

‘I wonder – can you tell me anything about the owners of this place? It’s just we’ve had the strangest problem with a cat getting in. Dead owlets left on the doormat a couple of times. Very unpleasant. The letterbox is blocked up; there’s a mailbox outside, so they must have been brought in. It’s quite the puzzle. The rental company have put a blind up at the kitchen window, but it still worries me. I can’t figure out how the cat got in.’ I don’t ask outright if she’s the owner but she takes the hint.

‘No pets myself. And I haven’t seen any cats around this area at all. How very odd.’

‘Second odd thing,’ I add, without thinking.

‘Yes.’ She tilts her head and I’m struggling for a moment as I remember the awful shock of the ink-blackness as I fell down the stairs.

Is it really possible for just one property to have an outage?

I glance at my watch – still at least forty minutes before I expect you and Lily home.

‘So do you know much about the owners of this place? It’s kept beautifully. I’d be loving it if it weren’t for the mystery cat. And the power cut.’

‘I’ve met the couple just twice, when they’ve been down overseeing changes. A bit distant, if I’m honest. They’ve switched letting agencies a few times. And the cottage has had quite a few changes over time.’

‘Right.’

‘Actually, I thought I saw the owners recently, but may have been mistaken. Scottish, I think. Or at least living up in Scotland. Accent seemed mild to me but I’m not very good with accents.’

‘Do they use the cottage themselves? There’s a locked room upstairs. Box room, which I assume is for their things.’

‘Not sure. Possibly. I’m away a lot in the summer to visit my sister. She’s having problems with her son, my nephew.’ She leans in conspiratorially. ‘Drugs, I’m afraid. Very difficult. Anyway. I like to give August a miss here if I can. Gets so crazy, and not all families are as nice as you.’ She smiles. ‘We’ve had some shocking parties. Stag and hen dos are technically not allowed, but people get round the rules. Nightmare.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s life, isn’t it.’

‘By the way, I was wondering about the footprint of the property. Was a bit thrown that the garage is outside the fencing.’

Jenny takes in a slow breath. ‘And now I hold up my hands to my hypocrisy. It was my garage, but I didn’t really need it. I’ve got gravel parking at the far side of my place. The owners of your cottage made an offer through a lawyer for the garage, as renters always want private parking. Very few people bother opening the door, of course, but they like the convenience of pulling up in front of it. It was a generous offer.’ She pauses. ‘So I suppose I really shouldn’t complain, should I? Having taken the tourist dollar myself.’

Suddenly I understand the comments made to me in the local garage. Gossip must be the downside of living in a small place like this.

‘Oh, I think you’re entitled to feel however you feel.’ I smile. ‘Anyway.’ I glance again at my watch. ‘It’s been really lovely to meet you, Jenny. The coffee was kind of you but I ought to think about supper.’

‘They’ve not left you to cook?’

‘Just baked potatoes. No more proper cooking for me this week.’

‘Well, I can recommend where to eat if you want to knock any time.’ Jenny’s now standing. I feel guilty at the hint for her to go. But I’m thinking again of the guestbook. My handwriting. I look down the garden, trying to make sense of it.

‘Seriously. Any questions at all, feel free to knock.’

I turn back to find Jenny leaning in towards me, and I sense from her expression that she may be repeating herself.

‘Sorry. Mind wandering. Just tired.’

‘You need to rest and I have an errand to run. I’ll leave you in peace.’

I nod and wave her off as she makes her way back across to her own property. She hurries inside with the tray, then reappears and heads to her car, waving again. I watch her pull out on to the lane and wait until the car’s out of sight before hobbling back inside.

I feel tired and decide on another lie-down before finishing the supper. It takes me a while to navigate the stairs, and just a few minutes after I settle on the bed, there’s yet another knock on the door. I bristle. Tired of all this now. It can’t be Jenny back. She mentioned an errand. I think of the previous incidents of knocking yet no one there, and start to feel not just cross but uneasy again. I get up gingerly and head downstairs, step by careful step.

It sounded like the front door again so I shuffle across the kitchen, leaning on the worktop by the sink to try to make out who it is through the gaps in the new blind. Three figures. A flash of red hair. But hang on . . . it can’t be.

I use my crutch to step, hop to the door and open it, heart pumping.

‘Amy,’ I say. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

PART TWO

CHAPTER 24

BEFORE

Hannah

I met Amy amid the chaos of swimming classes at our local pool.

We were like a pair of paranoid twins, watching our children through the viewing pane as staff shouted encouragement from the side of the pool, all the children a blur of floats and armbands, goggles and splashing.

Lily hated the lessons back then. A battle between us every single week.

Why do I have to go? It’s scary.

It’s so important to learn to swim, Lily. You’re doing great.

I’m not. I hate it!

It’s true that she was struggling, certainly no water baby. I wished I’d started her even earlier, but there had been a long waiting list. The best reviews of all the classes locally. The teachers were all incredibly patient and kind and so I refused to let Lily bail, watching week on week with my stomach clenched tight, praying for progress.

It didn’t help that I was on my own with the whole swimming drive. The fact you never learned to swim well was precisely why I didn’t want Lily to grow up with the same fear of water. Hand on heart, it tied me up in knots, battling with her over the lessons, but I felt it was my responsibility to see this through.

That first week I met Amy, it was borderline spooky. I was leaning forward in my seat to get the best possible view of Lily, eyes fixed on her to make sure she was waving not drowning, when I noticed this woman next to me in an identical pose. She had this extraordinary long red hair and was leaning right forward, just like me, shoulders tight, equally mad eyes and sipping nervously at her takeaway coffee.

‘Stressful, isn’t it?’ I ventured. ‘Or is it just me?’

‘Nightmare!’ she replied. ‘My George hates it. Look – he’s the one in the green armbands, sulking on the side. Refusing to get back in.’

I glanced back through the window to see a boy a tad younger than Lily, six or maybe seven, with a shock of curly, dark hair, sitting on the side, po-faced – an assistant trying hard to coax him back into the water. So the dark hair must be from the dad. But the curls definitely from his mum.

‘I’m Amy by the way.’ She spun me a glance before turning straight back to her child.

‘Hannah.’

‘I should get a discount. He spends more time out of the water than in it. I’d throw in the towel, but they have to learn, don’t they?’ She turned back to me again, eyes uncertain. ‘They do have to learn, right? I mean – am I mad here? Is it cruel? Do you think I should give up for a bit? Give it a break?’ There was a desperation in her voice I recognised.

‘No, no. I agree with you. My Lily has the same problem.’ I looked back at the pool. ‘She’s the one in the bright pink swimming costume. Hates it. They’re good teachers and she’s slowly getting better. I should have started her younger. I was told that if we let them give up, it’s even harder to get them back in.’

‘Yeah. You’re right. The teachers are good. Only reason I keep the faith.’ She let out a huff. ‘Parenting. No one tells you, huh?’

‘Suspect humanity would die out if we were warned.’

She laughed. I laughed. And then she looked at me with that familiar parental expression. A mix of guilt and exhaustion.

‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ I said, realising I was hoping to buddy up, sick of being the lone paranoid mother. There were a few other parents from Lily’s school, but I wasn’t tight with anyone and most of the others moved straight to the café to read or catch up on their phones.

‘We’re new to the area,’ she said. ‘Which is why the whole swimming thing is so last-minute-dot-com. I got lucky. A cancellation bumped us up the waiting list. We’ve just changed sessions. George was Tuesdays at first but it clashed with judo.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Couldn’t make him give up judo. And wouldn’t let him give this up, so I had to wait to swap. What a merry-go-round, eh?’

I took in her face then. Clear, pale skin and grey eyes with that fabulous red hair. Pre-Raphaelite. Like something from a painting. But she had dark shadows under her eyes, just like me, and I was about to ask another question when the whistle blew to signal the end of the lesson.

‘Oh Lord,’ she said, standing quickly. ‘Cue changing-room hell.’ She picked up a rucksack from the floor.

‘And will I see you next week, Amy?’

‘Yes. Dreading it already.’ She spun her head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean you.’

‘No offence taken.’

She looked relieved and found a small smile. ‘Good luck in there, Hannah.’ She dropped her voice, tilting her head to signal the changing rooms. It made me laugh again, and I followed her to the mayhem of curtains, lockers and swimming costumes melded to small children screaming about shampoo in their eyes, with a strong sense that something good was beginning.

CHAPTER 25

DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

‘Amy! Adam!’ Your face as you walk back in the door alongside Lily is as shocked as mine that first moment I opened the door. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Nice to see you too, buddy.’ Adam moves across to do that male bear-hug, back-patting thing. Slap, slap, slap.

‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s just a bit of a shock, mate. I didn’t know you were—’ You look at me for help, eyebrows high.

‘They’re on their way to Rock and decided to call in en route. I’ve brought them up to date on the wife-beating.’ I lift up my leg with its plastic boot and circle the air with my crutch. You all laugh. I laugh too, but I can hear that the pitch is too high. Awkward. And I can’t even look Amy in the eye. Or Adam. I think of the terrible argument with Amy the last time we met and feel sick.

‘Right. So – how long do we have?’ You’re flushing a little as you speak, asking exactly the same question I did. ‘You can stay for drinks? Yes?’ You start glancing around the kitchen. I imagine you’re wondering what to offer. Snacks? Supper? You widen your eyes at me but I can’t help you.

Over recent months, Amy and Adam have become fast friends. Probably our closest friends now. But no way can I cope with this. Them. Here. Now.

‘Where’s George?’ Lily asks suddenly.

‘In the garden, sweet pea. He’s got a new frisbee.’

‘Great.’

Lily disappears to find her friend and I see the tiny crumb of comfort: company for our daughter as I struggle with how to get them to go.

The truth is we worked so well as two couples when I thought we were on the same page. Happily married. Devoted but sleep-deprived. Your affair was like a bomb going off, not just for our relationship but all those around us. Amy especially. She became paranoid about Adam. Seemed to think I was sending the wrong signal to other husbands by taking you back.

It shocked me at first – her disapproval. As if it was suddenly my job to protect other people’s marriages. That’s what our terrible row was about . . . The terrible spiral that followed.

‘So, Rock, eh?’ You frown. ‘Trust you guys.’ We’ve had a million kitchen supper conversations about how much we prefer the Lizard. Less trendy than their beloved Rock, but so lovely. ‘But we’re hardly en route?’

‘Yes, well. Let my wife confess.’ Adam takes a slug from the beer I served earlier, and lifts it as a signal for Amy to continue.

She blushes. ‘OK, OK, so I completely messed up the dates. Thought we had the Airbnb from today but turns out we don’t. We’d nearly finished packing before I realised. So we’ve got ourselves a Premier Inn to plug the gap for a couple of days. We’re in Helston. Thought we’d say hi to you guys and check out the Lizard you’re always raving about. No pressure. We don’t expect you to show us round.’

‘Blimey,’ you say. ‘You were lucky to get a booking down here short notice.’

‘Yeah – got very lucky. We thought we’d do St Michael’s Mount and maybe Falmouth as day trips before we move on to Rock.’

‘And how did you find us out here?’ You’re again looking at me, apparently wondering if I secretly invited them.

‘You kidding us?’ Amy’s rolling her eyes. ‘Hannah has been boring the world for weeks about this place. Owl Cottage this. Owl Cottage that. I found the cottage online and we decided to surprise you. Adam’s idea. Bit naughty, really, but I did try to message. You must absolutely say if this is too cheeky of us.’

‘Not at all. It’s just we don’t have food in. No takeaways in these parts. I’m worrying about grub actually . . .’ Again you raise your eyebrows at me but I say nothing to help you. ‘We were just going to have baked spuds. Hannah’s had quite the day.’ You flush. I feel my face flush too. ‘How about we have some drinks here. And we find a pub recommendation for you for later from our visitor book.’

‘You trying to get rid of us, buddy?’ Adam teases.

‘No, no. Course not.’ You laugh.

‘Good. Because it’s Amy’s turn to drive, so I’m up for a few bevvies and a steak.’ Adam swigs on his beer. ‘So here’s my plan. Forget the baked potatoes. I say we all go to the pub. Our treat – no arguments. Supper on us.’

‘Good plan,’ Amy says. ‘Give Hannah a break.’ She’s staring at me and I’m wondering about her strange call when I was in the hospital.

I’ve found out something . . . About Sam . . .

For a moment, I consider playing the foot card. Sod the rudeness. Just say I’m too tired for the pub.

‘Right,’ Adam says. ‘So, your visitor book. Where’s that? Let’s see which pub can squeeze us all in?’ He’s getting out his phone.

‘Not sure,’ you say. ‘Hannah. Any idea where the book is?’

‘Coffee table, sitting room. With the guestbook,’ I say, my heart pounding as I remember the message. My handwriting. Praying that you don’t check both books.

You disappear to the other room with Adam close behind, while I ask Amy about their place in Rock. ‘Sounds incredible.’ I’m not even listening. On automatic pilot.

And then Amy suddenly leans in closer to me. ‘I really need to talk to you, Hannah. Just the two of us. That’s why we’re here.’ I feel a shudder, but before she can say any more, you reappear from the sitting room with the cottage handbook. Amy pulls back and moves to the kitchen window to check on the children in the garden.

‘They OK?’ I ask, my heart still racing. What is it she has to say to me?

‘Yes. But there’s someone coming to the door. Motorcycle courier, by the look of it.’

I frown. Why would anyone be delivering to us?

We wait a moment and then Amy opens the door for me. A helmeted guy explains that he has a parcel for next door – Jenny Mahone – but there’s no one home. Would I mind taking it in for them?

Amy swings her head for my response. I ask the courier to hold on a minute, a new thought landing: maybe the previous mysterious knocking was simply over parcels. Entirely innocuous. Just impatient couriers disappearing before I answered.

‘Sure. We’ll take it,’ I say. ‘But can you put a note through the door to say it’s here?’

The courier nods and takes a photograph of the box after handing it to Amy.

‘You sure about this, honey?’ Amy’s shaking the box. No sound. ‘Not certain I’d say yes.’

‘But you take in parcels for me at home all the time.’

‘That’s different. Reciprocal. And we’re mates. This is on holiday.’

‘It’s fine. I don’t mind.’ I watch the courier retreat as Amy closes the door. ‘The woman – Jenny – she’s very nice, actually. I met her properly earlier. She’s popped out.’

‘Fair enough, but we don’t want you hobbling about carrying parcels, Hannah. That’s another accident waiting to happen.’ She looks up at me with concern and I feel a sweep of confusion and guilt and dread as I take in Amy’s expression. The worry. The care. I get a flashback to that time she came to the hospital with me when Lily had what I thought was just a bad cold. Turned out to be an asthma attack. Amy called it, not me.

And her shock but kindness too when I told her about your affair. Taking over the school run when I returned from my mother’s. Her world-famous cottage pies on the doorstep. I do see that Amy’s Catholic fury at you is actually loyalty to me. And family. And everything that I thought we had. That’s what our fight was really about: her trying to protect me. And marriage. And expectations. Is it really so much to ask that they keep it in their pants, Hannah?

I think of all the terrible things that Amy doesn’t know and I want to cry. Run. Be anywhere but here. I look at her face and it is booming in my head.

I . . . kissed . . . your . . . husband. And the shame and the hypocrisy and the true horror of my new reality makes me feel faint.

‘How about you wait for the neighbour to collect it, or get Sam to take it? Yes, Hannah? You listening, honey?’

‘Yeah. Sorry, sorry. That’s all fine. I just need to stretch this leg. Feel a bit weird.’ I shuffle in my seat so I can move the bad leg to a straighter position while Amy puts the box on the floor alongside Lily’s buckets and spades beneath the coat hooks. I can’t help thinking of the dead owlets on the doormat nearby. I feel stressed and still wish more than anything that I could find a way to make everyone go. Leave me alone.

But for all that, I can’t help the paradox. This growing curiosity. Wondering what fresh new hell awaits.

What is it that Amy knows about you?

CHAPTER 26

BEFORE

Hannah

The truth, looking back, is the four of us fell too quickly into the cliché of the ‘smug married’.

I realise now that I was lonelier than I admitted when I met Amy. And I took to her so hard and fast, that I did everything I could to get you and Adam to buddy up too. It worked. You both played golf. You both loved history. You both loved teasing us about the same things. Our to-do lists. Repeating ourselves. We only repeat ourselves because you don’t listen the first time. The bottom line is I loved how well we got on. I loved how we all seemed to be in the same boat – that same busy and tiring chapter. I loved our Friday-night kitchen suppers and our National Trust outings and our long, lazy barbecues on Sundays.

I hadn’t even realised how much I missed having a tribe until Amy and Adam came into our lives. I guess my loneliness had just crept up on me after Lily was born. We’d made a few new friends through her playgroup and later school. But I didn’t really click tight with anyone. Never seemed to have the time to nurture a new circle. Not properly.

Our long-term friends had just slowly fallen away – either because they didn’t have children or precisely because they did. For most pals, a second child quickly followed the first, presenting years of sleepless nights. And unavailability. Geography didn’t help. Some friends were still battling away in London while others had gone to the opposite extreme, namely opposite ends of the country. Could I face piling the car high after a long week to visit a friend a hundred miles away? No, I couldn’t.

Juggling my fledgling business and motherhood was still so much harder than I’d imagined, and I barely had time for my own little family, let alone anyone else’s.

Of course, we talked, sometimes argued, over our options in those very difficult early years. You seemed at one point to think I should park the interior design business until Lily was in school. We didn’t need the money, and sometimes when you reminded me of that, it made everything somehow feel worse, not better. I watched other women working so hard for so little and I didn’t want to be this spoiled, silver-spoon gal.

Others suggested a nanny. Why not? But the fact I didn’t have to work somehow made me guilt-trip more over the idea of handing my precious child over to childcare when I didn’t technically need to.

And yet I loved my work, so why should I have to give it up? Not for one moment did you ever consider giving up the law when Lily was small. Technically we could both have just thrown in the towel and lived off the trust fund for a while. But what would that have meant? Where would life’s purpose be? You loved your job and I loved mine and we’d both agreed to look on Dad’s money as a bonus – endgame security, if you like – and not an excuse to sit on our arses.

So Amy and Adam turned up at a time when everything felt stretched and there was not just a vacancy for the like-minded but a massive, gaping hole.

I clearly remember the first time we went round to their house for supper. Amy and I had enjoyed several coffees by that time as well as the weekly swim horror. We’d taken the kids to a few play zones together at weekends when you were tied up with work. And I just loved how easily and quickly we clicked; how almost alarmingly honest she was.

Plus the teasing. Amy was always teasing me.

‘Don’t you just long for them to be bigger, Hannah?’ she whispered to me once as we stood alongside a high slide while Lily and George took turns. Lily then George. Lily then George.

I thought for a moment. I thought about the repetitive nature of it all. Get up too early. Go to bed too early. Lily then George. Lily then George.

‘My mother says we shouldn’t wish the time away. That it goes too fast – Lily. On your bottom. It’s too high for head first.’

‘All right, Pollyanna. But I can’t be your friend if you can’t be honest. Are you – George, I’ve warned you. You wait until Lily gets to the bottom. Are you truthfully saying that you never long for Lily to be, I don’t know, just bigger? Sorted. Not just able to manage slides, but out of the bloody house more?’

‘Amy!’

‘What?’ She made a mock expression of horror, then moved closer to the slide. ‘George. I mean it – wait!’

‘OK, OK,’ I allowed. ‘Yes. All right. Sometimes.’ And we both laughed really hard because she was the only one who could make me admit the bad stuff out loud.

She rolled the joke forward at that first kitchen supper.

‘I call her Pollyanna, which I mean in the nicest possible way, Hannah. More wine, Sam?’

You were laughing as you stretched out your glass.

‘I am not Pollyanna.’

‘You are, actually,’ you said. ‘And I’m in love with you, so I mean that in a nice way too.’ You kissed me on the cheek.

‘How am I Pollyanna?’

‘Bet you have cloth napkins,’ Amy said. ‘And still do dinner parties?’ Winking at me as she said this.

‘She does. And we do,’ you said. ‘But not very often because it takes her three days to recover.’

‘Whereas my lovely wife only serves cottage pie or fish pie and, as lovely as they are’ – Adam was staring at the large dish of very delicious cottage pie on the table between us all – ‘I sometimes long for food that does not involve mashed potato.’

Amy punched her husband’s arm. ‘So take me out.’

‘What’s that?’ Adam feigned bemusement. ‘Because if it involves the lesser spotted babysitter species, we all know it’s not going to happen.’ He slugged more wine. ‘And if by some miracle we do find someone, George is guaranteed to projectile vomit before we reach the end of the drive.’

‘Do you really think I’m a bit Pollyanna?’ I said as we lay in bed later that night.

‘And now you’re really turning me on,’ you said, rolling on to your side to look at me as I laughed.

‘Did you like them?’ I said, stroking your nose.

‘I did actually. I get what you mean now. They’re a bit different, aren’t they? Very relaxed company. Adam’s very dry.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Because I want to invite them round to ours.’

‘Dinner party or kitchen supper?’ you teased, and I tried to punch your arm but you were too fast, grasping both my hands in yours. And you held my hands up over my head and we paused.

‘Kitchen supper,’ I said with my chin tilted up. ‘Lowering the culinary bar sounds one hundred per cent fine by me.’

And so it began. Kitchen suppers in turns most Fridays. And for a while, I had never eaten so much shepherd’s pie.

And honestly, never been happier.

CHAPTER 27

DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

The start of the journey to the pub is a blur, my head booming with what Amy’s just told me. I can’t believe it, don’t want to believe it, but I cannot yet figure out how to process it, let alone begin to disprove it.

The problem is we were interrupted by you and Adam before she could say much, so my head’s swimming with questions.

It could just be gossip. Jealousy? Gold-digging? I find myself involuntarily putting my hand to my chest. Pressing hard. I need a lot more information and to do my own digging before I can decide what I think. What the hell to do.

I turn to take in your profile with all the questions still firing. Little explosions in my tired brain. Are you capable of this? Have I been blind all these years? Naive about you. About men in general. About everything?

I remember a scene, visiting my mother before our wedding – that dreadful discussion in her garden about a pre-nup. I remember my complete and utter faith in you back then, and would give anything to undo everything that’s happened and have that again. That belief.

‘You OK? Leg too painful?’ You glance at me, then turn your eyes back to the road and something unexpected happens. Something magnificent. Like fireworks when you don’t expect them.

If I were religious, I might see it as a sign. Hell, maybe I do want it to be some kind of sign. A sudden beam of light through all this darkness.

It happens about halfway along the avenue of trees that line the small lane from our cottage to the main road. The trees form a complete canopy, like a tunnel or an arch. It’s spectacular on any day, but suddenly, to my astonishment, an owl has swooped through a gap in the foliage right in front of our car and is flying ahead of us as if leading the way.

‘Good Lord,’ you say. ‘Look, Lily. Through the windscreen.’ You spin your head to check she’s listening. She’s not. ‘Lily. You need to look up. Out the front of the car.’

‘Wow.’ I just watch the bird, mesmerised. ‘I simply can’t believe it.’ The horror of everything else in this moment is forgotten. It feels unreal, like a clip from a film. The bird’s wings hardly moving. ‘Is it gliding?’

‘No idea. Take a picture, quick. Quick. No one will believe this. I wonder if the guys can see this from back there.’ You swing your head 180 degrees, then straight back. ‘Message them.’

I take out my phone and take shot after shot. It’s just before 7 p.m. so not dark yet. Is the bird just moving to the best hunting territory? The trees are dense on either side and the owl’s large. He or she seems intent on flying beneath the full length of the canopy of trees ahead of the car, until it opens out after about a quarter of a mile.

It’s a quarter of a mile I will never forget. It’s a quarter of a mile I will call up over and over in the future, to soothe myself through all the unimaginable, dark times to come.

But for now, in the car and in the moment, despite driving as slowly as you dare, it’s over much too quickly. As we finally emerge from the natural tunnel of green, the magnificent bird suddenly soars, sweeps to the left and is gone.

It’s ridiculous but I feel almost tearful. The bird’s sudden absence every bit as intense as its presence.

‘Goodness.’ I still have the phone in my hand. ‘That’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

‘But what about me, Mummy?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You like the bird more than me?’

‘No, no. Course not.’ I’m whispering. The bird’s spell broken. ‘I mean apart from you, my darling. I mean it’s the most beautiful non-human thing I’ve ever seen.’

‘Well, I thought it was going to attack the car,’ Lily adds. ‘It was too big.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was big, but it was just moving from one place to another. Wasn’t worried about us at all.’ I’m still scrolling through my pictures.

‘Did you get some good shots?’ You keep your eyes on the road but sound animated, checking the driver’s mirror to ensure Amy and Adam are keeping up.

‘A few. Some better than others.’ The truth, as I skim through the many photographs, is that I’m disappointed. Again – like fireworks. So much better in the flesh than in the frame.

I try to find the best shot and hold it up to you. You smile and I take in your profile. Your jawline. Your best angle. And all the confused feelings that go with staring at you these days bring me crashing to earth. The magic of the moment with the owl just dust now.

Have I always been wrong about you, Sam? Was it only ever the money?

And I wish, just for a second, that I could fly away too; swoop to the left and soar overhead. All my doubts and my heartache and this new and terrible accusation left far, far below on the ground. But it’s no good. The moment gone. The elation over the owl is lost completely, and we finish the drive in silence.

The pub turns out to be a good recommendation. Picture-perfect. Large car park.

‘Well, this looks hopeful.’ Adam is looking up at the thatched roof as we all climb from the two cars. ‘Surprised you guys haven’t been here before.’

‘Please tell me you haven’t been a martyr – cooking,’ Amy adds as she steps alongside her husband, his arm slipping around her waist.

‘She has,’ you say. ‘And I’m entirely at fault for letting her. But we’re eating out from here on.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind cooking on holiday. Not in such a lovely cottage – or rather, I didn’t mind until this.’ I lift my crutch and try to steady my voice. ‘Very happy to be spoiled from here.’

‘So what did you think about the owl?’ you ask them.

‘To be honest, we couldn’t really get a good view from our car. But the picture you sent us was amazing.’ Adam’s marching to the entrance as he speaks. ‘Right, so let’s make sure we’ve got a table with room for Hannah’s leg stretched out. And let’s see what ales they have. You’re driving back. Yes, Amy?’

‘I lost the toss.’ Amy is looking at me as she speaks, but all I’m thinking about is how the hell I’m going to get through this meal.

‘OK, kids.’ I try to find a smile for Lily and George. ‘Let’s get you inside and see what’s on the menu.’

‘I want chips.’ George is kicking a stone as he walks.

‘You can’t have chips with every meal,’ Adam chastises.

‘Why not?’ you say. ‘I do. Don’t listen to your father, George. It’s a holiday. Chips are compulsory.’

Adam moves fast, jostling you into a sort of rugby tackle, and the two of you horseplay for a while to make the children laugh. Amy’s laughing too, and I feel detached and sad and very stressed.

Can I really do this? But then I catch sight of Lily beaming, and realise that I have no choice.

Inside we settle the children at a large table and sort drink and food orders before I glance at you. ‘Just need the loo; will you watch the children?’ I then turn to Amy and widen my eyes.

At first she just frowns. I widen my eyes again.

‘Oh. Me too for the loo, actually.’ She stands. ‘Back in a moment, kids. Be careful with the drinks when they arrive, OK?’

The ladies’ loo is at the far end of a dark, narrow corridor, and I wait until we’re inside, having checked the cubicles for listeners, before I challenge her.

‘So what are you saying exactly, Amy? That this bloody woman is now going to the police?’ I feel almost sick. ‘She must be lying.’

‘All I’m saying is that’s the rumour, Hannah. I’m not saying I believe it. I wish I hadn’t found out, to be honest. I mean – I don’t want to believe it, of course I don’t, but then I didn’t believe he would ever—’ She lets out a huff of air. ‘Look. I just felt that, as your friend, I had to at least tell you. Warn you what’s on the grapevine. And you wouldn’t take my calls, even answer my texts, so I didn’t know what else to do.’

We both stand in silence a moment, me with one hand on the handbasin to take the weight off my foot. My head spinning.

My doubts about my husband have spiralled to a dark place at Owl Cottage. But I cannot make this leap. My husband accused of this?

Amy has a friend who’s a legal PA. She’s freelance and often does holiday cover at Sam’s practice. Back at the cottage, Amy told me that this friend had picked up the gossip that the colleague Sam had an affair with is changing her story. Hell-bent on causing serious trouble.

When the whole thing came out, you told me the firm stepped in – HR involved – and brokered an agreement. She left her job voluntarily. Moved to a branch of the firm up north to avoid the fallout. I checked it all out on her Facebook page. It fitted. And it reassured me she was out of the picture.

But Amy says this woman’s now pushing the company for damages, claiming she was forced out of her job; that she had wanted to stay and it wasn’t fair – it was all rushed through, just because you had a more senior role than her.

Amy says the gossip’s taken a more serious turn. The woman’s new claim to her friends is that the sex wasn’t truly consensual. That you took advantage, as the woman’s senior colleague. She’s threatening to go to the police.

‘She’s trying it on. Gold-digging. Hoping for a pay-off,’ I say. ‘Sam would never—’

We both look at each other and there’s this horrible pause. I take in Amy’s expression and see only suspicion. I should defend you more strongly but feel close to tears because I don’t know what to believe of you anymore.

‘So has she made this allegation formally. To HR?’

‘I don’t know. Just talking to friends so far, I think. Stirring. Making threats.’

‘Look. He just wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t,’ I say again. Amy doesn’t answer and I realise how afraid I am that, if I lose it here, I have no idea where it will lead. It feels somehow that if I crumble in front of Amy, I will be making a choice to believe that this gossip could be true. And if I let myself take even a small step towards believing that, I will simply have to leave you. To give up any final, dwindling faith I have in who you are – and with that, any future for us. And what will that mean for Lily? Our sad and troubled Lily, who’s inventing invisible friends and may or may not be ripping her favourite toys into bits.

‘We’d better get back,’ I say suddenly.

‘Adam didn’t want us to come. He said I should mind my own. But you’re my friend, Hannah. I had to tell you. I thought it would be better to hear this from me. Face-to-face.’

Again I don’t answer. I think of Adam. The kiss. The hypocrisy; the horror of it. I feel unsteady again as Amy looks at my foot in its plastic support boot. ‘So do you really need the loo, Hannah? Can you manage in here?’

‘Yes, yes. But I’m fine, honestly.’ I start edging towards one of the cubicles.

‘Can we talk some more later?’

I turn. ‘Yes. I suppose. Whatever.’

Amy pauses, her eyes darkening. ‘Look. There’s no easy way to say this, but the truth is I came here because I thought you might want to consider leaving with us. Come to Rock. Or let us drive you home. Or call your mum? I wanted to at least offer that. The option to give yourself some space to take this in.’

‘What? Why would I do that? No, no.’ My head’s still spinning with the shock of this. To leave would be too final. I want to investigate myself first. Find out if this woman is a gold digger. A liar. And no way can I leave with them.

I think of my tablets. My dreams. I want to say more, but a young woman suddenly comes into the room and we both turn our heads.

‘Enough now,’ I say, and then Amy steps back to let the woman pass, all the while staring down at my protective boot.

‘But we need to talk. I’m really worried about you, Hannah. I just wanted to offer you the option of some space.’ She widens her eyes. ‘And you still haven’t told me exactly how you hurt your foot.’

CHAPTER 28

DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

I will come to spend a long time picking over my emotions on the drive back to the cottage.

It’s hard to nail how big a part hindsight will come to play in this story. I’m not the sort of person who believes in a sixth sense or premonitions or any of that jazz, but I swear that in the moment and on the drive, the most powerful sense as I sit in the passenger seat after that conversation with Amy is one of foreboding.

It’s not just the worry about what you might have done already. It’s the sense that something very, very bad is yet to come. I feel dread because I don’t know what it’s going to be.

It builds slowly. At first in the car, leaving the pub, I feel the contrast of extreme relief – just glad to wave off Amy and Adam and George back to their hotel. I’d been worrying they might want to come back for another drink.

It got tense between Adam and Amy after our food. He nipped out to get cigarettes from a garage we’d passed, which made Amy furious. She wants him to give up. Can you not manage one evening? A few hours without a cigarette? And you’ve had two pints already, Adam. I thought I was driving us.

Look – we need petrol anyway. I’m doing you a favour. Save us stopping on the way back. I won’t be long.

In the event, he was a while – bought cigars as a treat. Amy livid. You tried to play peacemaker and I was worried you might invite them to crash at the cottage, but I dropped as many hints as I dared about being tired. So, thankfully it’s just the three of us travelling back now. All that stress and their bickering behind us.

The truth is I’m desperate for privacy, time to myself to do some digging on Sophie’s social media profiles. Sophie. The name I try not to say. The wretched woman – younger and so much prettier than me – that you had the bloody fling with. Ever since I decided to give this marriage another shot, I’ve tried to block her name, to erase it from my brain. The counselling taught me that even thinking of her name stirs up all the silt of anger from the bottom of the river, making everything around me muddy. Murky.

Jessica told me it was important to let go of the past. That this was essential to help the healing.

So – yes. I’ve tried hard to wean myself off stalking Sophie online, which I’m embarrassed to say I did continually in the early days. Checking her pictures on Instagram. Checking her Twitter feed and the Facebook page she hardly ever uses. I’ve genuinely been so much better about this lately, but the gossip shared by Amy is too much. Suddenly I’m like an addict again. Desperate for a fix. Itching for privacy so I can check what she’s been posting lately, analyse her messages and her pictures for any clue relevant to what Amy’s told me.

To be honest, I’m hoping more than anything to find something to disprove the gossip. To confirm my suspicion that this woman is simply after money now, trying to bleed some compensation from her company because she was the one who had to move jobs.

The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

But if it’s true that she’s bent on stirring up trouble for money, why haven’t you come clean and told me? Warned me? We’re supposed to have reached this place after counselling where honesty’s our new pact – the bottom line to our new beginning. Isn’t that what Jessica’s been preaching from the off? Turning a new page and starting over.

But as we reach the canopy of trees where we saw the owl earlier, I turn to take in your profile and all the relief over Amy and Adam’s departure is gone, and instead I feel this wave of dread. Foreboding – yes; as if I know deep down that something terrible is over the hill.

Maybe it’s just my foot hurting. The withdrawal from the tablets. Or, more likely, the pressure of finding out the fallout from your affair is far from over; that this gossip, even if it’s based on lies and greed, could destroy us still.

We park the car and you lift a very sleepy Lily from the back seat, leaning her into your shoulder. ‘I’ll take her up. Just teeth, I think. Is that OK? She can shower in the morning.’

‘Sure. If you don’t mind?’

‘No. I’ve got this.’

‘Where am I?’ Lily opens her eyes, her voice groggy.

‘It’s OK, sweetie. We’re back at the cottage. Dad will take you up to bed.’ I lean in to kiss her cheek, smoothing her hair.

You head towards the garden with Lily, and that’s when I notice that the neighbour’s light is on in her sitting room, curtains still open, and I suddenly remember the parcel. I don’t say anything to you because I don’t want a lecture over juggling my foot and the crutch and the package.

But the truth is I don’t want Jenny knocking early in the morning, and I feel a bit guilty that the package might be important and we’ve been out, so may have missed her calling by to collect it. I decide that I’ll sort the parcel now, and when Lily’s settled, I’ll take my phone into the bathroom, pretending to have a soak, so that I can do some investigating online into what Amy’s told me.

I need to do this – work out what I truly make of this – before I even consider confronting you.

I can hear you talking gently to Lily, encouraging her into her pyjamas, as I quietly scoop up the package and let myself back out into the garden to move down the path, the parcel under my left arm, taking it slowly with my crutch. It’s awkward, managing the gate and the parcel and the crutch, and I have a moment when I realise why Amy warned me against this. The last thing I need is another fall, so I take my time, step by careful step, and it’s fine.

I leave the gate open behind me and am soon standing on the doorstep, realising suddenly that I don’t know if it’s too late – after 10 p.m. – to knock. I frown. Should I have left this until tomorrow after all? But then I remember the curtains open and light on, so she’s obviously up. And she mentioned insomnia. Also, she may need the parcel.

I ring the doorbell and wait. No answer. I try again. Nothing. I step back and gingerly step, hop, step, hop my way to the right to look again into the sitting room, hoping to maybe catch her eye through the window.

I can see that the television’s on. Good. So she’s definitely up. But there’s no movement. She’s probably a night owl, trying to go to bed as late as possible to manage the insomnia. I’m just deciding whether to try the doorbell again when I move further to the right to see something in the hallway, beyond the sitting room door. I can’t see clearly, but it’s enough to sense something is wrong.

I stretch even further to the right for a better view. A part of me expects Jenny to emerge from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand. But no. Adrenaline shoots through my body. No mistake.

I can just see feet in slippers, stretched out on the floor.

I shuffle as fast as I can back to the front door and this time try the handle. It’s not locked. One turn of the round brass handle, cold in my hands, and I’m inside.

Jenny’s lying on her front, halfway down the hallway. There’s a beat of pure shock. I can’t move. Don’t want to touch her.

You need to let go of Daddy now . . .

I close my eyes and try to breathe, stretching my arm to touch the wall to steady myself. I open my eyes and take in the position of the body. The colour of the skin.

I turn my head back to the door. Should I ring you? Can I manage this on my own with my foot? What to do? What to do? I think of Lily. No. Must not involve Lily. And so I move as swiftly as my foot will allow to her side. I can’t bend down properly so I have to sit down instead alongside, both feet stretched out, so that I can check for her pulse.

I feel this chill pass right through me as I touch her flesh, the sensation confirming what I already fear. That it’s too late. I move my hand to a different position on her neck and try again for a pulse. I wait – nothing, nothing. I’m trying her wrist as I take out my mobile, dialling 999.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I call first for an ambulance and then ask for the police too.

Later I will be asked how I knew that I needed the police as well as the ambulance. What made you suspicious? I will find it difficult to answer this, but a muddle of pictures and memories are coursing through me in the moment. The strange knocks on the door. The toys. The ‘power cut’ that wasn’t a power cut at all.

Instinct. Panic. And something else, too.

I feel tears on my cheeks as I’m reassured an ambulance is on its way. I tell them that I did a first-aid course. ‘Should I do CPR?’ They say this is a good idea if I’m able, and so I pull myself awkwardly on to my two knees so I can start.

It’s terribly difficult to turn her over. At first I just can’t manage it, but I remember what I was shown on the course. Lifting the arm. Rolling.

At last she’s on her back and I start pumping her chest with the palm of my right hand, the phone now on speaker on the floor.

‘Should I do breaths too? What should I do?’

They count with me. Talk me through it. ‘You’re doing great.’

But it’s a lie. I’m not doing great. Her lips are blue, and when I give the breaths, I feel again that she is gone already. That it’s too late. That I should have called in here earlier.

‘I can’t do this.’

‘I’m right here and you’re doing great. I’ll count for you.’

But her lips are still blue and the flesh on her face feels all wrong. It’s shameful to admit it when this woman needs my help, but the touch of her flesh, cool and yet clammy too, is unpleasant. Unsettling. It takes me back – sucked back, back to a place I absolutely don’t want to go. To the wood long ago, with the owls calling. The cold and the damp.

My father on the ground . . .

I start to feel sick and my hands are shaking so much that I can hardly manage the compressions.

‘I’m sorry. I’m doing it all wrong. I can’t do this. I don’t think I can do this. I’m not helping . . .’

‘Don’t worry. You are helping her. I promise you you’re helping her.’

‘Are the police on the way?’

‘I’ll check. The ambulance is the priority.’ A pause as I pump, and I count. Pump and count. ‘Can I ask why you think the police are needed?’

The first time that’s asked. I can’t answer; can’t explain. Now or later.

I just know, deep to my bones, on the wooden floor of this unfamiliar house, that we very definitely and very badly need the police here.

CHAPTER 29

BEFORE

Hannah

There are many things in this story I will never fully understand, but the one thing I’ve come to trust anew is my instinct. Turns out, it’s much stronger than you know. And when your partner has an affair, you will know before you know.

What I mean by that – and believe me, I’ve read more about this than I care to confess – is that your gut will tell you about the cheating long before you land the evidence.

The interim will almost certainly be spent with the cheater accusing you of paranoia, batting your suspicions right back at you like an expert tennis player dealing with your very best serves. You will end up with your head spinning until everything feels back to front, and you will be wrong-footed, persuaded to feel guilty yourself for your lack of trust.

You really think I have time for an affair? Are you kidding me? You need to listen to yourself. Seriously . . .

I started to suspect you were straying a few weeks before I found the text from Sophie. It’s hard to explain but there was suddenly this space between us. A disconnect that I couldn’t understand. Some days it was as if you couldn’t look at me, and others, I would catch you staring at me with this really odd expression.

It started after I came back from a school trip with Lily, and of course, I asked you what was wrong. Challenged you. But instead of explaining or reassuring me, you were unusually defensive. Borderline angry. This weird unrest in you seemed to grow and grow. And that’s what made me terrified. Your defensiveness. Trying to make me feel bad for worrying that something was up between us.

I started to have these terrible suspicions that there might be someone else, but when I questioned you, it caused terrible rows. And I ended up feeling bad for accusing you, but with this really strange and hollow feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I just didn’t know what to believe. So in the end, I backed off; tried to give you space. For a while, we hardly talked properly at all. Didn’t sleep together.

And when we finally did have sex again, you were different with me. Did something new. And looking back, that’s when I knew for sure.

Because we were in that exhausted parental phase when we hardly found the time or the energy for sex of any kind, so mixing it up was not really a part of our landscape. One of us was always going to bed early to be up at the crack of dawn with Lily. Or going to bed very late after catching up on paperwork. Being awake in the same bed at the same time was an achievement.

So I had the very strong and instant suspicion that this new twist beneath the sheets was not something new or experimental to please me. But something to do with someone else . . .

‘What was that?’ I asked after a while. ‘That was different.’

And instead of laughing or explaining, you became prickly. That horrible defensive tone I’d come to dread. I remember lying there in bed with this terrible sinking feeling deep inside. In my gut, I knew. But I had no clue how to prove or disprove it, or what the hell to do about it.

Also, because I was having trouble with nightmares over my father’s death at the time, on top of everything else, I felt that I was quite possibly to blame. Our sex life was in its leanest phase, for sure, but I thought that’s all it was. A phase. One small and demanding child. Two large and demanding jobs. Our whole circle of friends were in the same boat, or so I thought. We all joked about it; laughed about it. And I imagined that it would sort itself out once we were both less stretched. Call me naive, but it hadn’t occurred to me that you would go looking elsewhere.

From that point, I was on high alert. I started to get suspicious when you said you were working late. I challenged you. We argued. You accused me of becoming paranoid.

And so the cycle of tussling and niggling truly began. You need to leave this, Hannah. I can’t leave the bloody house without you accusing me of something. It’s like being in prison.

I also started the dangerous game of looking online – googling signs of an affair – and sure enough, defensiveness and new behaviour in bed were right up there. I became more suspicious than ever. I wanted to check your phone and your emails, but you always kept the phone with you and I didn’t know the PIN.

And then you slipped up. One morning you left the phone on the kitchen worktop after making coffee; you must have changed the notification settings, because a message appeared on the screen as a banner alert.

Why are you ghosting me? RING ME. Sophie x

It was like that moment in a film when everything stops. The punch to your insides. The camera zooming in.

I was winded. Unable to breathe. In an instant I knew for sure what I was dealing with; a single message confirming what my gut had been telling me for a while. But for a moment I simply could not move.

You were in the downstairs cloakroom and Lily was in her uniform ready for school. It was my turn to take her. I stood there frozen for a time and then I glanced at the clock, realising that I had precisely twelve minutes to make a decision on how to confront you.

If I took her to school, we could have the row in private. Later. But I would have a whole day on my own, unable to take action. You were due to leave for work literally within minutes. You were working on a big case. No settlement. A crunch time. You were due back in court, so I knew that you couldn’t cry off. Row or no row. Also that you would be home late.

I pressed the screen to see the message a second time, then went across to the playroom door and told Lily that she could put on a Disney film because I was running a bit late.

‘But I’m not allowed TV in the morning.’

‘You are today.’ I put on her favourite film, turned up the volume and shut the door.

Looking back, I should have taken her to school anyway. Parked the drama so that there would be no risk of her overhearing. But it was as if my brain and my insides were melting. All I could think of was my mother’s house.

I knew that I needed to pack and get us there while I was still able to stand. To drive. To function. Pathetic, probably – the complete inability to handle this as an adult on my own. But I knew that I needed my mother. Not just for me, but for Lily too . . .

You came out of the cloakroom and I was holding your phone up.

‘Who’s Sophie? Is she the one you’re sleeping with?’

Your face said it all. Any further denial now pointless.

Maybe you thought I had accessed the phone and seen more than I had. Maybe you feared the message was more explicit than it was. But your face and most especially your eyes told me everything I needed to know.

‘It’s not what you think.’ Your face flushed. Your eyes fixed on mine. ‘A mistake. A moment of madness, Hannah. It was one time.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Someone at work. A big mistake.’

A long pause in which this awful noise came out of my mouth. A splutter . . .

‘I’ve already ended it. It wasn’t an affair. Not a proper affair—’

I was aware that I wanted to explode. To rage. To hit you for the audacity of making me feel I’d imagined this.

You kept talking, but it was as if I had a shield around me, your words not quite making it through.

I thought of Lily in her playroom. Too close. Too small. And so I bolted upstairs to our en-suite bathroom. I locked myself inside and slumped to the floor. Shaking.

Within a few minutes I could hear you come up the stairs and then your voice pleading with me through the door to come out. To let you explain. Begging forgiveness. Pleading insanity. It meant nothing. All the usual cruddy, crass bollocks that anyone who has cheated will try in a bid to dig themselves out of their hole.

I did all my sobbing there on the floor of our en-suite. I don’t know how long. You said you needed to talk, but you had to get to court.

‘Hannah. Please come out. I love you, Hannah. I can’t go. I can’t leave it like this . . .’

But I refused. And in the end, you had to go to work. And as soon as I heard the front door bang shut and the sound of your car reversing from the drive, I unlocked the door and moved into the bedroom. And into a trance.

Fumbling in the wardrobe for a case, and in my head for a story for Lily.

CHAPTER 30

DAY SIX

The police

DI Melanie Sanders is sitting in her temporary and unfamiliar office, glancing from file to picture to clock, when Alison, the younger of the two sergeants on her team, knocks on the glass of the open door.

‘Ma’am.’

‘I’ve told you – I’m fine with Melanie.’

Alison flushes. Melanie presses pause. Word is the inspector currently on sick leave – the very reason she’s here – is old-school. Boss by name and nature. Melanie’s still working out what exactly went wrong under his tenure . . . and how to fix it. ‘But if you prefer ma’am, it’s fine with me.’

Alison smiles. ‘Odd one come in, ma’am. Sorry – Melanie. I’m just off to the break-in at the bookies, so wondered what you think. How you want us to play it, I mean.’ She places a print-off of a report sheet on Melanie’s desk. ‘Sudden death overnight. Hamlet on the coast. We’re waiting on tox report, but woman was diabetic. Aged fifty-eight. Looks like she got her meds wrong. Insulin overdose. Brought on a heart attack.’

‘And so why’s this come our way?’ Melanie glances over the report again. On paper, not their concern. Probably wouldn’t even warrant an inquest.

‘Well, the odd thing is the neighbour who found the victim collapsed was very insistent the police be involved. Uniform had a word, but she seems to be expecting some kind of investigation.’

Now Melanie’s interest is pricked. ‘Why so? What’s she saying?’

‘All a bit of a jumble from the initial interview. She’s not a proper neighbour. On holiday in a rental cottage next door. But she was the one who found the woman collapsed last night. She told the paramedics some odd stuff’s been going on in the neighbourhood. She’s already phoned the front desk a couple of times to see what’s happening. Late last night. And again this morning. Do you want us to park it until the tox report comes in? Bump it back to uniform? Or—’

‘So she’s phoned here more than once?’ Melanie’s mind is whirring.

‘Yes. Wants to know how the “investigation” is going.’ Alison uses her fingers to mime quote marks.

Melanie reads the short report again. Meds found on the kitchen table. Woman found collapsed in the hall. Standard sudden death? Probably. But for some reason, as she tilts her head, something’s firing deep in her brain.

Melanie frowns. Glances at her desk calendar. Wednesday. She ploughed through a mountain of paperwork yesterday; she’s not so busy today. Hasn’t been overly busy since she was sent here as cover ten days ago, to be honest. The team is actually pretty sound – just needs a morale boost. An injection of energy, plus a few new systems in place to get everyone back on track. Firing on all cylinders.

She’s assigned tasks for the day and has itchy feet. Hand on heart, she’s slightly regretting agreeing to the secondment. It was a favour. Cornwall her old patch. Three months, tops, she’s been told. Then back to Devon.

For now she’s staying at her aunt’s holiday cottage and thought it would be a nice change for her family. Tom, her husband, works with a wildlife charity, and has managed to temporarily switch to a project in Cornwall. A nice change for us all is the way she’s been framing it for friends.

Trouble is, it’s much quieter than she expected.

‘How far is this place from here?’ She glances again at the clock on the wall. Melanie has a meet at the coroner’s office mid-afternoon. Routine liaison. More dreaded admin and politics.

‘About twenty minutes. Half an hour if the traffic’s bad.’

‘Tell you what. I’ll pop out myself as a detour before I go to the coroner’s office. Do we have a mobile for this holidaymaker? The one next door.’

‘You’re really going out there yourself, ma’am? Sorry. Melanie.’ Alison looks shocked. ‘It’ll just be a sudden death.’

‘Almost certainly, but nothing ventured.’ Melanie smiles as Alison frowns, clearly unused to her inspector rolling her sleeves up. ‘So we have the number?’

‘Yes. Front desk have it. Do you want me to make sure the woman’s in? Make a call for you first?’

‘Yes. Tell her I’m on my way and put the number and address in the system for me. I’ll head out there now.’ She smiles at the sergeant’s continued surprise. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Let’s just call it good PR, Alison. Community relations. I’m just curious what this woman has to say. I want to know what she means by odd things happening. And I have the time today. You’ll keep me posted on how you get on at the bookies, will you?’

‘Sure.’

Melanie stands. She doesn’t add that her brain is still in overdrive, sifting through all the old cases in her personal memory bank. She narrows her eyes, thinking. There’s a name. Tip of her tongue. Back of her brain. She looks to the left and tries to relax her thoughts, the best strategy for searching.

‘You need anything else, ma’am. Before I head out?’

‘Hilary . . . Bickerman.’ That was the case. Diabetic found dead alone at her house.

‘Sorry, ma’am. I’m not following. Did you say Bickerman?’

‘Ignore me. Thinking out loud. Just remembering an old case. Right – so one thing before you head out. Quick call to the dead woman’s GP, please. Ask if her diabetes was well under control. If she was prone to mistakes. Mishaps with her monitoring. Ring me if they have anything interesting to say.’

‘Will do.’

And then Melanie stands and opens the top drawer to fumble for her car keys, pleased to have an excuse to leave the office earlier than expected.

Bickerman. Assumed diabetic coma. Yes. She’s remembering more details about the case now.

She grabs her keys and realises she’s smiling. A rare sense of excitement. Her brief here is to boost team morale and overhaul the admin, both of which suffered under the DI, on sick leave for stress. But DI Melanie Sanders is a believer in leading by example. Any excuse to break protocol and show up on the front line.

Also, there’s something in the short note on this apparently straightforward death that has caught her eye. She hasn’t quite worked out what exactly has intrigued her and triggered this reaction. Why her brain has made the Bickerman case link.

But she’s very much up for finding out.

CHAPTER 31

DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

‘What do you mean the police are coming here? Why?’ You’re looking at me in abject horror as you speak.

‘Keep your voice down.’ We both glance through the open kitchen door to Lily in the garden, several toys set out on a rug with her morning juice in a bright pink mug and a plate of toast.

‘She can’t hear us.’

‘I think we both know it’s a mistake to think Lily doesn’t hear what’s really going on between us.’

‘Precisely why I don’t want the police here.’ You pause and rake your fingers through your hair. ‘Look. It’s very, very sad about the woman next door.’

‘Jenny. Her name was Jenny.’ I go cold as I say this. The memory of her flesh, clammy as I tried to help her.

‘Desperately sad. And I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Finding her like that. But it’s like I said to you last night: you have no reason to feel guilty. Or involved. It’s a shock, but this is her family’s tragedy. Not ours. I don’t want you to be upset further and I don’t want us to be dragged into anything.’

I look at your strained face, your evident panic, and try to process what I make of this. Are you worried about me? Or something else?

‘So what are you planning to say to them? Can’t you ask them to contact you when you get home? I mean, it’ll be put down as a straightforward sudden death. Like I say – very upsetting and tragic for her family and her friends. But it’s not really anything to do with us.’

‘Well, I think it needs investigating.’

‘Investigating. Why on earth would you say that?’ Your face changes again, the expression morphing from disapproval to true horror now. ‘Is that why they’re really coming here – because you said that to them? That you think there’s something suspicious?’

I flush. Even now I don’t know why my gut is telling me that what happened next door doesn’t feel right. All I do know is I want to bump this to the police. Make it their problem, not mine. Let them figure it out. For Jenny, and for her family too.

‘Wasn’t it her diabetes? Triggered a heart attack? Isn’t that what the paramedics thought?’

‘Possibly. Probably. But I don’t know. It’s odd, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s odd? Weird stuff going on here. Someone knocking on our door and disappearing. We have a supposed power cut and I get hurt.’ I lift my plastic boot to underline my point. ‘But it turns out it probably wasn’t a power cut. And then our neighbour ends up dead.’

‘Seriously? You’re seriously putting those things together?’ You scrape your fingers through your hair yet again, a signal of complete exasperation. And then you close your eyes as if regrouping. Or thinking up some excuse to pacify me. I can’t decide which these days.

‘So what exactly are you planning to say to the police, Hannah?’ Your eyes are open again but I can’t read you.

‘Only the truth. That I think someone may have been hanging around here these past few days. That we’ve had weird stuff going on. The dead owlets for starters—’

‘And what about the toys? I do hope you’re not planning to mention the toys. To drag Lily into this?’

I turn again to take in our daughter’s frame out on the lawn. For a moment, I’m speechless. To drag Lily into this.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put it that way, Hannah.’

I don’t answer, terrified of losing it. ‘I didn’t drag Lily into anything. I wasn’t the one who—’

I clamp my mouth shut. You meet my gaze and don’t reply.

Truth is I don’t want a fight; what I really want is some more space, away from you. For the first time I wonder if Amy was right after all. Whether I should have called Mum. Got away. Taken more time out to investigate.

What I need above all right now is the space to go back online to check Sophie’s social media accounts again. I haven’t found anything helpful yet because I was too upset and exhausted after liaising with the paramedics and then the police last night.

And what I really want immediately is the police to help me nail whether something bad is going on here separately from us – by which I mean nothing to do with you, despite my suspicions. And nothing to do with our family. Some outsider, some weirdo targeting us and then our neighbour. Maybe the tricky nephew Jenny mentioned. Is that what this is?

A hope deep down that I’ve got everything wrong and we are separate from all of this.

And sure – I do feel stressed myself about speaking to the police again, but I feel that I owe it to Jenny. She seemed a nice woman. She seemed totally well. What if the weird stuff does have something to do with her death? Is evidence. Important.

For a moment, I feel a fresh but familiar wave of anxiety sweeping through me, and I can’t at first identify why. It’s like that moment when you walk into a room and can’t remember why you’re there. You have to pause and breathe and turn, to let your brain find the answer. And so I pause and I breathe, and slowly I realise that I’m wondering and worrying, too, if the police will be in uniform or plain clothes.

Because there’s a picture forming in my head that I don’t want to look at. The police uniform. I take deep breaths, waiting for the panic and the pictures to pass. That first time I had to deal with the police.

The damp smell of the wool jacket, wet from the rain. The shiny buttons. The gentle eyes of the policewoman but a determination in her voice.

I’m sorry, Hannah. But you need to let go of Daddy now.

CHAPTER 32

DAY SIX

Maud

Maud’s pouring her second coffee of the morning when her mobile barks on the marble worktop. It startles her; she’d quite forgotten changing the ringtone to a dog. Woof. Woof. She smiles.

Maud’s been thinking about getting a dog, for the company. She can’t decide if it’s the right time. Or whether it’s a mad idea she’s come up with as a distraction, an obstacle to help her avoid the whole American dilemma. She thinks how much Lily would love a dog on her visits.

When she reaches for the phone and sees her daughter’s name, Maud thinks she may test the water. Tell Hannah about the ringtone. Her plans for a dog. What does Hannah think? Would Lily like that? But the lightness of mood is snuffed out the very moment she hears her daughter’s tone.

‘Hi, Mum.’ Hannah’s voice is unnaturally quiet. Barely audible. ‘I’ve got a bit of a situation here.’

Maud sits back down on the high breakfast-bar stool. ‘OK, lovely. Well, you know I’m always here for you. So what’s going on?’

There’s a long pause. Too long.

‘What is it, love? Whatever it is, you know that you can tell me.’

‘A woman living next door to us here at the cottage. A nice woman. She died yesterday. It looks like a heart attack.’

‘Oh Lord, how dreadful.’

‘Yeah. Well, the thing is, I found her, Mum.’

Maud presses her hand to her chest, panic now coursing through her. ‘Oh, Hannah. What a terrible thing for you. So what exactly happened?’

‘I was taking this parcel round and I just found her collapsed on the floor. I did CPR. The ambulance came eventually but it was too late.’

‘Oh my word. And Lily. Was Lily around? Did she see all this?’

‘No, no. It was late evening. Lily was in bed.’

‘Well, thank heavens for small mercies.’

‘Yeah. Well, that’s the problem, actually. Why I’m ringing. The police are coming to take a statement from me. And Sam’s worried. We’re both worried about Lily.’

‘You want me to drive down? I’ve said this before. I can get in the car right this minute—’

‘No, Mum. There isn’t time. The policewoman’s on her way. But what do you think I should say to Lily? I don’t really know how to navigate this. Especially with her already upset. With this imaginary-friend thing going on. Do I tell her about this woman dying? Or lie to her? I just don’t know.’

‘So – have you said anything at all yet?’

‘No. We haven’t needed to. All over by the time she got up this morning.’

‘Why don’t you just get Sam to take Lily out while the police are there? So she doesn’t get worried. I normally think it’s better to tell children the truth; you know that. But this is a tricky one. With Lily already not herself.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And why are the police asking questions? About a heart attack?’

‘I don’t know. Routine, I think. Sudden death. They need to decide if it needs an inquest.’

‘And what about you, darling? How are you about talking to the police?’ Maud pauses and closes her eyes. She’s thinking of that first moment she was reunited with Hannah after the night in the forest when she was a little girl. It was at the hospital. Early hours of the morning. They’d given Hannah a private room to keep her away from prying eyes. The media. All the fuss. She was curled up on her side in a ball, blankets wrapped tight around her but her body still trembling. Her knee was scraped. But she was mute. So frail. Couldn’t answer questions.

‘I’m nervous, obviously. But I think I’ll be OK.’ Another pause. ‘Do you think I’ll be OK?’

Maud feels a pull inside. How is this fair? One person. All this.

‘I think you’ll be fine.’ What else to say? ‘But I’d like to come down to make sure. Would that be OK?’

‘Possibly. But can you hold off? Let me speak to Sam first. See how this goes with the police.’

‘OK. But will you promise to ring me later?’

‘Yeah. OK. I will.’ Hannah’s voice is trailing off, barely a whisper. ‘I love you, Mum.’

‘I love you too. And this is going to be all right.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. It is.’

Maud puts the phone back on the marble counter and just stares at it. She’s already googled the journey time to Cornwall. She’ll throw some things together just in case. Be on standby.

She taps her palms together. Twitchy. Eyes tingling. She remembers the same struggle not to cry when she walked into that hospital room all those years ago.

The policewoman and the nurse outside. A blur of words. All the temperature checks. The worry about hypothermia. And worst of all – Hannah completely silent at first. Unable to remember much.

Just terrified eyes. Curled up in a ball with a haunted expression that has seemed to sweep in and out of Hannah’s eyes ever since.

CHAPTER 33

DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

Sam

Sam’s sitting on the small iron bench at the far end of the garden, near the rotary dryer. He turns his head to spot a large dollop of fresh bird poo all over the arm of the bench.

Damn. He jumps up to check the seat beneath him. His clothes. All fine. He shifts to the far end of the bench, looking up to check on Lily. She’s still playing on the lawn, but has tired of her dolls and has set up the wooden quoits.

‘Will you play, Daddy?’

‘Sure, but in a minute, honey. I’ve just got to make a couple of calls. Have a practice playing red against blue. Take turns and pretend I’m the blue.’

Lily picks up the red and blue rope rings and steps back to start her game. The first ring misses the post completely, and Sam encourages her to move a little closer to the target. Once she settles to the game, he takes out his mobile.

He can just see Hannah in the distance through the kitchen window, no longer on the phone herself but putting the kettle on the stove. Good. She’ll be a while.

They were supposed to be going to the garden with the maze today, but have had to fib because of the police. Told Lily the garden’s shut and promised a visit to the seal sanctuary tomorrow instead – Thursday. Their final day in Owl Cottage. Lily’s excited about the seals but was disappointed about the maze.

Sam feels a punch inside at the white lie. So many lies.

He dials Brad first to check progress on his loan request. A long shot. There’s been an email hinting it’s going to be difficult.

‘Hey, Brad. How are you? Sam here.’

‘Fine. Well. A bit snowed under here, actually. Did you get my email? Sorry not to have better news.’

‘I did. It’s a bit disappointing, truth be told. It’s just this investment opportunity is pressing now; I really need to make a decision. Before the end of the week latest. Is there no wriggle room? Can’t we try another route?’

‘Not for the figures you’re after. Not at speed, Sam, unless you want a laughable interest rate and no way am I brokering that for a mate. You’ll regret it down the line and I don’t want that on my conscience. Look – why don’t you come into the office when you get back? Like I suggested.’

Sam closes his eyes. ‘Sure. Good idea. Thanks for putting out feelers.’

‘No problem. Sorry I couldn’t put it together quickly for you.’

Sam ends the call and opens his eyes to watch a large, black bird on the fence in the west corner of the garden. It looks like some kind of crow. He wonders now if it’s crow poo on the bench. Must remember to warn Lily. Clean it up.

Whatever the species, the bird’s staring at him and Sam doesn’t like it. He widens his eyes and shakes his head but still the bird doesn’t shift. Annoyed, Sam marches down the garden, waving both arms until it finally flies off.

‘Where are you going, Daddy? Aren’t you watching me practise?’

‘Sorry, honey. I’m coming back right now. You carry on. Just one more call and I’m all yours.’

Sam takes up his seat again on the clean side of the bench and searches his contacts for Bill Mellion. He frowns, trying to work out some kind of story. This is much riskier. Might get back to Hannah. Bill’s the contact for Hannah’s trust fund. They had a meeting after the wedding and touch base once a year. Usually together. The fund lets them draw a certain amount annually, with special rules over additional requests. He likes Bill. They get on. He decides it’s at least worth a shot, and there’s simply no choice.

‘Hey, Bill. It’s Sam Steller here. I’m just reaching out with a bit of an unusual request re the trust fund. Hannah has a big birthday coming up – more than my life’s worth to say which one. Anyway. I’d like to fix a surprise. Big trip. Something really special. I can’t do it out of the joint account without her noticing, obviously, and I was wondering if there’s some way we can draw down from the annual allowance on the trust fund. We haven’t used it this year yet. Just so I can keep it all as a surprise. Push the boat out for her.’

‘Right. Well, that all sounds lovely, but you know the rules. Joint signatures. Just to keep everything tidy.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. I’m just wondering if there’s any flexibility over something special like this? To facilitate a surprise, I mean.’

‘And there I was thinking you were a lawyer, Sam.’

Sam laughs. Bill laughs too but there’s an awkwardness now.

‘Sorry. So no flexibility at all?’ Sam tries to keep his tone light but squeezes his eyes tight. It’s technically ludicrous to even ask this, but he’s desperate.

‘Sorry.’

‘No problem, Bill. I’ll juggle the finances some other way to book it all without her knowing.’

‘Good man. So she’s coming up forty, is she? My word. Time flies. She doesn’t look it.’

‘Good genes. You keep this quiet, mind. She’s saying she doesn’t want any fuss. Hence me creeping around.’

‘No problem. Mum’s the word.’

‘OK. I’ll leave you to get on.’ He moves the phone from his ear and ends the call.

‘Can you play now, Daddy? You said you’d play with me.’

‘Sure, honey. I just need to send a quick text and I’m all yours.’

‘But you said just one more call.’

‘Sorry, honey. This really is the last thing, I promise.’

Sam skims the contacts for Sophie, clicks through to messaging and types quickly.

Final message. I CANNOT raise the money. Impossible. Do what the hell you will. I’ve had enough of this.

He presses Send then stands, deleting Sophie from his contact list, and strides towards his daughter. ‘Right. I’m all yours. Which colour am I?’

CHAPTER 34

BEFORE

Hannah

I can’t quite believe it. Our final session in the green room. Today Jessica’s wearing a gold silk blouse – silk or polyester, can’t tell – and navy trousers in a light weave that might be linen. Or wool?

Staring at the material of her trousers a little longer, I realise that I’ve made it a habit to take in her outfit in almost ridiculous detail each time I come here. Why? Distraction? An anchor to settle myself?

Whatever the case, there’s no more avoiding ‘the bottom line’. At the last meeting, I shared my decision that I’m prepared to give the marriage a second try. This final session is to go over what shape our fresh start will take; to talk through our boundaries.

At home you’ve been like a different person since I confirmed my decision – relaxed and smiley, forever approaching me for a cuddle – and I realise, sitting here today, that I’m worried you see yourself as off the hook.

‘What is it, Hannah?’ Jessica’s staring at me. ‘Is something worrying you? Is there something you need to say?’ Her voice is as quiet and calm as ever. Doesn’t miss a trick, this girl – I’ll give her that.

‘I suppose I’m still worried that my anger hasn’t gone. I feel a bit more hopeful. I wouldn’t have made the decision to try if I didn’t. But the hurt hasn’t gone. And although I do want to try to go forward, I’m nervous. And I don’t want Sam to think that it’s all done and dusted.’ I pause. ‘Forgotten.’

At the last session, Jessica was careful to say that trying to punish you constantly would be a recipe for failure. She asked if I understood that; I said that I did, even though deep down I do still want to punish you. I wonder if she’ll lecture me again, but instead you turn to look at me sideways. ‘Look. I don’t expect you to be over it, Hannah. Not at all. I just feel very lucky and very grateful that you’re prepared to give me the chance to put things right. To prove to you that you can trust me again.’

I hold your gaze for a moment and find it both unusual and unsettling. It’s weird, because I do believe that I see love in your eyes. Regret too? It’s almost as if your eyes are pleading with me in this moment, and what I truly think is that I’m more worried about whether I can answer the plea. Forgive you; do this. Stop feeling so bitter. Also, whether I can be truthful with you and stop being such a terrible hypocrite myself.

Jessica’s talked a lot about that. The need for truth. A fresh chapter needing a clean sheet of paper. No more secrets.

And yet I’ve lied in this room. What if you have, too? The whole thing a farce?

‘And what about that wall that Sam mentioned in a previous session? His sense that you sometimes keep things from him. Have you thought about that, Hannah? And whether there’s anything you want to say about that? As part of this discussion as you move forward?’

I keep looking at you as I try to work out my answer. I know that you’re right. That there is still a wall around me sometimes. I realise that I should tell you about the accident that the doctors called a suicide attempt. I know I should tell you that the dreams about my father’s death are as confusing as ever. And seem to be getting worse rather than better.

But this new darkness in my life? I can’t tell you about that. Can’t tell anyone.

‘I do realise that I need to think about the wall,’ I say at last. ‘But I’m not sure I know how to take it down.’

You don’t reply. We both wait to hear what Jessica thinks, but she pauses too. I sense that this is deliberate. For some reason I find myself thinking, in the beat of silence, of Bellagio. Something you said to me the very first time you took me to Bellagio.

Anyone who has such a sad picture from their childhood . . . needs this one.

Jessica is still silent as I look at her. There are more pictures forming in my head from Italy. Should I talk about Bellagio? How incredibly happy we were back there in Italy. I open my mouth, but change my mind. The contrast between today and that past and complete happiness feels too painful.

I watch Jessica and realise she needs to step away now. And deep down that’s what I’m terrified of. As difficult as I’ve found these sessions, they’ve also been a crutch. A circle on the calendar each week. Something to dread. Something to endure. But also something to think about afterwards.

So I’m wondering and worrying in this moment what our future holds without Jessica on our calendar.

Without Jessica as our go-between.

CHAPTER 35

BEFORE

Hannah

My first sight of Bellagio was in June. Two days before my twenty-seventh birthday.

We’d been dating just a few months but already my feelings for you scared me. I hadn’t had any serious relationships; I always pulled away before anything got too intense.

And yet there, to my great surprise, we were. Getting close. I’d already told you things about what happened with my father’s death that I’d never shared with anyone; never thought I would say out loud, even. Wetting myself when the search helicopter came. Clinging to the body and refusing to let go.

I’d warned you that I still suffered dreams, or nightmares, in which things didn’t quite add up. You’d listened and been patient and terribly kind. You’d not run for cover when I owned up to all that chair-throwing in school on Father’s Day, and my weird and inexplicable love-hate thing about daisies. Instead, you’d made me feel safe, which paradoxically made it all feel dangerous.

And then you took me to paradise.

‘I don’t believe it.’ I was staring at the hotel, which was even more beautiful than the website. Soft apricot stucco walls with wide verandas to the ground floor and balconies above, tier upon tier like a huge and delicious iced wedding cake trailing a myriad of stunning plants. Layer upon layer of large pink and purple blooms interspersed with sprays of tiny white flowers, dancing on the breeze. Stretching out towards the lake, there was a pool terrace with luxurious wooden loungers with thick cream cushions and huge matching umbrellas.

‘Wait until you see the room,’ you whispered.

The hotel had a perfect position – at the end of a promontory. This gave exceptional views from every terrace and room, especially ours which I soon learned was the coveted ‘corner’ suite. Double aspect with not one but two balconies, each with a different, breathtaking view.

‘How did you swing this?’

‘My family have been here a few times. Get on with the owners.’ You took my hand and led me to the second balcony, with its view of the pontoon for the boats crisscrossing the lake.

‘Tomorrow we can explore by ferry if you like.’ You placed your arms around my waist and rested your chin on my shoulder.

‘And now?’

‘How about we stroll? Ice cream and wine?’

‘Sounds horrible.’

And so, after a quick change of clothes, we headed out into the narrow cobbled and stepped streets, where smart shops sat shoulder to shoulder with cafés and restaurants, laughter and the divine smell of good coffee spilling out on to endless shady verandas.

You were talking non-stop as we walked, telling me about your visit as a child when you thought the place was too boring. That it was only when you looked back through older eyes at all the photographs that you realised just how stunning it was.

‘I moaned because I wanted a beach to make sandcastles, apparently.’

‘You moaned about coming here?’

‘I know. Shameful, isn’t it?’

Later, after wine and cake as well as coffee, we took a tour of a local villa with stunning gardens. We finally arrived back at the hotel around six, and you ordered limoncello cocktails on room service. And then, as we clinked glasses on the largest of our two balconies, you said it. The special thing that in the moment melted my heart. And later came to haunt it.

‘I knew I wanted to bring you here for your birthday the moment you told me what happened with your father.’

Your voice was nervous.

‘I thought – anyone who has such a sad picture from their childhood needs this one.’ You looked out to the lake to underline the point, the mountains shrugging their amusement at us in the distance. ‘It won’t erase it. I do know that, Hannah. But I hope it will help. Just a little bit.’

And it was in that very moment that I realised. That I was going to take a very dangerous step – a path I had thought was not for me. Sad and doleful me, with my bad dreams and my weird phobias.

I looked out on to the lake, the scent of the limoncello mingling with the perfume of the flowers, and that’s what I was thinking.

Yes, Sam.

I was going to let myself believe in happiness again.

I was going to let myself believe in you.

CHAPTER 36

DAY SIX

The police

DI Melanie Sanders is checking the satnav – just a few minutes to Owl Cottage – when her phone connects via the hands-free system.

‘How’s the holiday?’ The tone’s teasing but the voice is a welcome surprise. Matthew Hill. Ex-job. Good friend and very good egg. They’ve worked on a few cases together, mostly unofficially since he joined civvy street and set up as a private investigator.

‘Cheeky so-and-so.’ Melanie finds that she’s smiling. ‘I’ll have you know I’m very, very busy.’

‘And I’ll have you know I’ve seen your social media. All those beach pictures and fish restaurants.’

Melanie laughs. It’s true that she’s making the most of the geography. Her aunt’s cottage has an idyllic location, just off the coastal path.

‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘How’s it going down there? It’s just we’ve decided to pop down for a couple of nights. That B&B in Porthleven that Sal loves. All a bit last-minute, but wondered if you fancied all getting together for a supper?’ He pauses, his tone still teasing. ‘If you’re not too wildly busy denting the county’s overtime budget.’

She laughs again. It’s so good to hear Matthew’s voice. They haven’t seen as much of each other since their last case together. Matthew was injured – gunshot wound to the shoulder – and his wife Sally has been making noises that she’d like him to consider a career change. Melanie’s keeping well out of that debate. The truth is she’d like precisely the opposite: Matthew back on the force. He’s one of a kind. Exceptional instinct.

‘Supper sounds great. So long as Sally has forgiven me?’

‘Sal’s fine, honestly. We’re thinking of driving down this lunchtime, actually. Is tonight a runner, or too ridiculously short-notice? I won’t be at all offended. It’s just the forecast’s still good.’

‘No, no. It’s a welcome surprise. I’ll check in with Tom and text you. But I’d best book somewhere. Bonkers here since the early pandemic. Still hard to get into the best places.’

‘Right. Good plan. I’ll watch for a text.’

‘Hey, while you’re here. Can I pick your brain a mo?’

Melanie and Matthew trained together forever ago, and both had their sights set on CID from the off. It was on an early attachment that she became involved belatedly in the case that’s tickling her brain again today. Matthew was working elsewhere, but all the keen recruits reviewed interesting cases together in the pub.

‘Do you remember the Hilary Bickerman case?’

‘Bickerman. Bickerman. Is that the woman whose hubby overdosed her insulin?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Nearly got away with it as I remember. Why?’

‘I’m trying to remember what tox showed up in the initial reports. I’ll get the file out later but I’m on the way to an interview and it might be relevant.’

‘How so?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Might be nothing. Might just be my instinct in overdrive. Or boredom.’

‘Seriously. Are you bored?’

‘Joking. Well, maybe a bit. OK, so tell me what you remember about the Bickermans.’

‘I thought you knew more about it than me. Weren’t you attached to the team on it?’

‘Yeah – technically. But I came very late and I can’t recall the early details. And you all discussed it too, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah. Sure. Quite a bit of media coverage. OK – so as I remember it, it was marked as natural causes for a few months. No inquest. Theory was the woman got her insulin dose wrong. Was only a change to the will and a big insurance payout that raised suspicion later. Hubby made the mistake of splashing the cash. Got the family talking. And the case was checked again. Is that when you were on attachment? When the case was reopened?’

‘That’s right. OK. Thanks, Matt. I’ll check back in the official files for more deets. Oh – and I’ll text details when I get us a restaurant. Somewhere OK for the tadpoles. Early evening?’

‘OK, great. Though our tadpole’s grown very long legs since you last saw her. Gonna be tall.’

‘Good for her. Daddy’s genes. Look forward to it.’

Melanie presses the screen to end the call and frowns. She wishes she could figure out precisely why her brain is digging out that case; there’s no real evidence suggesting this death is suspicious.

Just a couple more minutes and she’s pulling into a small lane which leads to two detached cottages. She draws up in front of a garage and sees the nameplate for Sunnywell Cottage to her right. Odd. The sign above the garage says PARKING FOR OWL COTTAGE yet it looks as if it should belong to the other property.

There’s no police cordon, as it’s not a crime scene. All the curtains closed. Melanie stares at Sunnywell Cottage a while longer. Smart place – worth a few bob. She’ll definitely check who inherits. Finally, she gets out of the car, fires the lock and makes her way through a freshly painted gate to approach Owl Cottage. It’s a pretty place too – well kept and with owl motifs all around. But she doesn’t get to use the brass owl knocker, the door opened before she reaches it by a rather nervous-looking woman. Pretty. A tad younger than Melanie was expecting, or maybe she just has good genes too. Looks jumpy, mind. And has a foot injury.

‘Hello. I’m DI Melanie Sanders. Is it Hannah? You should have had a message I was on my way.’

‘Yes. Thank you; we did. Come in. My husband’s taken our daughter to the beach to rock pool so we can chat in private. We’re trying to keep her out of all this.’

‘Oh, right. Understood.’

‘So – would you like tea? Or coffee?’

Melanie, who never wastes her caffeine quota on instant, casts her eye around the kitchen until she spies a cafetière on the worktop. There’s a decent-looking packet of coffee alongside, with a peg to keep it fresh. ‘Coffee would be lovely.’

As Hannah begins busying herself with the kettle and the drinks, Melanie glances around. Yes. The owl motif done to death, but a very smart place. ‘Looks as if they keep this rental in good condition. You enjoying it?’

‘Well – yes. At least we were, before all this upset.’

Melanie waits for a reference to the foot injury. But it doesn’t come.

‘Right. Must have been a terrible shock for you. I saw the statement, but would you mind walking me through what happened again?’

Melanie watches closely as Hannah tells the story. Meeting the neighbour just once properly but liking her. Taking in the parcel from a courier as a favour, then deciding to deliver it after a night at a local pub. She lets her talk and just listens until Hannah loads a tray with their coffee.

‘Let me carry that for you.’

Still Hannah doesn’t explain the protective boot, and so Melanie moves the drinks to the table. ‘So, I’m trying to understand why you’ve been in contact with the police since your statement. Why you seem to think there should be an investigation, I mean. It’s always terribly sad – a sudden death. A horrible experience for you. But it’s not normally a police matter.’

Melanie sits, waving away the offer of sugar, and notices that Hannah’s hands are trembling. Hannah catches Melanie watching this and quickly moves her hands to her lap.

‘It’s just there’s been a series of slightly odd things since we arrived. Knocks on the door but no one there. And someone has been putting dead owlets, baby owls, on the doormat. Twice. Deeply unpleasant.’

‘Dead owls? My goodness. That does sound nasty.’ Melanie sits up straighter and glances to the door. No letterbox. ‘You mean you think someone broke in to do that?’ She pauses as Hannah shrugs. There was nothing about possible break-ins across the early statements. ‘Was there any sign of a break-in? Or any chance you left the door unlocked by mistake?’

‘No, absolutely not. We thought it was a cat at first but we kept the windows shut. And the front and back door were both locked. I’m a bit OCD about security. Checked them every night. We have a young daughter and I wanted to make sure everything was sound.’

‘Right. So have you been targeted at home with anything like this? Anyone with a grudge, I mean. Or just here on holiday?’

‘Just here. It unsettled me, which is why I wondered if it might have anything to do with the neighbour.’ Hannah pauses. ‘Also – I picked up there’s been some bad feeling about second homes and rentals. A bit of prickliness. Thought I should mention it all.’

‘Right. I see. Thank you. And when you say prickliness, what do you mean?’

‘Oh, possibly me just being sensitive. Locals a bit touchy. I’ve just read it’s an issue.’

‘OK. Well, we’ll certainly run a check on everyone with keys to this place. Anything else?’ Melanie is now deliberately staring at the plastic support boot, widening her eyes.

‘Oh – you mean the foot?’

‘Yes. Did that happen here, or before you came on holiday?’

‘Here. Just a silly accident.’

‘What kind of accident?’

Hannah’s face flushes and she begins to fiddle with her hair. ‘I got up in the night for a glass of water and tripped on the stairs. Not used to the layout here. Disorientated in the dark. Stupid of me.’

Melanie waits. Watches. Hannah’s flush deepens. ‘And who else has been at the cottage with you for this vacation?’

‘My husband, Sam, and daughter, Lily. She’s eight. As I said – they’re at the local beach. It’s just a few minutes. I didn’t want her overhearing any of this.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. Well – not staying. We had some friends visit us yesterday; before I found the neighbour collapsed. But it was only briefly. They’re staying at a hotel near Helston before moving on to Rock. We all went to the pub together.’

‘Right. So I’ll need to go through the names please and the times they were here. I’ll need to speak to them all. Your husband and your friends. Just to see if they saw anything odd. Anyone hanging around. You said in your statement that your neighbour mentioned a nephew who’d been causing her some bother. So tell me more about that.’

CHAPTER 37

BEFORE

Hannah

I still don’t know if it was my fault.

The big thing. That most terrible thing.

Sometimes when I look at you, I want to just blurt it out and get it over with. But it’s the visit from that police officer which tangles everything in my brain because I have the feeling that she’s really astute, this DI Melanie Sanders. She has this sort of laser vision, as if she’s seeing through things.

When I offered her coffee, I could see her skimming the room to decide whether to say yes. And later, when I was feeling nervy, she was taking in every little thing. Me. My words. The room. Which in theory is a good thing, I suppose, because I genuinely want her to get to the bottom of what happened next door. But I don’t like that she wants to talk to everyone, and I’m afraid that when she does and she asks more questions, she’s going to see all the dynamics.

And I’m frightened where that will lead.

Will she guess that I have suspicions about you? My ‘accident’ on the stairs? Will she see that Amy and I are at odds? Will she find out that bloody Sophie is apparently stirring things up – may even be going to the police? And will she notice the way Adam looks at me now?

Every day, every morning in the mirror, I ask myself this. Did I deep down always fancy Adam just a little bit? Is that the real reason for the spiral? The muddle of guilt?

You spend so many years happily married, parking that response to attractive people, that you don’t know how even to be honest with yourself. I mean, you don’t stop fancying people just because you’re in love. You just stop doing anything about it.

At least, that’s the theory.

I do remember the first time I saw Adam, clocking how attractive he was. He has that borderline bad-boy appeal. A bit cocky. A bit flirtatious. Heavy on the eye contact. But I remember too that I wasn’t surprised because Amy is such a striking woman. It fitted that she’d married someone equally striking. Equally gregarious. They looked so great together. They laughed all the time and they seemed so happy and secure.

So I thought his flirting was harmless. It never occurred to me it might be a problem. It always felt so safe, the four of us – me and you and Adam and Amy – and I never, ever saw myself as someone who would let another man kiss me.

It was your betrayal that moved all the pieces of the puzzle and formed an entirely new picture. After that, Amy was so mad at you. And paranoid about the ‘signal’ to other couples in our circle. Worried that Adam and the other husbands would think Why not? and find their own Sophie.

In truth, we saw less and less of our other friends once we got tight with Adam and Amy. But there were school events and so on. Book club meetings and girly gossip here and there. Amy got on a bit of a soapbox about fidelity, which was uncomfortable for everyone. Me especially.

And then Amy and Adam started really falling out about her preoccupation with it. I’ve warned you, Amy; this is not our business.

I wonder now if in the past we just joked around too much and all the lines got blurred.

All those kitchen suppers.

I remember one Friday night way back, long before your betrayal. It was Amy’s turn to make the fish pie and we hit the wine pretty hard. Instead of a sitter, we’d brought Lily to sleep over. Amy made up the spare room for us and so we were all drinking way too much.

Amy made a joke, asking what was the best contraception after kids. And Adam said, ‘You don’t need contraception after kids. Kids are the contraception.’

Ha, ha.

We all laughed until there were tears coming. I think it was Adam, then, who asked – given we were none of us ever going to get enough sex ever again – if there was anything we regretted not doing. When we were young and single. Before kids.

Amy said she wished she’d had a one-night stand, just to know what it felt like. ‘Oh, I’m not saying I didn’t have boyfriends – I wasn’t a virgin when I got married or anything like that. But there weren’t many.’ She winked at me. ‘I was just brought up a bit Catholic.’

I didn’t say anything but I could feel this little tremor in my tummy. Wary of where this was going. I glanced at the marble worktop beside the sink to take in the number of empty wine bottles, and I noticed you catch my eye and raise your eyebrow too.

I tried to change the subject, asking about Amy’s new yoga class. Was it good? Would she recommend it to someone like me, with a slightly dodgy shoulder?

But Adam, eyes clearly glazed, was on a roll.

‘So my wife, ladies and gentlemen, being of this very Catholic persuasion by her own admission, is not especially keen on experimentation. All very vanilla chez nous. What about you guys?’

‘I think that’s enough, Adam.’ Amy’s face was flushed now, eyes wide.

‘It’s OK, Amy. We’re among friends here. I’m just asking, purely out of interest, if I’m the only one who only gets it’ – he turned to me – ‘so vanilla.’

‘Adam! I said that’s enough.’ Amy stood up, her face really cross.

‘Oh, lighten up, Amy. Honestly. I sometimes wonder if the French haven’t gotten it right. I mean’ – he turned then to you – ‘should fidelity really be such a big deal in a marriage? What do you think, Sam? It’s only sex, after all.’

‘What I think,’ you said, ‘is it’s time for coffee, guys. Shall I help?’ You turned to look at Amy, who by now was close to tears.

‘Sorry, sorry. Am I on the naughty step?’ Adam feigned a cowed expression then closed his eyes, clearly drunk.

‘Yes, you are. You’ve had way too much to drink. Now shut up, please.’ Amy marched to the coffee machine to flick the switch, which sent coffee beans shooting into the grinder mechanism. The loud noise a welcome distraction. She kept her back to us and I could see her putting her hand up to her face.

‘But seriously,’ Adam started up when the grinding was done, ‘the French don’t make such a big deal out of it, you know—’ His eyes were still closed as he spoke.

‘Mate, mate.’ You reached out to squeeze his arm, which made him open his eyes as if from sleep. ‘Shall we just have that coffee?’

The following morning, as the children messed around in the playroom, Amy looked red-eyed when I joined her in the kitchen, you and Adam still upstairs showering. ‘I’m sorry about Adam last night,’ she said finally, clattering the plates and cups and moving a pile of brioche into a basket.

‘Don’t be. He was just a bit drunk.’

‘Yeah. But—’

‘Hey. Are you OK, Amy?’

‘Sure. Just embarrassed.’

‘Well, don’t be. We’re mates. So he got drunk. So what? It’s not as if you’ve never seen my Sam drunk.’

‘Sure. But—’ She paused to look down at the floor. ‘Oh, I can’t say it, Hannah.’

‘Say what?’

‘Well, the truth is he can be a bit of a stuck record about it. With me, I mean. He has this thing that I’m too old-fashioned. A bit of a prude, you know. I say no to some things and—’

And now, rather than embarrassment, I felt a shiver of unease. ‘Well, you tell him to piss right off, yes?’ I lowered my voice to a whisper, glancing at the door to the playroom. ‘You do know you should never do anything you don’t want to. You know that, right?’

‘Yes, yes – of course. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up again. Are we still OK, Hannah?’

I went over to hug her then. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course we’re OK. In any case, haven’t we all agreed there’s no energy for any sex anymore? Vanilla or otherwise.’ I pulled back and put on a silly voice, trying to lighten things. ‘That part of our life is over, Amy.’

At last she laughed. I laughed too. But the laughs rang false, and we both knew as she moved away to fuss with the breakfast things again that something had shifted.

And it wasn’t funny at all.

CHAPTER 38

DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

Sam

Sam looks up to see Hannah hobbling into view. She’s struggling with her crutch.

He thinks of his lies. The money. The spiral that has brought them all to this terrible place . . .

‘Hey, Lily. Mummy’s here. She can’t walk on the sand, so let’s move back by the rocks so she can sit on the picnic bench near the café.’

‘Can I still fill the moat?’

‘Just one more run while I’m here, but no more after that. I have to go back to the cottage and Mummy can’t come to the water’s edge.’

Lily pouts as Sam gathers their things, moving the rug and the buckets and spade further back. He reminds her they have the treat of the seal sanctuary tomorrow and she needs to be a good girl today. ‘Come on. One final water run, then you stick near Mummy. No more darting to the sea on your own, you hear me?’

‘OK, Daddy.’

With the moat refilled and Lily pacified, he joins Hannah at her picnic table. She looks tense. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah. The policewoman’s waiting for you.’

‘OK. Lily’s promised to stay close.’ He glances at their daughter. ‘So – what’s she like, this DI?’

‘Nice. Sharp. OK.’

‘And remind me why she needs to speak to me?’

‘I told you in the text. It’s just ticking boxes.’

Sam turns back the fabric of his left cuff.

‘What’s the matter, Sam? Why so nervous? I told you. It’s just routine.’

‘But it’s not routine really, is it? I mean, it’s sad. Horribly sad. But I still don’t get why the police are involved.’

‘Covering their backs? I don’t know. Just feel we should help if we can. Why so nervous?’

‘I’m not nervous, I’m just unhappy to have all this upset our holiday.’

‘She was a nice woman – Jenny. It’s the least we can do.’

‘It just feels a bit weird. Leaving the policewoman alone at our cottage – with all our stuff, I mean.’

‘Well, she’s hardly going to nick anything, is she? I didn’t want Lily disturbed or upset, so better for us to swap over here at the beach.’

‘Sure. You’re right. OK, I’ll text when she’s done with me and I’ll pop back to walk you both home. Then a quick outing for Lily. And supper out later? Yes? Put all this behind us.’

Hannah nods and takes a bottle of water from her bag, placing it in front of her. He steps away from the table, shouts farewell to Lily, then strides back across the car park and follows the winding path, at first tarmac and then more of a dirt track, which snakes through to join the narrow lane to Owl Cottage.

At the gate, he can see the policewoman through the kitchen window, reading something. Nosing. She moves through to the utility, looking at the corkboard of postcards. It’s precisely why he didn’t like the idea of her at the cottage solo. He takes a deep breath and is soon inside.

‘Hi. I’m Sam. My wife said you wanted a word.’

‘Ah yes.’ She strides back into the kitchen, widening her eyes, unblinking, and Sam understands his wife’s comment. Sharp. It’s as if this police officer is in a single stroke sizing up every bit of him.

‘Horrible experience for Hannah. Finding the neighbour like that. Hardly the thing you want to happen on holiday.’ He’s careful to keep his tone concerned. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Thank you, but your wife already made coffee.’ She glances at the two cups still on the kitchen table.

‘Good. Good. Shall we sit?’ He tilts his head to the table and they both sit.

‘I’m really just keen to hear more about the odd happenings,’ she begins. ‘Your wife said dead owls have been placed on the doormat.’

‘Well, we don’t know that they were placed there.’

‘You still think it was a cat? Your wife seems to have dismissed that.’

‘It’s true we can’t figure out how a cat would have got in, but who’d want to put dead owls on your doormat? Makes no sense to me. I’ve tried to play it down. So as not to spoil the holiday.’

‘And the knocks on the door. No one there. What do you feel about that?’

‘Unsettled. Again – it’s upset Hannah. But kids do that all the time, don’t they? I assumed it was just pranking. It hasn’t happened while I’ve been here.’

‘Any similar problems at home? Or just here?’

He rakes his hand through his hair. He’s hoping Hannah hasn’t mentioned their marriage problems. ‘No. Nothing. Look – between us, I did wonder whether the owl thing might be a disgruntled housekeeper. An employee dispute, something like that. Or locals upset over second homes? Hannah mentioned someone being a bit narky at the local garage. About all the holiday lets. But I didn’t want the holiday ruined, so I’ve been keen to play it all down.’

‘And you haven’t seen anyone hanging around? Your wife said the neighbour’s nephew had caused trouble in the past.’

‘I didn’t know about that. And I’ve not seen anyone. Look – I’m a lawyer. Corporate, not criminal, but I’m keen to know where this is going. I understood from the paramedics that this was a sudden death. Very sad but not suspicious.’

‘You spoke to the paramedics?’

‘No. I was here with our daughter Lily. Hannah only called me once she handed over to the paramedics. Then she came straight back here. It was pretty much all over before I knew anything about it.’

‘Right. Well – it’s just routine. Checking we’re not missing anything.’ She stares right into his eyes again and Sam’s thinking that it’s hardly routine for someone senior from CID to be asking questions about a diabetic who died alone.

‘Well, if anything else happens or you think of anything, I’ve left my card with your wife.’ At last she stands.

‘Right. Good. Yes, of course.’ He stands too, feeling a wash of relief as she heads to the door. But then, just as she’s reaching for the handle, she suddenly turns.

‘Shame about your wife’s accident.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The foot.’ Again, she’s staring. Unblinking. That peculiar laser vision.

‘Yes. Awful. Power cut. Though it could have been even worse—’

‘Power cut?’ A pause, with a new expression sweeping across the policewoman’s face. ‘I don’t believe she mentioned a power cut.’

CHAPTER 39

DAY SIX

Maud

Maud stares at the holdall alongside her case. The strain on the zip’s a worry; all those books. She really must get a Kindle; lives in dread of a bag bursting on her travels.

Maud sighs. She’s decided to head for Cornwall, whatever Hannah does or doesn’t want, but is worried Sam will see it as interference, so she’s fixed a cover story. An eleventh-hour visit to her friend Annie on the Roseland Peninsula. She’ll message Hannah when she’s close enough to ‘pop by’ but will try to make it sound casual. No pressure, darling, but I’m on my way to Annie’s. She called out of the blue. Feeling a bit lonely. Shall I pop in en route?

The truth, of course, is that she called Annie, not the other way around. But it’s only half a lie. The reunion’s long overdue and Annie was genuinely thrilled when Maud rang last night. Annie lost her husband to a heart attack just a few years back and now lives a quiet life in an idyllic location not far from St Mawes. It’s not a huge detour to visit Hannah, Sam and Lily, and Maud’s praying her daughter will say yes. She didn’t like how upset she sounded on the last call.

And dear Annie will benefit too.

‘Picture-perfect down here, but lonelier than I admit to anyone other than you,’ she confided on the phone to Maud. ‘I put on a front because what else is there to do? You can’t moan about living on the Roseland, now can you?’

As she mentally checks her packing list, Maud hears her iPad chirrup. She lifts the cover to see it’s Ned. FaceTime. Damn. She checks her watch, working out the time difference in her head.

Annie’s the only one Maud has told about Ned. My American secret. You won’t tell Hannah, you promise?

Annie was at first thrilled at the subterfuge. A new transatlantic romance, at Maud’s age? How splendid, darling. I’m thrilled for you.

And it was splendid. Is splendid. Or would be, if Maud weren’t so torn over what the geography might mean going forward for Hannah. She lifts the iPad, moves towards the window and takes the call. ‘Hello, darling. Forgive me but I’m right in the middle of something. Would you mind calling back. Five minutes? Or I’ll call you back.’

Ned tilts his head. ‘Sure. Everything all right?’

Maud takes in his turquoise linen shirt. The silver hair. The grey eyes. He’s sitting at his kitchen breakfast bar, her painting of agapanthus on the wall behind him. ‘Yes. Everything’s fine. Just need to take five. Do you mind?’

‘No, no. It’s fine. I’ll call again in a bit.’

Maud blows a kiss and ends the call, feeling a strange pang deep in her stomach.

She’s told Hannah that she has a marvellous new friend with lots of great art connections in New York. But she hasn’t quite gotten round to confessing that they sleep together. That Ned visits her in the UK every couple of months. That he makes her happy. That she has reached the point, to her great surprise, where she misses him when they are apart and that he would like to move things along, suggesting that they split their time between England and America. That she spends a few months each year in New York.

Maud has said she’ll think this over. But she hasn’t been truthful about what’s holding her back: that, despite her daughter being in her thirties, she’s worried how Hannah would manage without her, especially after Sam’s betrayal.

Maud met Ned through a mutual friend on an annual visit to New York two years ago. Maud has always adored the buzz of the Chelsea Gallery District, spending a few days in Manhattan every fall. When Hannah was younger, they travelled together and loved checking out up-and-coming artists. Now Maud goes alone, comforted by the nostalgia of all those trips with her daughter.

It was at a gallery event that she was introduced to Ned, a hotelier with a new property to furnish. He seemed to have a significant budget and wanted to support emerging talent by commissioning some pieces for his new venture. He favoured impressionist pieces, he told Maud. Very much her taste too. She helped to guide him around the exhibition, and it was only at dinner later that she confided she was an artist herself.

Once they became close and he had admired her work, she gifted him the naïve agapanthus piece. Now Ned’s insisting he wants to commission some more of her art for his chain of four hotels, but Maud’s resisting.

I’m not looking for favours.

This is business, not a favour, Maud. Your work is good. If I don’t buy you now, you may take off and I won’t be able to afford you.

Ha ha, very funny, Ned.

Maud’s rehearsed the conversation with Hannah about Ned a hundred times, but it always ends with the question she’s afraid to even think about: would she ever contemplate moving to America permanently? Maud’s head says no. She couldn’t bear to be so far from Hannah and Lily.

But she likes Ned a lot. She likes him more with every visit, and he wants to meet Hannah and Lily and Sam. How can she explain that every time she considers this, some new crisis crops up in Hannah’s life?

Maud moves through to her en-suite to gather her electric toothbrush, returning to the bedroom to zip it into her toiletry bag. There. That’s everything.

She enjoys driving, and her plan is to head straight to Cornwall, making a few coffee stops on the way. Once close, she’ll phone Hannah to see if the ruse of popping in en route to Annie’s will wash.

Maud scans the room, checks her watch, and is about to gather her case and bag when she catches sight of the wooden trunk at the end of her bed.

She pauses.

She turns at last to the window and then is travelling back through time. Different curtains. She’s stroking Hannah’s hair in this very room. Three a.m. Another of the nightmares that haunt both their lives.

You know that what happened wasn’t your fault? You do know that?

As she strokes the hair over and over, she smells vanilla. A new shampoo which is supposed to ease the tangles.

Hannah, in her soft, pink pyjamas, turns her small, sad face towards her.

Did he say anything? Daddy? Did he speak to you, lovely? She shouldn’t ask but can’t help herself.

No. It would have been terribly quick.

Hannah’s words are slow and unnatural, almost robotic. Too adult. The very same words from the policewoman at the inquest.

I told the little girl to let go of her daddy. I told her that we would take care of him now. That he wouldn’t have suffered. That it would have been terribly quick.

Maud opens her eyes. Back in the now. She cannot help herself. She moves to the box at the end of the bed and lifts the lid. She takes out the old curtain, put there to conceal the secret. She takes out the picture frame, wrapped so carefully in tissue then three different layers of scarves. Turquoise and red and cream.

She lays the frame on the carpet and thinks of that other puzzle. The chalk marks police found on the trees in the forest which Hannah doesn’t remember. Maud clears her throat just as the iPad starts to chirrup again. She moves over to the bed and swipes to take the call.

Ned’s smiling. ‘Hello again, beautiful. All good now?’

‘Yes. Sorry about before. I was packing actually.’

‘Packing? You coming here after all?’ His face has changed to a beam of hope.

‘Sorry, Ned. No. Not yet. A friend of mine needs some company. She lives on the Roseland Peninsula. I’ve told you about it there. Wonderful light.’

‘Ah yes. The agapanthus.’ He turns momentarily to take in the picture behind him. Naïve splashes of blue and white. ‘So you’ll be painting?’

Maud laughs. ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’

Ned’s expression changes again and she narrows her eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘I was just wondering if you’d found a moment. To talk to Hannah. About us, I mean? You know how much I’d like to meet her.’

Maud feels this muscle clench deep in her stomach. She turns her head to take in the open trunk, just beyond the iPad camera lens. She doesn’t know what to say. What even to think.

She knows that this isn’t fair on Ned. So many things still too difficult to explain to him.

CHAPTER 40

DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Lily is grumpy by the time we return to the cottage together. On the beach, she rowed back on her promise to be good. Just couldn’t understand why she wasn’t allowed to fill the moat without you to supervise. And she’s still disappointed about missing the maze trip.

You take her into the garden for frisbee to try to lift her spirits, as my mobile goes in the kitchen. My heart sinks as I open the cover. Amy.

I take a deep breath before answering. ‘Hi, Amy. Everything OK?’

‘You tell me. Turns out we have the police heading here. We’ve been told to stay at the hotel. Had to cancel our outing. What’s going on, Hannah? You didn’t tell them about Sophie, did you? What I told you about Sophie?’ Her voice is quiet but panicked.

‘No, no. Nothing to do with Sophie. This is about the neighbour’s death.’

‘Your neighbour’s dead?’ The shock in her tone is palpable.

‘Look. I really should have phoned you; I’m sorry, but it’s all been a bit of a whirl.’ I feel a punch of adrenaline. However tricky things are between Amy and me right now, I shouldn’t have given her details to the police without at least warning her. ‘OK – look. When we got back from the pub, I took that parcel round to the house next door and I found the woman collapsed. I called an ambulance and tried resuscitation but she didn’t make it.’

‘Dear God. How absolutely awful.’

‘Yeah – it was.’

‘So – what was it? Heart attack or something?’

‘We don’t know what happened. Possibly a heart attack. Or something to do with her diabetes. They’re not sure yet.’

‘So why are the police involved? And why do they want to speak to us? Adam’s popped out. I don’t know what to tell him. They rang my mobile. Some DI. A woman. She wouldn’t tell me very much at all. So did you give her my number?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Guilt sweeps through me again. This isn’t fair. On Lily. On George. On anyone. ‘Her name’s Melanie Sanders. The DI. She’s very nice, actually. I’m really sorry I didn’t warn you. But it’s just routine.’

‘Well, it doesn’t feel routine. Telling us we can’t leave the hotel until we speak to her. What’s that about?’

‘Please, Amy. Don’t be upset. It’s just this neighbour said she had a troubled nephew. Into drugs. He was hassling her and they just want to make sure he wasn’t hanging around. I said that you’d visited, so I expect they just want to check if you saw anyone.’

‘But we didn’t.’

‘So just tell her that.’

I hear a bleep signalling another call waiting and hold the phone away to see it’s my mother.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Amy, but I’ve got another call I need to answer. I’ll ring you back later.’

‘OK.’ She doesn’t sound OK.

I tap the screen to switch calls. ‘Mum. Everything OK?’

‘Oh, fine. Fine. Actually – you’ll never believe it, but, the thing is, I’m on the way to Cornwall, darling. Annie rang out of the blue. Feeling very low. Between us, I didn’t like how she sounded, so I said I’d head straight down to cheer her up. Just a night, maybe two. Wondered if I can grab a coffee with you on the way down? It’s not much of a detour.’

‘Oh, Mum. I’m sorry to hear that Annie’s down. But you couldn’t possibly have picked a worse time. Sorry. Everything is all over the place here.’ I pause, frowning as I process what she’s saying. A mercy mission to Annie? Where’s this come from? ‘So where are you exactly?’

‘A couple of hours away. So – are you at the cottage? Is it OK for me to call in for a quick coffee and loo stop?’

‘No, Mum. I’m sorry, but it really isn’t.’

CHAPTER 41

DAY SIX

The police

Melanie Sanders is about to punch the hotel details into her satnav when her phone goes.

‘Hello, boss. Just to update that we’ve found the dead woman’s nephew, Jack.’

‘That was quick. Excellent work.’ Melanie’s impressed. She only filed the details an hour earlier.

‘Well, actually, it was more of a stroke of luck. He’s been living in a squat with some other drug users. There was a disturbance early hours this morning. Some kind of fight. Neighbours called the police. Four arrests, including your man. His name’s just been cross-referenced.’

‘Right. Well, that is good luck on our part. So where is he?’

‘Local station. I’ve put it on the system. Cautioned for drug and burglary offences. They found quite a haul at the squat, by all accounts. Waiting for duty lawyer.’

‘OK. So let the investigating officer know that we want to talk to him on other matters too. Update me with the name of who’s handling the charges and I’ll give them a call.’

‘Will do.’

‘And would you be up for leading on the interview once I’ve briefed you?’

‘Sure.’

Melanie ends the call and finishes programming the route to the hotel being used by Hannah’s friends. Not far.

The traffic’s clear and Melanie’s at the reception desk within twenty minutes. Five minutes later, a couple appear with a small boy in tow. A striking family. The mother with glorious red hair. The dad tall, with the kind of laid-back good looks that make him seem familiar somehow. Like someone off the telly. The child’s fidgeting, trying to pull away. He looks around five, maybe six, wearing striped dungarees. Piercing blue eyes, matching his father’s, but clearly bored.

The woman steps forward first.

‘Is it Amy?’

‘Yes.’

‘DI Melanie Sanders. Thanks for meeting with me. I’m really sorry to intrude on your holiday but I just have a few questions. It won’t take long.’

‘Is it OK if my husband takes our son to get a drink? Little ears?’ The woman glances across at the café and lowers her voice. ‘He’s a bit tired. I don’t want him kicking off.’

Melanie nods. ‘Sure. Of course.’

She waits until the man and child are out of earshot before explaining about the neighbour’s death and the inquiries regarding their visit to Owl Cottage. ‘So did you see anyone hanging around? Anything unusual at all?’

‘No. Nothing. We remarked on how remote it was. Blissfully quiet. There was a parcel delivered. The neighbour was out. Did Hannah tell you?’

‘Yes. She did. So you’ve spoken to Hannah?’

‘Yes. I rang her after you called me. Was I not supposed to?’ The woman blushes, fiddling with her hair. ‘It’s just I wondered what on earth this was about. She said the neighbour collapsed. Sounds awful. So what happened?’

‘We’re still trying to find out exactly what happened. So you didn’t see anyone other than Hannah and her husband?’

‘No one. Like I say, it’s off the beaten track. We got lost at first actually; had to use the satnav to find it. We had a catch-up with Hannah and Sam and then we just left the parcel by the coat hooks and headed off in the two cars to the nearest pub for supper.’

‘There were no lights on in the cottage next door?’

The woman pauses and frowns, as if thinking carefully. ‘No. Not while we were there. It was still light out, mind.’

‘And were the curtains open or drawn next door?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember. We were excited to see Hannah and Sam. Didn’t notice next door. But there couldn’t have been any sign of life. Like I say – the parcel was left at Hannah’s place because there was no one home next door. That’s what the delivery guy said.’

‘OK.’

‘So is that it?’

‘Well, I’d just like to speak to your husband too, please?’

‘He didn’t see anything either.’

‘Understood. But I still need to speak to him. Tick the box.’

‘Oh right. I’ll swap over then, shall I? With our son?’

Melanie smiles. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

CHAPTER 42

DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Looking back, I will see that the biggest mistake I make at Owl Cottage is believing on this Wednesday – this penultimate night – that the worst must surely be behind us.

My thinking is this: I’ve nearly made it through the week. I’ve survived the weird stuff over the owls and the toys. I’ve doubted you and believed in you in turns, my emotions swinging from moment to moment as if to the beat of a metronome. Love. Hate. Doubt. Belief. Stay. Go.

I’m tired, and in my gut I’ve had enough. But I’ve also done the right thing: I’ve reported my worry over what really happened to the neighbour, Jenny, to the police. Any responsibility no longer on my shoulders. I’m starting to believe, maybe hope, that all this craziness at Owl Cottage is somehow linked to next door. Maybe the nephew she mentioned?

I’ve also managed, heaven knows how, to navigate things with Amy. So all I need to do now is hang on to my sanity and my strength until I can get us home, where I will feel safer. Steadier. Where I will have the time and space, with Lily back in school, to check out what’s really going on with the dreadful Sophie. Whether what Amy shared is idle gossip, gold-digging, or whether what truly went on between you two is something that I can’t even bear to think about.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed as I mull over all of this. You’ve agreed to sleep in the sitting room tonight and have taken a spare duvet and pillows downstairs. It’s getting late but I’ve left the bedroom curtains open because I love to look out on the night sky as the silhouettes of the distant trees, marching up the hill, fade slowly until all is blackness and I have to strain my eyes to make out anything at all.

I lie down, dressed still, on top of the covers, and realise that what I’m really hoping to see is an owl out there. I think back to the magnificent bird swooping ahead of the car as we were driving to the pub. It’s greedy to want more, but I do. I want another moment of magic.

I watch and I wait but of course there’s nothing. I check the clock by the bed. Eleven p.m. I can hear you moving around in the sitting room below. The scrape of wood on wood as if you’re moving the furniture. Maybe getting the sofa into a better position? I keep myself very still and listen and wait until all is finally silent again.

I get up from the bed and slowly undress, putting on pyjamas and releasing my hair from its ponytail. I glance at the chest of drawers but can’t see my brush. Never mind. I’ve already done my teeth and am too tired for a bath or shower; will freshen up properly in the morning.

We’ve told Lily that we’ll head straight out to the Gweek seal sanctuary after breakfast, so I really need to sleep. And that, of course, is the problem. The pressure.

Do you sleep well? Jessica asked me once in our Wednesday sessions.

Not bad, I lied. And you rolled your eyes and told her about my dreams. And I tried to play it down and pretend that my sleep was only disturbed occasionally. Which isn’t true.

I can’t remember what it feels like not to dread the night.

There was that phase early in our marriage when it was all so much better, but it feels a lifetime ago. I stare again out at the night scene and remember Bellagio. The incredible view from our room. We argued over whether to draw the curtains there because I wanted to wake up to the incredible view of the lake and you didn’t want to be woken by the sun bleeding into the room.

You won that one. But I opened the curtains as soon as I’d made us morning coffee from the courtesy tray, trying to persuade you to share the biscotti.

I’m not hungry.

Don’t be ridiculous. These are homemade biscotti. You don’t need to be hungry.

I feel a sigh leave my body as I try to remember the spells when my bad dreams disappeared. Was it happiness? Was that what drove them away for a while?

Glancing at my toiletry bag on the top of the dresser, I feel the familiar tightening in my chest, which I realise is both a longing for sleep and a dread of sleep. Will I dream tonight? Is it still withdrawal from the antidepressants behind my night terrors, along with my dark shadows? Paranoia? How I wish I’d remembered to taper the dose.

I don’t know how long I lie in the dark, staring out at the night sky, looking for owls, but eventually I’m right out there again. Deep in the forest.

It’s cold and I’m rubbing my arms, shivering.

Put the blanket around us, sweetie.

My father’s voice. But it can’t be. I look at my father and I see that he is trying very hard to find a smile for me. His eyes are full of love and I feel tears forming in my own.

Next – a gasp. It takes a moment for me to realise it’s my own reflex. My own noise. I’m back in the bedroom of Owl Cottage. Again, I wait and listen to ensure I’ve not disturbed you in the sitting room below. One minute. Two. There is no sound. Only stillness.

Good. But wait. I turn my head to the window and a terrible dread sweeps through my body. The curtains are now drawn. I stare and stare, trying to make sense of this. They were still wide open when I drifted off to sleep. Could I have closed them from my dream, like sleepwalking? Is that even possible?

Is my mind really so confused these days that I can do something, then completely forget?

Ever so gently, I creep from the bed to open the curtains again, wondering if this will trigger the answer. The memory of doing this earlier? Have tiredness and messing with the tablets really made my brain this foggy?

But as I sweep back the fabric, there’s no dark wood beyond the window. No forest at all. The window looks out on to the garden back at home. The neat lawn and the pergola with the clematis swirling and creeping from one wooden strut to another. The small brick outbuilding where we store the logs. The watering can upturned on a large stone in the corner of the lawn.

I look back into the room. The inside is Owl Cottage, no mistake, but the garden is our garden back home.

So I’m not awake at all. Still dreaming. I pinch at the flesh on my arm but it makes no difference. I close my eyes and wonder how to escape this, worrying what on earth is coming next if I can’t.

CHAPTER 43

DAY SEVEN

The police

Melanie Sanders reaches for the coffee in the cup slot next to the handbrake button. It’s a mismatch, the base of the cup too big. It tilts and she has a moment of panic that the whole lot is going to spill. She takes a deep breath, righting the cup and then lifting it to her mouth.

Not bad. She’s getting to know the good places for coffee and sorely needs the caffeine. It’s early. And she’s tired. Supper last night with Matthew and Sally was a wonderful surprise, but they made the mistake of letting the children fall asleep on the spare bed back at the B&B and then staying up way too late, gossiping.

Tom volunteered to drive and so she probably had more wine than she should have. But it was so very nice to see Matthew, even if both their partners rolled their eyes and teased them the whole evening.

Will you two stop talking shop?

In point of fact, Tom was only pretending to be annoyed; he liked Matthew and seemed pleased Melanie had someone to confide in. She hadn’t found the transfer to Cornwall easy at the start and, though Tom was always sympathetic, he struggled to understand the job. Whereas Matthew did. Completely.

They’d talked about the Bickerman case in more detail, and Melanie had been frank about her unease over this strange case out on the Lizard. Why was the holidaying neighbour so keen for the police to be involved? It still made no real sense. She’d explained to Matthew that she couldn’t properly justify her suspicions and investigation to her team, who clearly thought she was wasting stretched resources, but there was something not right.

Matthew got it. You should trust your gut. Never let you down before.

She glances now to the car’s media screen to confirm the police station holding Jack Mahone is just ahead. Her sergeant is all set to lead on questioning Jenny’s nephew. He’s been charged already with burglary and possession of class A drugs. His solicitor’s agreed to this early start and is staying on so they can get this interview done too. It’s all signed off.

Ten minutes later and Mel is ensconced in the small office with a screen linking to the cameras in the interview room. Jack Mahone looks decidedly unwell. He’s been checked by the doctor but is clearly paying heavily for his habit. Skinny. Ashen. Unkempt. She wonders what went awry to lead him down this path. His aunt had sounded so very ordinary. Middle-class. Educated. And moneyed. Melanie wondered what had gone wrong in her sister’s family for this to happen. Or maybe nothing went wrong at all. Maybe this was just another of life’s cruelties.

Jack has already been told of his aunt’s death and he looks shaken by it, though it is never easy to tell if someone is faking it, especially with drugs in the mix. Melanie’s experienced and her gut instinct is good, but she’s been fooled in the past and has learned always to keep an open mind.

‘So was it her diabetes? No one’s telling me what happened. Or why you want to speak to me about it. She’s my aunt. Was my aunt. You need to tell me what happened.’ He’s swinging his left leg up and down, clipping the leg of the table. Knock, knock.

‘We’re not sure yet exactly what happened, which is why we’re investigating. I understand you’d fallen out with your aunt. Not on good terms at all. Been told to keep away.’

‘Who told you that?’ His expression changes, eyes now darting around the room. The penny dropping.

‘We’ve had that confirmed by your mother. I understand you’re estranged. Over your drug problem.’ The sergeant’s voice is steady but Melanie can’t help herself. If Matthew were in there, she’d have one hundred per cent confidence. How she wishes he’d never left the force.

Jack shrugs and looks away, swinging his leg again. ‘So that’s why I’m here? Because I have a drug problem. Must be me. Easy target, so you think I might have something to do with my aunt’s death. Seriously?’ He turns to glare at the sergeant, leaning forward. ‘Look. I loved my aunt. And I love my mother. We’ve fallen out – sure. But that’s not my fault. That’s their fault.’

‘How’s it their fault?’

‘They wouldn’t help me.’

‘You mean they wouldn’t pay for your drugs.’

He doesn’t reply.

‘So did that make you angry? With your mother and with your aunt?’

Again no reply, just a jerk of the head and then a lifting of the chin.

‘Did you visit her? Break into her house? Did you want to have it out with her? Need money? Is that what really happened?’

‘No. That is not what happened. I haven’t seen my aunt in months. Fact. If anyone caused trouble for my aunt, it was probably one of the weirdos in that Facebook group.’

The sergeant frowns, glancing at the camera in the corner. Melanie feels a strange sensation, as if something in the air has changed.

‘What Facebook group is that?’

‘Seriously? You don’t know about all that?’ Smug now. ‘And you call yourself a detective?’

The sergeant just waits. Melanie holds her breath, wondering what she would say. What Matthew would say. She’s remembering Hannah’s husband, Sam, saying something about prickliness at the local shop. Or was it the garage? She hadn’t pressed him or Hannah, as it sounded something of nothing. An aside. Now she’s wishing she’d asked more.

Jack scoffs and plunges on. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You really don’t know about it? All the local busybodies, all worked up over the second homes and rentals? Giving my aunt all kinds of grief, just because she sold her stupid bloody garage.’

Still the sergeant does not reply.

Jack leans back in his chair and starts to laugh, eyes to the ceiling. ‘Some kind of cop you are.’ He laughs for a while longer but then starts to cough. Finally, he turns to his solicitor. ‘And now I’m not feeling well. I need to see a doctor. And I need some proper breakfast.’

CHAPTER 44

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

It definitely feels like morning from the light, but I’m too disorientated to be sure. By the time I get down to the kitchen, I have no idea if I’m awake or still in the dream. Nightmare. Drug-withdrawal-induced trance, or whatever this may or may not be . . .

It looks like Owl Cottage still. It feels like Owl Cottage still. I feel awake and alert and yet I’m worried what’s outside. Afraid even to look. Upstairs I must have fallen back to sleep after that weird dream. When I finally woke properly again – 6 a.m. on the clock – I parted the fabric to find the forest back in place. Owl Cottage inside and out.

Then I dozed. Woke again. If this state truly is waking, that is.

Because now that I’m downstairs, it occurs to me that this could be yet another mind trick. I could still be in the dream. I’m conscious that if I am awake, you are in the sitting room just next door and I don’t want to wake you too. There’s no sound from Lily – you let her stay up later than usual. A film on her iPad, so no surprise she’s still out for the count.

The new blind in the kitchen makes it dark. I don’t want the glare of the main light yet so I move across to the stove to turn on the light above the cooker. It’s just enough to see better and, as I turn, the gasp escapes me immediately.

The same as that very first morning. Another limp and bloody owlet on the doormat across the room.

And now I want this to be a dream still. I don’t want there to be another loss. Another mess. Again I pinch at the flesh of my arm but it hurts. It feels.

So I am awake?

I’m a little unsteady with my protective boot and catch one of the kitchen chairs with my hand to regain my balance, making a scraping noise on the terracotta tiles. There’s a sound from the sitting room and very soon the door into the kitchen clicks open, and there you are in your tee shirt and sweatpants. Messy hair. Tired eyes.

‘What’s going on? It’s still quite early. Couldn’t you sleep?’

I don’t answer, just turn my gaze back to the grim mess on the doormat.

‘Bloody hell. Not another one.’ You glance up to the window as if checking the blind’s in place, the barrier to the imaginary cat that we both know can’t get in.

‘I thought I was dreaming.’ I keep my eyes on the new baby owl. This one is smaller than the others, and bloodier.

‘What do you mean dreaming?’

‘Oh, never mind. We need to phone the police this time,’ I say, feeling in my dressing gown pocket for my phone.

‘The police? Why would we phone the police? They’re not going to do anything, Hannah. They don’t even turn out for burglaries these days from what I hear.’

‘But it may have something to do with what happened next door. I told that DI about the other ones. The dead owlets when we first arrived. She’ll want to know about this.’

You look aghast. As if I’m mad. ‘It’ll be someone with a grudge against the cottage company. Sacked cleaner or something.’

‘Is that what you think? Is that what you told DI Sanders?’

‘It is, actually.’

‘So why didn’t you say that to me before, if that’s what you think?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to dwell on it. I really did think it was a cat at first and I wanted us to have a good time here. To relax.’ You narrow your eyes. ‘Well, I’m clearing it up before Lily sees it. I’m not having her upset again. And I’m not having another trip ruined.’

I look at you for a while, leaning against the table for support. I’m trying to work out what to do and don’t want an argument. We’re nearly there. Going home after breakfast tomorrow. ‘Fair enough, but we need to keep this one. Set it aside. Just in case the police do want to check it.’ I’m already scanning my phone for DI Sanders’ number as you move to the cupboard to get the newspaper and brush and pan.

‘You serious, Hannah? You want to keep a dead bird because you think it might be evidence?’

You pause, then turn to look me right in the eyes.

‘Evidence of what, Hannah?’

CHAPTER 45

BEFORE

Hannah

I will never forget the day I discovered that my brain doesn’t work quite like other people’s. The extremity of my panic. The mad dash home from college.

There was a woman sitting opposite me on the train wearing a bright red coat, and I desperately wanted to ask her straight: Close your eyes. Think of an apple. What do you see?

But she took out her phone, became embroiled in a long conversation with her daughter. I didn’t know how to explain myself and so I lost my bottle. I closed my own eyes and tried to picture the passenger’s bright red coat, but could see only blackness. And I remember that I wanted to cry.

It’s called aphantasia – this thing that I have. I discovered it quite by chance, reading a magazine. It means I don’t have a ‘mind’s eye’ like others do. I have a very good memory but I can’t call up specific pictures when I close my eyes.

I tried to phone my mother but it went to answerphone, so I just packed a small rucksack and caught the train. I honestly thought I would have to throw in college. Give up my design dreams. How the hell could I be an interior designer if I didn’t have a mind’s eye? Did this mean I didn’t have imagination either?

On the train I googled more articles. And I started to obsess if this strange thing that most people had never even heard of was the reason I never got a handle on how to manage the dreams about my father.

Was my whole brain just plain odd?

I stared out of that train window, taking in all the colours. The blue of the sky. The many shades of green in the landscape. And it was breaking my heart, wondering if I was no longer cut out for the career I so wanted.

Colour was everything to me. I was obsessed with it. I chose design because of it. I sat there, thinking of the excitement and the awe that day I first opened my door to it.

I was probably around thirteen and newly enthusiastic about clothes. I remember the strange stirring in my stomach as I rushed downstairs to find my mother. I was dressed in a burgundy pinafore dress with a lime green blouse underneath, clothes pulled entirely at random from my wardrobe. I’d been surprised to be drawn to them in combination and had initially held them up against me on their hangers to decide which to wear. To my delight and frank amazement, I felt the two colours looked not only wonderful together but also surprisingly good on me.

I stared at myself in the mirror in glorious shock. It was as if I’d just washed my hair or tried a new face pack. My skin glowed. My eyes shone.

I was still struggling in school back then and not at all confident in my appearance. I thought I was too thin, with bony arms and spindly legs, and I hated my flat brown hair. But with a single outfit, I suddenly looked and felt entirely different. And so, yes – I flew down the stairs to share this new discovery with my mother. She was in the kitchen, gathering things on a tray, evidently ready to go through to her studio.

‘What do you think of this?’ I said, twirling in front of her.

‘Wow. That looks great, darling. Really suits you.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? The thing is – I don’t get it.’ I was moving to the mirror on the wall beside the dining table at the far end of the open-plan kitchen diner. ‘Burgundy and lime green. They shouldn’t work, should they?’

My mother laughed.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Seems you’re your mother’s daughter after all.’ She was beaming. ‘I need to show you something, darling.’ She disappeared into her studio and returned with a large book. After skimming several pages, she turned the book towards me. ‘Here. This is the best one.’

On the page was a large circle filled with every colour imaginable. A myriad of shades and tones, moving around the wheel and changing in depth from the centre to the perimeter.

‘It’s a colour wheel,’ she explained. ‘My favourite. There are lots of versions but this is the best for learning colour theory.’

‘That’s a thing?’

‘It is indeed. Come closer.’

And so she turned the page to a larger image and walked me through the theory basics. I think initially she expected me to pull away. Bored. But I was enthralled. And so she forgot the tray and the studio, instead pouring a large coffee, all the while explaining the basics of the colour wheel and the principles of combining colour to best effect. How to pick which colours might work best together. In clothes, in painting and in life in general.

She explained shades and tints and hues. The various options for colour in design. Analogous colours – those adjacent on the wheel. And complementary colours for drama – those sitting opposite each other on the wheel.

I sat there, mouth gaping, as I realised my chance selection of burgundy and lime green was on the wheel as a dramatic complementary choice. The two colours almost directly opposite on the wheel.

My mother explained about warm and cool colours and how a person’s colouring and skin tones determined which colours would suit them. I’d happened upon not only a perfect complementary pairing, but colours which perfectly suited my own colouring.

‘You’re warm-toned,’ she said, reaching out for my hand to make me examine the skin on my wrist. ‘See the golden undertones?’

It was the lightbulb flash that would ultimately lead me to my career choice. If I could change my appearance by fluke, imagine what I might achieve in life if I studied this?

‘I need to borrow this,’ I said. ‘And do you have any other books about colour?’

My mother laughed and disappeared again, returning with two more glossy tomes. I then rushed upstairs with the books and threw open my wardrobe doors. The next few hours were spent laying out clothes on my bed, experimenting with colour combinations.

I checked everything in my room and around our house against the colour wheel and features in the books. I became more confident and bolder in my choice of outfits. And I started to notice colour everywhere – especially in decor. I noticed how well my mother had put colours together in our sitting room. And the kitchen.

I noticed other people’s houses too. What worked. What didn’t.

I would stare into shop windows, taking in the colours used in displays. By my mid-teens, I knew for sure that I wanted to do this for a living. Bring the joy of colour and its myriad possibilities into other people’s lives.

And then at college, term two in my second year studying interior design, everything seemed to come crashing down with this new discovery. Aphantasia.

Which on paper means I have no mind’s eye. And which in those first few hours of panic, racing home, convinced me – wrongly, I later discovered – that this surely meant I had no imagination. Ipso facto, no place in the creative industries.

I ran from the railway station to find my mother in the garden, just back from shopping.

‘You weren’t answering your phone, Mum.’

‘Sorry. It’s on charge upstairs. What on earth’s happened? Why are you home? Are you all right?’

It took a while to reassure her that I wasn’t hurt.

‘So what is it, darling? Spit it out. What’s happened?’

‘Please. Just come into the kitchen. I need you to do something for me.’

At last she followed me inside. Sat at the breakfast bar.

‘Right. Shut your eyes.’

‘You’re frightening me, Hannah.’

‘Don’t be frightened. But this is really important to me. Please. Shut your eyes.’

She looked shaken but finally did as I asked.

‘Picture an apple. No. Keep your eyes closed, Mum.’

She squeezed her lids tighter.

‘What do you see? How clear is the picture? What is the apple like?’

‘A red apple with a green patch on the left.’

‘And you see it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Clearly?’

‘A bit blurry, but reasonably clearly. It has a stalk and a leaf attached. Why?’

She opened her eyes. I stared at her and again wanted to cry.

‘I didn’t know anyone could do that.’

‘What?’

‘Truly picture things in the mind’s eye. I thought the mind’s eye meant thinking about things. Conjuring them as an abstract concept and imagining looking at them. The sense of looking at a thing. The memory of looking at them. Not actually seeing them.’

‘You’re not making any sense.’

‘When I shut my eyes, I only see black. Completely blank.’ I closed my eyes to illustrate the point. ‘When someone says – picture an apple, I just think of an apple. I’m doing it now. I mean, I know what an apple looks like. And I can imagine exactly what it feels like to look at one. What it smells like. The whole experience of looking at an apple. But I don’t actually see anything. I thought everyone was the same.’

By the time I opened my eyes, my mother’s expression was just one of puzzlement. I told her I’d discovered this through a magazine article and was in a panic about what it meant for my future.

‘This means I have no imagination, doesn’t it? Puts me at a disadvantage in an industry that’s already oversubscribed.’

‘No, no. It doesn’t mean that at all.’

My mother tried to reassure me but was clearly thrown too. We spent some time googling more articles. Very little was known about aphantasia back then, but a few online forums were spreading the word and there were others like me – shocked to discover their ‘difference’.

For me it just felt debilitating. How could I be an interior designer if I had no mind’s eye? I felt a sense of loss – which was strange because it was over something I hadn’t even known others had.

It was not until the following morning over breakfast that I finally calmed down, thanks to my mother.

‘OK. So this is a surprise. And it’s interesting. I’ve never heard of this thing – aphantasia. But I’ve been giving it a lot of thought overnight and I really don’t see it as a negative, Hannah. You have a good memory, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I remember vivid detail. But like a film. Like replaying the past.’

‘So that means you’re a conjurer. You imagine the thought of a thing instead of just printing off a picture in your brain. That surely makes you even more creative.’

‘Nice try.’

‘No, really. Listen to me. You’ve reached twenty without even knowing this. You’re fabulous with colour and design and have an absolutely natural flair. And eye. What does it matter whether you see actual pictures when you close your eyes? You still imagine things. Imagine colour schemes and room design. It doesn’t matter how you do that. It’s still imagination. You feel it all so strongly; if anything, I would say that you feel everything way more deeply than other people. Maybe even because of this thing. Isn’t that better than just scanning an old image through your brain like most of us?’

I thought about what she was saying and it did soothe me, relative to my studies. My career. But then I suddenly thought of something else. You feel it all so strongly. If anything, you feel everything more deeply than other people. Earlier in the week at college, I’d woken in the early hours from one of my familiar bad dreams. Heart pounding, sweaty skin. Right back there in the forest in the dark with only the owls’ hooting for solace.

‘But hang on. When I dream, Mum, I do see pictures then.’ I thought again of the dream. ‘I see really vivid pictures in my sleep.’

‘In colour or black-and-white?’

‘Definitely colour. And you’re right. I actually feel it all.’ A shudder went through me. ‘Right to my bones, as if it’s definitely happening to me.’

All the colour drained from my mother’s face. And I realised something in the same moment that she did. We locked eyes. We didn’t say anything because we didn’t need to.

This was a hunch, not scientific, but maybe this aphantasia, or my strange version of it, was why my dreams over my father’s death were so vivid and distressing.

I wasn’t merely picturing something; I wasn’t relying on old pictures stored somewhere in my mind. In my sleep and in my dreams, I was actually reliving it.

‘Maybe that’s why my dreams hurt so much.’ I didn’t mean to say this out loud.

My mother’s eyes began to fill with tears and she reached out to touch both my arms. ‘Oh, darling.’

And that was the last time I talked to my mother about the dreams. Because I saw that terrible hurt and worry in her eyes.

I determined to be a designer, aphantasia or no aphantasia. But I was not going to be able to stop the depth of emotion that my bad dreams stirred up. No counselling or time was going to change that.

Rightly or wrongly, I decided in that moment that my brain was somehow wired strangely. I had no option but to be brave and to accept my lot. I needed to spare my mother and learn to live with this – the horrible fact that sometimes at night I was destined not just to ‘remember’, not just to call up old pictures, but to actually go right back into that wood. With the dark and the smells and the fear and the panic.

Not just an echo. Not just to remember but to actually feel the loss of my lovely father all over again.

Every single dream.

CHAPTER 46

DAY SEVEN

Maud

Maud’s staring out of the window, mesmerised by the waves crashing on to the rocks in the distance. ‘You know, every time I come here, I think—’

‘That you should move to live by the sea.’ As Annie interrupts, Maud turns to find her friend holding out a beautiful bright blue mug with a fish motif, the smell of delicious coffee now filling the conservatory.

‘Thank you.’ Maud laughs, reaching out for the drink. ‘Oh dear. Do I really say the same thing every time I visit?’

‘You know very well that you do. And when it gets to the evening, we drink too much wine and talk about how you should get a place down here. Then we go online and find possible houses and get terribly excited. And then you go home, time passes and we realise it would be bonkers.’

Maud tilts her head and then turns back to the sea. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not a very good friend, am I? I should visit you more often.’

‘I’m teasing, not complaining. You visited plenty when it mattered most, Maud.’ Annie signals for them to sit.

They both take in the view, the conservatory directly off the kitchen enjoying the best outlook across farmland to the sea. Maud’s thinking of the awful time when Annie’s husband died very suddenly. It’s true. She never waited for an invitation back then.

‘So are you ready to tell me why you’re really here? All of a sudden, I mean.’

Maud sighs. ‘And now I feel even more guilty, because you’re right. I’m thrilled to see you. You know that. But I do have an ulterior motive.’ Maud smooths her skirt and adjusts the cushion behind her back. ‘I have quite a lot going on, truth be told.’

‘I rather picked that up at dinner last night.’

‘And there I was hoping I was being a good listener. A good friend.’

‘You were and you are. But my turn to listen now, so spill. What’s really going on, Maud?’

‘Well – you won’t be surprised. I’m worried about Hannah. Problems in the marriage this time.’

‘Oh dear. I’m very sorry to hear that. I thought those two were pretty solid.’

‘So did I, but apparently not. Anyway. They had a spell apart and now they’ve had some counselling.’

‘My goodness. I never thought your Hannah would agree to that!’ Annie looks aghast. She knows well of Maud’s failed attempts to get Hannah to agree to counselling over her father’s death.

‘Yes. It surprised me too, but Sam was the driving force, I think. Whatever. They’ve finished all that and have decided to give it another try; I’m trying to be supportive while keeping my nose out.’ Maud pauses. ‘But that isn’t going so well. Me not meddling, I mean.’

‘I see. And I’m guessing that’s because you’re worried how Hannah will cope?’ A pause. Maud turns her head to her friend, relieved to be known this well. Annie’s one of the few she talked to properly about Hannah’s suicide attempt in her teens.

‘Yeah. She’s definitely feeling the strain – sounding a bit odd on the phone – and from what I hear, Lily isn’t doing great either. They’re at a cottage on the Lizard for a week’s break and so I headed down, hoping to catch up with you and see them en route too.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I’m sorry. I hope you don’t think I’m just using you. I guessed you wouldn’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind at all. Bonus that I get to see you. I leant on you hard when John died. Like I said, I haven’t forgotten that, Maud.’

‘So I may as well come clean. I got a phone call yesterday from the lawyer handling Hannah’s trust. The money from her father. Seems that Sam’s been in touch, trying to draw down some funds to arrange a big birthday surprise for Hannah’s fortieth. The lawyer just thought he ought to bounce it past me.’

‘OK. So that sounds quite a nice thing. A big gesture to get the marriage back on track?’

‘Yes, but the problem is Hannah isn’t coming up forty. She’s 37.’

‘Goodness.’ Annie’s expression changes completely. ‘So what exactly are you saying? That you’re worried Sam’s up to no good financially?’

‘Yes, I am. The money’s safe. The rules are watertight and the lawyer said no. Hannah’s single signatory but Sam can’t access the trust without Hannah’s agreement or me underwriting it, which of course I won’t. But Hannah doesn’t have a pre-nup. And I don’t know how to tell her about this. Or even if I should.’

‘Oh my. That really is a tricky one. Damned if you don’t and damned if you do.’

‘Exactly. I was thinking of confronting Sam first in private, which was why I hoped to see them. But you’ll never believe it. There’s been this awful scene for them right at the end of their holiday. A neighbour collapsed and died. The woman living next to their holiday cottage. Hannah found her. All horribly upsetting.’

‘Seriously? How dreadful. As if that poor girl hasn’t been through enough.’

‘Exactly. And what’s worse is the police seem to be involved.’

‘So, a crime?’

‘I don’t know. It’s all odd. Very unsettling. So here I am in Cornwall, no idea quite what to do without putting my big, fat foot in it.’ Maud sighs and locks eyes with her friend. ‘Do you remember when we came here? When Hannah had that awful time in school?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘I honestly don’t think I could have gotten through it without you, Annie.’

It was here Maud brought Hannah after the episode in her teens, when Hannah was still insisting the overdose was an accident. Maud knew otherwise. And confided in Annie on the phone. Hannah clearly needed a break from school while they decided if they should move. Try a different school?

Hannah had always loved the coast and so Annie suggested time out on the Roseland Peninsula. Just books and the beach. A chance to switch off. It worked.

‘I mean it. You were so good to us.’

Annie reaches to take Maud’s hand. ‘And I seem to remember someone staying with me for three weeks when John decided on his heart attack.’

Maud squeezes her friend’s hand in return. Life has certainly thrown curve balls at them both.

‘So what do I do, Annie? How do I stop worrying about her?’

‘If I had the answer to that, I’d write a book.’ Annie puts her coffee mug down on the small butler’s tray between them. ‘What’s it they say? You can only be as happy as your least happy child.’

Maud thinks of Annie’s own children, Peter and Samantha – both living abroad for more than a decade. ‘Do you never consider moving abroad yourself, Annie? To be nearer the grandchildren?’

‘Sometimes. The early days of the pandemic were tough. With the travel restrictions. It crossed my mind then but I don’t want to put that much pressure on the kids. To feel responsible for me, I mean. And how would I choose?’

Maud smiles. Peter and his family are in Canada, while Samantha’s in New Zealand.

‘How naive I was to imagine they wouldn’t want to leave a place as beautiful as this.’ Annie sighs. ‘Anyway. Here I have this view to die for, my own routine and my own friends. It’s a quiet life and you know that, without John, I get lonely in the winter especially. But it’s a good life and I’m fortunate. I can afford to hop on a plane and visit the children whenever I like – pandemics aside. Maybe I’ll feel differently if travelling ever becomes too much for me.’

Maud stretches her hand. She’s thinking of the niggles of the early arthritis; understands completely.

‘So’ – Annie turns to stare quite intently at Maud again, her eyebrows raised – ‘I didn’t bring it up at supper last night because you didn’t. But is this when I’m allowed to ask how things are with Ned?’

Maud flushes.

‘You have told Hannah about Ned?’

CHAPTER 47

DAY SEVEN

The police

Melanie is scrolling through posts by the Second Homes Facebook protest group. It didn’t take long to find it and she wasn’t expecting much to come of it, but the tone’s stronger than she expected.

‘Anything more on this teacher yet?’ Melanie addresses the question to her sergeant, who’s standing alongside the desk. Alison leans in to take in the photograph of one of the key campaigners, who posts regularly. Melanie messaged her earlier to check him out.

‘Background is he was forced to retire early when his village school closed. Dwindling numbers after so many of the local homes became holiday lets. He’s very bitter, as you can see.’

Melanie takes in the teacher’s hard expression, carrying a banner on a local protest, as her sergeant continues. ‘He was accused by a local cottage company of putting dog poo through the letterboxes of two rental properties just after the cleaners had prepared them on handover day.’

‘Interesting. Was he charged?’ Melanie thinks of the dead owlets. Would that be his style?

‘Well, it caused a right stink – excuse the pun, boss – but there was no CCTV and no firm evidence, so he was given a warning and – surprise, surprise – no more dog poo postings.’ The sergeant’s now skimming notes on her pad before continuing. ‘That protest march on the Facebook page made the local papers. I’ve sent you a link.’

Melanie searches for the link and clicks through. The coverage is a page spread with pictures of the march in one of the coastal towns. Quite a few people, but all pretty civilised from the pictures. Everyone very open. No one hiding their identity. And no trouble, according to the article.

‘Anything linked to the hamlet including Owl Cottage?’

‘Not specifically, but I’ve spoken to the community liaison officer. Apparently, there was some bad feeling when the dead woman, Jenny, sold her garage to the owner of Owl Cottage to make the rental more appealing. Apparently, there was gossip in the local shop. A few people were petty and snubbed Jenny over it for a while, but nothing more serious. Seems that it blew over.’

Melanie again thinks of the dog mess and then of dead owlets reported by Hannah at Owl Cottage. She also remembers Hannah mentioning some spikiness from locals. Will definitely need to press her about that now. Find out exactly what she meant.

‘Any reports of dead creatures left as protests at any properties. Vermin? Mice?’ She pauses. ‘Small owls?’

The sergeant pulls her head back into her neck. ‘No. Not come across anything like that, boss. Just the dog poo.’

Melanie remembers the voicemail from Hannah just this morning, reporting another owlet on the kitchen doormat. She’s checked with her husband, Tom, and apparently a lot of owlets are lost at this time of year – falling out of nests and attacked by predators. It was likely they were found already dead on the ground by whoever then put them in Owl Cottage.

The latest owlet planting can’t be the nephew, as he’s been in custody. Unless he’s working with someone else? But it could be one of these protesters. Or an employee or ex-employee of the rental company with a grudge. And a key.

Melanie’s sergeant continues that the bad feeling ramped up during the Covid lockdowns with some protesters reporting second homeowners to the police for breaking rules to hole up in their coastal properties.

‘Any action?’

‘Again – just a few warnings. Nothing significant.’

‘OK. I want a list of all the people who filed complaints during that period. Chase the update on the keyholder list for Owl Cottage and see if we can get any names for people vocal about the sale of the garage owned by Jenny, our dead woman. By the way, anything back yet on her post-mortem?’

‘Not yet. But any time now.’

‘OK. Soon as you hear anything.’

‘So – are we definitely treating this as a crime then, boss?’ The sergeant’s tone is hesitant, her expression wary, and Melanie is careful to keep her face and her own tone neutral.

‘What we are doing is keeping an entirely open mind until that post-mortem report comes in.’

CHAPTER 48

DAY SEVEN

Hannah

The Gweek seal sanctuary has a setting to die for. I take in the stunning views of the river but then glance back at the map in my hand.

‘Why are there penguins?’ I whisper under my breath to you. I’m puzzled, and for a moment it stirs up the familiar discomfort I suffer when we take Lily to the zoo, worrying about conservation credentials.

I read some more and my shoulders relax. The place has an impressive track record. Manages to nurse and release back into the wild scores of seals every year. Staff seem great too. When I ask a woman in a staff tee shirt if the penguins are just to entertain the children, there’s a sharp intake of breath.

‘Goodness me, no. Do you cook with anchovies?’ The woman’s walking at quite a lick alongside me, bucket in hand.

‘Yes. Sometimes.’ I’m frowning.

‘Well, listen to the talk at the penguin pool and hopefully we’ll give you something important to think about.’ She grins. ‘Sorry. Got to go and supervise the feeding. Enjoy your visit.’

Even more puzzled now, I follow Lily, who’s making her way to join a large group of people by one of the pools, waiting for a talk to begin.

Oddly you’re staring at your watch and looking around.

‘What do anchovies have to do with penguins?’ I ask, still frowning.

‘No idea. Why?’

‘Oh, just something one of the staff said. Whatever. What’s up? Wondering how long we’ll be here?’

‘No. Not exactly. Look – don’t be cross, but I might have put my foot in it.’ You’re flushing. I stare at you, yet can’t help but be drawn to the backdrop. Behind you is that glorious view of the Helford River. Blue sky and Toy Story clouds. It’s almost ridiculously pretty, and not for the first time, I feel that the beauty of the place is entirely at odds with what’s going on inside my head.

A shiver suddenly goes through me and I try to push aside what Amy told me in the pub.

The new accusation against you.

I remind myself this is our last day and we need to make it a good one for Lily. I need to bump all my worries and my questions and my digging into what Sophie is or isn’t alleging until we get home tomorrow.

‘Mummy. Are you watching?’ We both turn our heads to find Lily following a group of children to the edge of a pool where a member of staff, carrying a large bucket of fish, is explaining the names and backgrounds of each seal. Lily catches my eye and I put my thumb up and smile back; her face relaxes and she beams, then turns back to listen.

‘What do you mean – put your foot in it?’ I say as your phone bleeps with a message.

You skim it and grimace. ‘Oh Lord – they’re here.’

‘Who’s here?’

‘Amy and Adam.’

I feel a terrible sinking deep in my stomach. ‘You invited them here?’ I can’t believe it. Our last day . . .

‘No. Of course I didn’t invite them. Not exactly.’

‘So what’s going on?’

‘Adam phoned me last night about the police hassle. That DI has spoken to them. Messed up their plans yesterday. Made them wait at their hotel. Which, to be frank, I don’t understand. I mean – what has the neighbour’s heart attack got to do with them?’

I blush, realising again that was my doing. ‘I had to give the police their names. The DI asked.’

‘You didn’t mention that to me.’

I shrug, not knowing how to explain myself. I see the tension in your face and my heart’s beating faster. I so badly don’t want them here.

‘But it’s our last day,’ I say. ‘Why are they here? We said our goodbyes after the pub meal.’

‘Look. I mentioned we were coming here, just in passing. I realised I shouldn’t have said anything the very moment the words left my mouth.’ You glance towards the river in the distance and then back at me. ‘I’m sorry. As I say – I put my foot in it. Adam said George was disappointed they had to change all their plans yesterday, hang around at their hotel, waiting to see DI Sanders. I sympathised and I mentioned our plans for here. Just being polite. He asked what the seal sanctuary was like. I said we’d heard really great things.’ You pause. ‘And then he texted last night to say would we mind if they joined us to make it up to George today.’

‘So you said – why not?’

‘Well, no actually. I just didn’t reply at all. Knew you’d prefer today on our own. I was hoping Adam would think I didn’t get the text. You know – poor signal.’ You pause again. ‘But he’s just messaged to say they’re here.’

I close my eyes and feel my heartbeat racing even faster.

And then it’s all too late and I hear Amy’s voice behind me.

‘Hannah! There you are—’

CHAPTER 49

BEFORE

Hannah

Looking back, I can pinpoint the exact weekend I started to question my friendship with Amy.

It wasn’t that I stopped liking her; I’ve always liked her. It was more this growing awareness that she wasn’t the right friend to be around me while I was trying to make the big decision about my marriage.

At first our friendship just bubbled merrily along in that naive assumption of mine that we were all in the same boat. In the same phase in our marriage, which was far from ideal, stretched to say the least, but surely temporary? I was waiting for the green uplands to re-emerge as Lily got bigger. I assumed Amy was too.

After we met at those swimming lessons, we saw more and more of each other – not just me and Amy but as two couples. Other friends fell away until it was mostly just the four of us. Drinks on a Friday night to celebrate surviving the week. Pub supper once a week. All those fish pie kitchen suppers with far too much wine. It was lovely. A crutch. Something I always looked forward to. I really liked the rhythm of it – two like-minded couples navigating the tiredness of work and family together.

But after the shock of your betrayal came the shock of Amy’s over-the-top disapproval. It baffled me until the truth finally dawned what was behind it.

It was on a coastal walk that I suddenly saw it – that frisson of something in Amy that truly worried me. It was after I’d returned from Mum’s with Lily and we were in marriage counselling. Amy had already cautioned me against forgiving you. I put that down to her Catholic upbringing and just said that I hadn’t decided what to do.

I can’t remember who suggested the four of us taking the walk that weekend. Possibly me. I recall that you weren’t keen because of the long drive. But I felt fresh air and a change of scene might help. Whatever. We met at a large car park with easy access to a popular coastal walk. It was a stretch where the path was set quite far from the edge, so Lily and George were safe, providing we kept a tight hold on their hands.

You and Adam were walking in single file ahead of me and Amy, classic mums holding on tight to the kids, when Amy suddenly leant in to me.

‘Want me to just push him over the side for you?’ She tilted her head to signal to you, just ahead of us, and though she was whispering, I was worried that Lily would hear.

‘Amy!’

‘Seriously. No one would know. Everyone would think it was an accident. Then you could stop agonising over what to do. And claim the insurance.’

I turned sideways to look at her, aghast. I had expected a comedy face at the very least, but if she was joking, her tone and her expression were both wrong.

I remember getting this odd feeling in my tummy as Amy stared ahead at you and then at Adam walking in front of you. As furious as I was with you, you were the father of my child. I’d wept and raged and cursed at you in private. I’d had bad thoughts – sure. Wished ill upon you and especially upon Sophie. But I’d never wanted you dead.

I couldn’t compute why Amy would say such a horrid thing, even in jest. But as I followed her gaze properly, I realised her fury, and her inappropriate ‘joke,’ weren’t for you at all. Her eyes were strange. Cold. And she was staring daggers not at you but at Adam.

I remembered that really awkward dinner when Adam got a bit drunk and started making inappropriate comments about their sex life, and so I decided to challenge Amy the next time we had coffee together alone a few days later.

‘Up on the cliff. What was that all about? That weird joke about pushing Sam over the side. Which wasn’t funny, Amy.’

She flushed. Then shrugged. ‘Oh, come on. Do you really never fantasise about harming your husband?’

Again, I tried to read her expression; to figure out where this was coming from. Once more, the tone was off. Not girly banter. Jocular. It was way darker than that. Like on the cliff.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘sometimes in bed, when Adam’s snoring beside me, I imagine putting a pillow over his head. Honestly. I really do. I imagine what it would feel like.’ She widened her eyes. ‘Don’t expect I’d be strong enough. He’d fight back, wouldn’t he?’

‘Amy, you’re frightening me now. Because this is seriously weird talk. Tell me you’re joking.’

But she didn’t. She shrugged again and sipped at her coffee.

‘I mean it, Amy. I need to know where this is coming from. Is something going on between you and Adam that I don’t know about? That you want to talk about? Is that what this is?’

Again, I thought about that night Adam had started talking inappropriately about their sex life. I thought about how weirdly furious Amy was when she first found out about your affair with Sophie. All that rambling from her about how it would be a signal to all the men in our circle to cheat. And that if I took you back, it would be a green light to all the cheaters in the world. Like the French, Hannah? Is that how you want to live? Turning a blind eye to affairs like the French?

‘Adam and I aren’t having sex anymore,’ she suddenly blurted. ‘Not for quite a while.’

She’d never shared this before. We had joked about how hard it was to find enough energy and peace for good sex. But I thought we were joking about frequency. A lean spell.

‘You mean – not at all?’ I was genuinely shocked. My first realisation that we were not in the same boat at all; that I had been making entirely wrong assumptions. And Amy hadn’t been honest with me.

‘Not at all. Not for a very long time.’

‘How long?’

She paused. ‘More than a year. Maybe eighteen months.’

‘Right. Goodness. I had no idea things were so bad between you.’ What else could I say? I thought we’d gotten close, but sitting at the kitchen table that day, I suddenly realised we were nowhere near as close as I thought we were.

‘The truth?’ She paused to take in my expression, as if checking whether I really wanted to know. ‘OK, Hannah. So the truth is, I think – in fact I’m pretty sure – that Adam is having an affair. I’ve been thinking that for quite a while. Long before you found out about Sam. I mean – men just don’t go without sex at all, do they? So if he’s not having it with me, he must be getting it somewhere else. Don’t you think?’

Again, I had no idea what to say. The shock of it cascaded through me in a wave. I was starting to see everything between us in a new light.

Of course, I felt sorry for her, but I also felt unsettled. Because how could we be true friends if she wasn’t letting me in? I also realised that this was at the core of our new conflict. This was why she was so inappropriately furious about your affair.

She wasn’t furious at you. She wasn’t even angry at me for considering forgiving you. She was secretly furious at her own husband.

‘Look,’ I said, finally. ‘I’m so sorry to hear this, but why on earth didn’t you tell me this before?’

And that’s when she burst into tears.

CHAPTER 50

DAY SEVEN

Maud

‘You serious? You still haven’t told Hannah about Ned?’ Annie’s expression is more disbelief than disapproval. ‘But the last time we spoke about this—’

‘Look, I lost my bottle. I was going to talk to her; I promise I was. But then she turned up with Lily out of the blue after finding out about Sam’s affair. You should have seen the state she was in. If you’d seen her, Annie’ – Maud swings her whole body in her chair so she’s facing her friend properly – ‘no way could I add to what she was going through. Oh, by the way, I might be spending half my time in America.’

Annie shakes her head, glances at the view of the sea and then back at Maud. ‘I get it. I do.’ She lets out a long sigh. ‘It’s difficult. But we both know there is always going to be something up with our children. You can’t just put your life on hold, Maud. You can’t expect Ned to wait while you—’

‘Look, if he lived here, it would be different. You must see that.’

‘Would he never consider moving here?’

‘He has businesses to run. And he has his son in America. He wants us to split our time. Between New York and here.’

‘And how would that be so terrible? Sounds ideal to me.’

‘I’m going to lose him, aren’t I?’ Maud is surprised to feel tears pricking her eyes. In any other company, she would turn away and try to hide this, but with Annie, there’s no point. That’s why she’s here. Because there aren’t many people she feels this relaxed with. Annie, who helped put her back together after the loss of her own husband all those years ago. When the press was so morbidly interested in the ‘girl in the woods’. When the Roseland Peninsula, with its views and the waves crashing against the rocks, was the perfect escape. Then and many times since.

‘I don’t deserve to keep him, do I?’ Maud clears her throat and fiddles with her hair.

‘Of course you deserve him. Just as you deserve happiness. And your own life. You do know that Hannah will be pleased that you have this new shot at happiness? Which is why you must talk to her.’

‘Not while things are so bad for her, Annie. I can’t. Not while she’s going through all this.’ Maud is about to continue but clocks the exasperation on Annie’s face and closes her mouth.

‘What, Maud? No. Don’t shut me out. Tell me what you’re thinking?’

But Maud can’t say it out loud. She looks back at the sea in the distance, thinking of the phone call from the trust lawyer. Why on earth would Sam lie about the birthday? Want money from the fund secretly?

She watches the white horses crashing against the rocks. How can she talk to her daughter about Ned, who wants her to move to New York – all that way from Lily? And now, of all times? When Maud’s suddenly very afraid that Hannah’s own husband is not the man they all thought he was.

CHAPTER 51

DAY SEVEN

Hannah

‘Look, I told you. I didn’t invite them.’ You’re stony-faced as you speak, queuing with me for ice creams for the group – our excuse to step aside.

I don’t reply.

‘Is it really so bad, Hannah? Just a couple of hours?’

Yes. It is really so bad.

I look at you and decide. Enough already.

‘OK. If you really want to know, Amy’s upset me. She’s shared some new rumours about you and Sophie.’ I pause, checking that no one can hear us and wondering how far to go as the colour drains from your face. ‘She says she’s heard on the grapevine that Sophie’s stirring up trouble. Claiming you abused your position when the affair started. Is any of that true? Is she making accusations?’

You rake your fingers through your hair. ‘What on earth do you mean? What kind of accusations?’ You’re whispering too, glancing around as we step near the counter. Thankfully, no one behind us.

‘Are you still in touch with Sophie?’

‘No, I’m not. Come on, Hannah.’

‘So where’s this gossip coming from?’

‘No idea. Where the hell did Amy hear this?’

‘She knows someone who’s temped for your firm.’

‘Well, it’s complete nonsense. Malicious non—’

‘So, what can I do you for?’ The ice cream server raises her voice and I sense she’s repeating herself.

‘Sorry. Sorry.’ I step forward to the counter. ‘Five cones, please. All vanilla.’

‘One scoop or two?’

‘Two,’ I say, moving to the side as you struggle with your wallet.

By the time we get the ice creams back to the group, Lily seems reserved suddenly. Her demeanour slightly off. I find a smile and tilt my head. ‘What’s going on, honey? You seem a bit quiet. You OK? We’re going to the penguins next.’ Lily’s been loving the seal sanctuary and I don’t want her last day spoiled. Such a shame you told Amy and Adam. Ruined it all.

I turn my head to watch you handing the other ice creams over.

‘Why haven’t you got an ice cream, Mummy?’

‘It’s OK, darling. I didn’t want one.’ I smile again. ‘So, what’s up, honey? You can tell Mummy.’

Lily licks her ice cream before replying. ‘Katie doesn’t really like boys.’

A shiver goes through me. This again. We haven’t heard much about the imaginary friend for a couple of days.

‘Oh, right. Why’s that?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Well, never mind. Katie doesn’t have to talk to George. Do you think you can manage? George being here, I mean? Just for today?’

‘OK. I’ll try. But I thought it was just us this trip.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

I look into my daughter’s face and kiss her on the forehead but she doesn’t smile, just gazes into the distance. I think again of Katie. What’s really going on in your head, my little Lily? And then I turn again to watch you closely, more certain that I’m asking the question of the wrong person.

Fast-forward another hour and we all agree that the penguins were one of the highlights. As for the anchovy mystery? The young woman feeding the penguins explained that, in the wild, the Humboldt penguins feast on anchovies and sardines. But supplies are dwindling, so the seal sanctuary is asking people not to buy sardines and anchovies from the Peruvian fisheries.

You caught my eye as this was shared, and Lily was on the case immediately. ‘Do we eat the penguins’ sardines, Mummy?’

‘I hope not, but I promise I’ll check the tins in future, lovely.’

‘Good.’

After more snacks and rewatching the films of seals released into the wild, we all decide it’s time to move on. I feel relief, wanting to be gone. Enough now. My foot’s aching and I hate the reminder of the confusion over how my injury even happened.

I watch you, bracing myself for awkward goodbye hugs with Amy. But there’s something going on. You’re in deep conversation with Adam, Amy listening in the background.

I feel another ripple of unease as you glance at me warily. It’s Amy who finally marches across to explain.

‘Right. So we have this plan to give your foot a rest. And let you get on with the packing in peace.’

‘What do you mean – a plan?’

‘We missed a big trip out yesterday when that policewoman held us up at the hotel. So here’s an idea: Adam fancies a couple of hours fishing. He’s got the kit in the boot.’ She winks. ‘His reward for playing along today. Seals not his thing. So, anyway. How about he takes Sam with him, and I drop you back at Owl Cottage for a nap and then a chance to start your packing later while I get the kids out of your hair? Take Lily and George for a cream tea at that farm nearby. Give you a break.’

I’m flabbergasted. I thought we were going to finally get some peace on our last day. Just the three of us. ‘Well, it’s our final evening, Amy. I’m not sure—’

You step forward too. ‘I’m not sure about this, guys—’

‘This is best for Hannah,’ Amy says, quite firmly. ‘She’s my friend and she looks tired.’ She’s staring at me. ‘Doesn’t she look tired, Sam?’

You shrug.

‘Look,’ she says. ‘I can take Hannah and Lily in our car. You can drive Adam. That OK with everyone? We’ll regroup back at your cottage. Yes?’ Amy has her eyebrows raised.

I’m about to protest again when she leans in closer to whisper. ‘Please go with this, Hannah. There’s something I really need to say to you.’

I take in her expression, the pause and the very deliberate widening of her eyes, and there’s a surge to my stomach. A rush of adrenaline.

I feel short of breath suddenly, overwhelmed with shame of it. The hypocrisy. The lies. My lies.

And there are two words screaming inside my head.

She knows.

Amy knows.

CHAPTER 52

DAY SEVEN

Hannah

Did I always fancy Adam? Deep down?

And more dangerously – did it show?

Brushing my teeth, I ask myself these questions. Tossing and turning in bed between nightmares, I ask myself these questions. Sitting in therapy – is there anything else you want to say to Sam here – I ask myself these questions.

It’s torture.

The problem for me is that any flirting, if there ever was any flirting, was always innocent on my part and entirely harmless in that life before. Back in the day, when I thought that you and I were secure. When I thought that Amy and Adam were secure too.

I thought you were someone who would never betray our marriage. And so I was rock-solid loyal too.

And then, when I found out about Sophie, found out that our relationship was never quite what I thought it was, I lost my compass. Which means that I have no way of knowing what to think about anything. Whose fault it is, I mean . . . What happened between me and Adam.

In the car I feel sick as Amy hands Lily and George headphones each to plug into a film on George’s iPad.

It’s not long before we’re heading back to Owl Cottage. At first I’m silent; I press the button to lower my window, that sick feeling still surging deep in my stomach. And then Amy clears her throat.

‘OK, so this is tricky for me, Hannah, but I feel I just need to get this said. Get this over with.’

‘Look. Whatever it is, I don’t think we should be talking about anything grown-up with the kids in the car.’

‘They can’t hear. George—’ She turns her head slightly. ‘Would you like chocolate, George?’

No reply.

‘See?’ She turns to me. ‘Film up loud. They can’t hear.’

‘Please. Is this about Sophie? Because I’ve decided I just want to get home before I check out what you told me – the rumours, I mean. I just need to rest. To pack. And then to get us home.’

‘OK. Cards on the table. Friend to friend. When I found out about the Sophie rumours, I was going to suggest you maybe go to your mum’s or something. Take some time out while you investigate, or we both try to find out what’s really going on.’ She glances at my boot. ‘That’s why I kept contacting you. The messages.’ She pauses. ‘But you didn’t reply and I was worried. Then I turn up to tell you, and just look at you. You’re injured. And you look as if you’re not sleeping, either.’

I don’t say anything.

‘But something else has happened now. Something I need to talk to you about.’

‘About Sophie?’ I’m whispering now.

‘No. Not her. About me. Me and Adam.’

All at once I can feel my pulse in my ear. In my chest, too, as the seat belt suddenly feels too tight. I turn again to the window, desperate for more air for my lungs.

I think of me and Adam in my bedroom. The kiss. That moment when I kissed him back. The shame and the guilt of all of it . . .

Again, I feel truly sick.

‘You know I told you that I thought Adam’s having an affair?’ She’s whispering.

‘Please. Not with the children in the car—’

‘They can’t hear.’ She’s lowered her voice even more. ‘Well, what I didn’t tell you is that I hired a private investigator.’

I close my eyes and feel my head spinning. Amy keeps talking but I feel dizzy now as well as sick. Again I turn to the open window, begging her in a whisper not to continue with the kids in the car, but she keeps going.

I hear her talking in a low voice but it is as if I can no longer make out what she’s saying. My body now in its own bubble; all the while the most dangerous words booming inside my head.

She knows.

Amy knows.

CHAPTER 53

DAY SEVEN

The police

Melanie is just back in her own office when an email comes through: Urgent. Post Mortem Jenny Mahone.

She opens the message to find just a few lines, ending with a request for her to call. Melanie dials instantly.

‘Audrey Wilson.’

‘Hello, Audrey. DI Melanie Sanders here. I just got your message.’

‘Ah yes. I rather thought you’d want a chat soonest.’ There’s a pause. ‘Quite a turnaround. Seems I must congratulate you on your instincts, Inspector. Never seen a case like this myself.’

‘Well, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for you rushing this one through.’ Melanie is very careful with her tone. She needs Audrey Wilson on side. No gloating; no salt in wounds.

Just like her local team, the pathologist was sceptical when Melanie first raised her theory of foul play. But she agreed to take a second look.

‘Well, I have to admit, I didn’t expect to find anything. Like I say – I’ve never seen a case like this and there was nothing amiss at the preliminary check. But I’ve examined the body very thoroughly again as you requested and I found two additional injection marks, in the buttocks. Easy to miss when you’re not looking for them. There was just the tiniest evidence of bruising at one site. Led me to the other. I’m now running the tox report a second time, given the new context.’

Melanie again scans the email. ‘So this does raise new questions? About the cause of death.’

‘Well, the actual cause of death is still heart failure, most likely triggered by the insulin overdose. But we are definitely into suspicious circumstances now. From her medical records and other injection marks, the patient routinely delivered her insulin in her abdomen. No previous problems. According to her GP, a model patient. Had the diabetes very well controlled.’

‘When can I have the full report, do you think?’

‘Tox updates tomorrow, I hope. But no promises. And insulin’s a tricky one. I warned you of that.’

Melanie narrows her eyes. She knows from her own reading that proving what dosage of insulin was given and tracking its precise impact on the body is notoriously difficult. But she has what she hoped for. Evidence of injection in the buttocks. No way would Jenny have done that herself . . .

‘Thank you. I have what I need for now. Let’s talk again when you know more.’

Melanie hangs up to see a new text from Matthew.

Found something very interesting on Owl Cottage.

There’s a link attached, and when Melanie clicks on it, she feels a wave of complete confusion as she stares at the picture.

It’s Owl Cottage in theory. But also not Owl Cottage . . .

What the hell does this mean?

CHAPTER 54

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

‘Look, I’m going to leave him, Hannah. I’ve decided that for sure. So it doesn’t matter what you say. I just want to know what you know. What he was doing at your house.’

We’re back in the kitchen of Owl Cottage, the children in the sitting room with drinks and a cartoon. I move over to the door to click it closed, my heart racing.

Amy’s revelation has floored me. The private investigator has turned up evidence of an affair between Adam and his hairdresser. His bloody hairdresser. A woman called Emily. Pretty. Young. Single.

I can’t quite believe it. Adam and you, both up to the same nonsense. The shock on my face is genuine, but not for the reasons Amy imagines.

‘Are you sure?’

‘No mistake.’ She showed me the photographs the PI sent her of Adam arriving and leaving Emily’s home multiple times. Dates when he said he was away for work. There’s no mistake. One of the pictures has them in a clear embrace on the doorstep.

But the PI by chance also got a photograph of Adam calling round to my home. That one time; that one, appalling time.

She shows me the picture again, holding out her phone. Adam on my doorstep in his running gear.

I go cold. ‘The only time I can remember Adam calling round without you was to pick up a parcel.’ On the spot, it’s the only thing I can think of. We’re not on the same lane in our village, but our homes are not far apart, and so I agreed for us to be a ‘safe second option’ for important parcels.

My mind’s still a blur with this new twist. Adam with his hairdresser. You and Sophie. Adam and Emily. I think of the sham of us all. Our friendship. My naive assumption we were all OK, when none of us ever were.

‘I think he said it was something for your birthday.’ I’m still in a panic, trying to think on my feet; Amy’s birthday is around the same time.

Amy’s shoulders suddenly relax. ‘Oh right. My present.’ She looks away towards the range cooker and back at me, her lip trembling. ‘I’m so sorry, Hannah. It’s just with everything I’ve found out, I’m suspicious of every bloody thing. I honestly thought that maybe you and he—’

I widen my eyes to signal horror.

‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Forget I ever said that. I’m just all over the place.’

‘It’s OK. I know how awful it is to find out. About the hairdresser, I mean.’ I stretch out to squeeze her arm. ‘So you’re going to leave him?’

‘Yes.’

Relief floods through me. ‘So why come away with him to Cornwall? Why put yourself through this week with him?’

‘I told you. We don’t have sex. We don’t even sleep in the same room most of the time, so I can busk it; and I have to think of George. Also, I need to buy some time to speak to a lawyer.’ She turns away to look at the window and then back at me. ‘We don’t all have the luxury of money behind us, Hannah. I need to figure out how to handle this so I come out OK. Financially, I mean.’

I feel my face flush. She’s not the first one to underline the privilege of my position. The trust fund. The truth? I can’t imagine money worries on top of the trauma of a divorce; I remember that night I ran away to my mother when I first found out. Money wasn’t even on my mind.

‘I need to work out what he’s thinking. Planning.’ She’s looking directly at me now. ‘So he didn’t come round to your house to confide in you? Ask advice? Fish for information? Whether I was suspicious of him? Anything like that?’

‘No, no, of course not. Adam knows I’m your friend first. He wouldn’t dare speak to me, would he?’

‘Sorry. Like I say, I’m all over the place. Forget I said that.’ She pauses. ‘But do you think he might have spoken about this to your Sam? Them both up to the same tricks, I mean?’

I have no idea what to say to this.

‘Maybe that’s why he’s so keen for them to go off fishing.’ Now she lets out a huff of air, narrowing her eyes as if her mind is whirring. ‘Do you mind if we let them? Get him out of my hair while I figure out if I can definitely make it through this week for George’s sake.’

‘Sure. You can stay here with George.’

She looks at the sitting room. ‘No. I’ve promised George the farm visit. I’ll take Lily too. Give you a break to take a nap and start the packing.’

‘I’m not sure Lily will want to.’ I remember her story that her imaginary friend Katie doesn’t like boys.

‘No. It’s all sorted. I spoke to her at Gweek; told her there was a cream tea going and she’s all for it.’ She pushes her hair behind her ear. ‘And do you mind if I ask one more favour?’

My heart sinks as my phone goes. The screen confirms it’s the police. DI Melanie Sanders.

‘I’m sorry, Amy. But I’m going to need to take this.’

DI Sanders tells me she’s short of time and asks if she can call at the cottage at 6 p.m. to have a quick word, as she knows we’re going home in the morning.

‘Has something happened?’

‘I’ll tell you more later. So is six o’clock OK? I won’t take much of your time.’

I check my watch to see it’s nearly 3 p.m. Suddenly I like the idea of being left on my own. I don’t want Sam around when the police call again. I have to weigh up just how much to tell DI Sanders of my broader suspicions.

‘Yes. That’s fine.’ I ring off and turn back to Amy. ‘Just the cottage company, checking on something.’ I don’t know why I don’t tell her the truth, but I remember how cross she was at their day being ruined the last time I liaised with the police. ‘So – a favour. You wanted a favour, Amy?’

‘Yes. When they come back from fishing, will you ask Sam if Adam’s confided anything?’

I feel my face flushing again. With shame. And horror. And also this overwhelming sense of sadness for Amy’s situation. A small part of me would like to just tell her the truth. But how can I explode that new bomb in her life?

‘I doubt Adam will confide in Sam, Amy.’

I look at her and realise I just can’t do it: I can’t tell her why.

CHAPTER 55

BEFORE

Hannah

Only now do I realise how naive I was. There was this other time – a social at ours when Adam overstepped the mark. I should have put him firmly in his place. But I didn’t. Too embarrassed.

It was not long after he got drunk round at their place, pushing his luck discussing tastes in the bedroom.

We’d invited about half a dozen couples for lunchtime drinks and nibbles to celebrate you getting a promotion at work. Not a full-on party, per se. I’d intended it to be casual. I made it lunchtime because I wanted our evening free. But you know how these things go. People drank and stayed longer than I’d expected. Somehow it was early evening and so I realised nibbles weren’t going to cut it and decided to put some more food on to help soak up the booze. French sticks, pâté and cheese. Emergency home-made burgers for later.

I was in the kitchen, sorting all this out, when Adam came in as I was slicing the bread. Weirdly, he came to stand really close to me. Not just next to me but right up close. At first, I just stepped away a bit, gabbling that I’d better get some food down people, before we were all falling about.

‘So can I help?’ He tilted his head and looked me right in the eyes. No blinking. I remember that it felt awkward, the way he was looking at me. The not-blinking. I rather hoped that someone else would come into the kitchen. But most of the others were out on the patio still.

‘Sure. You can be in charge of the cheeseboard.’

And then he stepped really close to me again and put his splayed hand firmly on the base of my spine, pressing it into the flesh. He kept his hand there, leaning in to whisper, ‘Always happy to help you, Hannah.’ He circled his palm on my back and pressed firmly again. ‘You know that.’

I pulled back to disengage from his hand. At the time I was more embarrassed than anything; thought he’d just had one too many. ‘Right. So all the cheese is wrapped in the fridge. I’ll get a couple of cheeseboards for you to lay it out. Grapes are in the bowl on the dresser. I’ll sort out some pâté and get some burgers going too. That will soak up the booze.’

He didn’t say anything for a moment but just stood very still and again stared at me. And then, finally, he smiled. No. There is an impression of his face imprinted in my brain and I dig out the memory often, to try to process my exact part in it all. My naivety? Or more plainly – my guilt?

Because it wasn’t quite a smile.

It was something else.

CHAPTER 56

DAY 7 – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Why does the brain block things? Fear? Fracture? A combination of the two?

Deep down, I guess I’ve always known there’s something missing from my account of what happened in the wood with my father.

Did your father say anything? Was he conscious? Do you remember any chalk crosses on the trees?

In the hospital after it happened, I would feel this incredible tightening in my chest when the police pressed me with more questions. I could tell from their faces there was something missing, but when I tried to take my mind back into the wood to find answers, my chest muscles would grip even harder until I couldn’t breathe properly.

It’s OK, Hannah. My mother’s voice. You’re upsetting her. Leave her alone. Always my protector.

To make them back off, I just recited what felt safe. It was all very quick. I just don’t remember.

It was only in the night, in my dreams, that the terrible waves of fear and confusion would overwhelm me.

What else was there?

It was partly why I turned down the counselling. The fear of what I might find.

I shudder as I push the memory of all this away, standing in the kitchen of Owl Cottage, thinking of the owls. Long ago. And here again now. I’m staring at the owls swooping across the cotton of the curtains, my vision blurring. I blink and move my gaze from the fabric to the chinks in the new blinds which are supposed to keep out the cat which I’ve long realised doesn’t exist.

How much will I tell DI Sanders later about my suspicions of you, my own husband? That in my confusion and my darkest moments, I’ve genuinely wondered if you put the bloody owlets on the mat to spook me. Upset me. Make me think I’m going mad. That maybe you have wanted my money all along. That maybe, just maybe, you could be behind the weird stuff with the toys. My ‘accident’ when the lights so mysteriously failed, even though there was no power cut.

Will I dare tell her any of this? About your affair? The fact that I have this big trust fund?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

I clear my throat and find that I’ve instinctively put my palm to my chest. My heart rate’s a little fast, but not out of control yet. I breathe in and out slowly to steady myself.

I’m thankfully alone again at last. You and Adam have gone off in our car to fish off rocks. I can’t remember where. Back by seven o’clock, you said.

Amy’s taken Lily and George to a dairy farm which has a special café. Ice cream parlour too. A couple of hours tops, she said, but I’ve asked her to give me until 6.30 p.m. as I don’t want DI Sanders here when she gets back. And I’ve already said that we can’t do supper together, as I’m just too tired. Too much to do.

After this final outing, I need them to leave us be.

I glance at the clock above the Rayburn stove. Four thirty. No time now for a nap. I’ll crack on with the packing before DI Sanders arrives and make sure she leaves before the others get back.

I still don’t know how much I’ll say to her. All I know for certain is how desperately I want to get home now. Away from this place.

Away from all of this.

CHAPTER 57

DAY SEVEN

Maud

Maud’s sitting in her car, stress-eating a pasty.

The out-of-character treat’s still too hot and so she’s keeping it in its paper bag to protect her fingers. She should wait for it to cool but it smells too good. With the next greedy bite, she takes in a slither of paper. She struggles to pick it from her mouth, a large chunk of hot, peppery swede dropping on to her pale trousers.

Damn. She sucks in air to try to cool her mouth and reaches into her pocket for a tissue to scoop up the hot chunk of vegetable. She pops the debris into the waste slot between the two seats and pauses.

The pasty is, in truth, just to kill time. And nerves. She’s now just twenty minutes from Owl Cottage and has pulled into the car park of this roadside farm shop, needing a beat, a pause, to gather her thoughts and work out what on earth to say to Hannah. Annie has persuaded her to ‘bite the bullet’ and call in unannounced. The plan being she will challenge Sam on the quiet over his call about the trust fund. She will then offer to help with all the packing and will try to speak to Hannah about Ned. Annie’s right. She can’t keep putting this off.

There is never going to be a good time, Maud.

Maud pushes the pasty a little further from the paper bag and nibbles again at the edge, closing her eyes at the joy of pastry. She knows that Annie has her best interests at heart. She’s a good listener. But Maud still feels nervous about Hannah’s reaction.

Maud turns her head to the side, taking in the display outside the shop. All manner of fresh vegetables and produce in jars plus a stand with postcards and seaside paraphernalia. Fishing nets and flip-flops. The smell of the pasty and the bright plastic of the holiday gear remind her of the bucket-and-spade trips she enjoyed with Hannah in the years after they lost her father.

Maud took Hannah abroad at first. Fancy five-star resorts. But there seemed to be an expectation to put the children in ‘kids’ clubs’, leaving the adults to enjoy themselves as couples. But Maud, without a partner, didn’t want adult time alone, and so the smart holidays weren’t quite the fit she’d expected.

So one year she took a cottage in Cornwall on the Lizard Peninsula. She and Hannah had the best time ever. The old-fashioned fun of sandcastles and bodyboarding, often staying on the beach even in the drizzle. The trip then became an annual ritual, and cream teas and pasties were a part of the joy.

Often, back then, they would tack a day or two on the end of the trip to visit Annie on the Roseland Peninsula, and Maud feels a sadness now that she has let the rhythm of the visits to Cornwall slide. She wonders if the same happy memories are the reason Hannah plumped for Owl Cottage.

For now she glances at the dashboard clock, takes another large bite from the pasty, again sucking in air to cool a large chunk of potato, and then wipes her left fingers on a piece of tissue before pressing the media screen to reprogramme the satnav.

It confirms just eighteen minutes to Owl Cottage. Maud starts the engine and wonders if she dares drive and eat at the same time.

CHAPTER 58

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

I’ve finished filling the first of two cases on the double bed when I hear the knocking on the front door.

Odd. I check my watch. Bit earlier than DI Sanders said. Also, it’s not the sound of the metal knocker. More like knuckles on wood. For a moment I feel a shiver of unease, remembering the guestbook. Knock, knock, Hannah. Who’s there?

I glance at the bedside table and only now realise I’ve left my mobile downstairs. I put it down to make a snack. A sandwich. I frown as I head back down to the kitchen, careful with my boot on the stairs – all the while assuming DI Sanders is early for some reason.

Once in the kitchen, I scan the work surfaces. Didn’t I leave my phone next to the sink? I move closer to the window so I can use the angle to quickly confirm it’s the police before unlocking the door. But, weirdly, there’s no one there.

Another wave of unease. This again. I stand very still and listen. Nothing. I remind myself that I’m safe. The rarely used back door off the utility is locked. The only key we have is hanging on its hook. The bolt’s still across the top of the front door. No one can get in. I turn my head to check the time on the clock by the Rayburn against my watch. Only five o’clock. Again, I look this way and that, trying to spot my phone . . .

‘Looking for this?’

The shot of adrenaline is instant. Panic courses through me. I glance to the door, the bolt still in place at the top. He must have knocked on the wood from the inside.

‘How did you get in?’

‘What?’ He’s holding up my phone still. ‘Not pleased to see me? Come on, Hannah. Don’t let’s play games anymore.’

CHAPTER 59

DAY SEVEN

The police

Melanie Sanders takes in the bored stare of the sheep in the trailer ahead as a bleep signals an incoming call. The radio volume’s immediately suppressed and she checks the media screen. It’s Matthew.

‘Great timing. How are you? I was going to call you, actually. Have an update on my case.’ Melanie lets out a sigh of frustration as she speaks, her path still completely blocked, the lane too narrow to allow overtaking.

‘Great minds,’ he says. ‘I’ve sent you a link to another very strange picture. Something seriously odd going on with that cottage.’ Matthew sounds as if he’s chewing. ‘I’m trying to check out the owners for you. But it’s a limited company and the website I need is down at the moment. Essential work, blah blah.’

‘You billing me for this?’ Melanie’s teasing.

‘Might do.’ Matthew laughs. ‘Though don’t tell Sally. She says I’m not to work for you; doesn’t like me getting shot.’ His tone is trying to make this a joke, but Melanie feels a shiver of unease. She’s still thinking of their last case together – the last time she talked Matthew into official freelancing. What a great job he did. Saved the day. That gunshot to his shoulder—

There’s a pause, and Melanie can hear crunching, Matthew’s end. ‘You eating?’

‘Toast.’

‘Always toast with you, isn’t it? You’re making me hungry now. I’m driving, by the way. On the way to Owl Cottage to have another word with the witness – the woman next door – before they go home. But I’m running late. Stuck behind a tractor.’

‘So what’s your update?’ Matthew’s voice is still distorted by chewing.

‘That post-mortem review I pushed for. It’s only gone and confirmed foul play. Needle marks in the victim’s buttocks. Waiting on tox report to confirm.’

‘Wow.’ Matthew coughs to clear his throat. ‘So it really could be a deliberate insulin overdose?’

‘Looking that way. So what did you find? I still don’t know what to make of the last photo you sent. I’ll check the new one when I stop properly. And by the way, I was teasing. We really can pay you, if you like. Though it would be a lot easier if you just re-joined the force. Less paperwork for me.’

Matthew ignores this. Ploughs on. ‘All very, very odd. The cottage has had three different incarnations with at least three different agencies in recent years.’

‘Maybe just mixing it up? Trying to get a better rental rate?’

‘Possibly. But I’m worried this is something else. Wait until you see the new photo I found. Even more bizarre than the last one.’

CHAPTER 60

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

‘You need to leave.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

I glance again at the clock above the Rayburn. ‘The police are on their way here. Due any minute. Over the neighbour.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Adam holds up my phone again, tipping it from side to side as if to taunt me.

I think of the last time. In our house. In our bed. A wave of shame and horror passes right through me.

‘So where is he?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘Still fishing, I assume. I’m getting petrol and snacks. Officially, I mean. To buy us a little window.’

Again, I glance at the bolt across the front door. It’s too far. I’d be too slow. I think of you, my heartbeat racing. No way would you let him drive our car.

‘OK, Hannah. We’ve probably only got half an hour.’ He puts my phone inside his upper jacket pocket and moves towards me. ‘So let’s not pretend this isn’t going to happen.’ I lurch backwards, bumping the back of my upper thigh into the edge of the kitchen table.

He steps close and puts his left hand out to smooth my hair back from my forehead. ‘Careful. You’ll hurt yourself.’

Panic rising, I jerk my head back and lunge with my hand to grab his chin and try to push it upwards. Away from me. But he’s faster. Much stronger. Grabs both my hands and twists them out to the side.

I scream but he pushes me hard in the chest, his other hand then lunging to cover my mouth. I try to bite him but his grip’s much too tight around my face.

‘Oh, come on. What’s the matter with you, Hannah? No fun anymore?’

Now he pushes me again, even harder, backwards on to the kitchen table. I’m shouting into his clenched hand and pushing and struggling all at the same time. But it’s no good.

‘I mean it; I need you to stop this, Hannah.’

He keeps his left hand gripped too tightly around my mouth, so I’m terrified about getting enough air. Passing out.

And then I hear it. The sound of the metal zipper. And I can feel the blackness all around me, caving in on me as I struggle. And am filled with dread. And fear.

And this terrible shame.

CHAPTER 61

BEFORE

Hannah

It was a Thursday. The last time.

A few weeks after I found out about your affair with Sophie. I’d not long returned from my mother’s and my head was all over the place.

We hadn’t started counselling and I was just concentrating on getting through each day.

I think I was still in shock – at the point where I felt sort of ashamed of what had happened to our marriage; as if it were my fault you’d betrayed me. I didn’t want people to gossip, and so Amy was the only one I told. She went ballistic. Said she could recommend a good lawyer. Thought it was a no-brainer; that I would leave you.

And so that day, that Thursday, we were like strangers sharing the same house. Separate bedrooms. Barely talking, except to divide chores and work out who would do what for Lily.

That morning we got up separately. Ate breakfast separately. You went to work. I took Lily to school. And I was just tidying up the kitchen before going through to my office when there was a knock at the door. I imagined a courier.

But there instead on the doorstep was Adam in his running gear, his phone in one hand, a small sports bag in the other.

‘I’m so sorry, Hannah. Crisis. Our bloody shower’s packed up. I’m on to the plumber but he can’t come until Monday.’

I frowned. Not quite understanding.

‘Look. I hate to ask, Hannah. It’s just we gave up the gym membership. One of Amy’s cost-cutting ideas.’

Still I didn’t twig. ‘Sorry. I’m not following.’

‘I’ve got a big meeting at eleven o’clock and I stink. So I was wondering if I could use your shower?’

‘Oh, right.’ I took in the sweat patches under his arms.

‘I’ve tried Sean’s, but they’re out.’

I do remember a tremor of unease then. Momentary conflict between manners and the awkwardness. Adam on the doorstep. No Amy and no Sam. Adam who had put his hand on my spine once at our house. But his hurry, his expression of panic and his reference to Sean helped. Our house not his first port of call.

‘So – is it OK? I’m so sorry. I’ll be really quick. Out of your hair in no time. It’s just I can’t be late for this meeting. No showers at the office.’

‘Oh right. I see. Of course.’ I stepped back, opening the door wider.

It was only once he was inside that I realised he’d need to use our en-suite. The family bathroom had a roll-top bath with just a hand shower for Lily’s hair. Not great pressure.

‘You’ll need to use the en-suite.’ I felt yet more awkward as I said this. Couldn’t remember if I’d even made the bed. ‘You’ll need to excuse the mess. Still catching up on things. It’s the main bedroom. First on the left.’ By this time, he was already heading up the stairs ahead of me.

My instinct now was to stay downstairs. I do remember that it felt increasingly uncomfortable as it dawned that I had my friend’s husband in my house. About to take a shower. So yes – I decided to stay out of his way. Downstairs. But the problem is Adam then called out, asking if it would be too much trouble to have a towel? ‘I’m sorry. I should have thought to bring one from home. Amy will kill me when I tell her.’

I walked up the stairs behind him and watched him go into our bedroom while I turned right to the airing cupboard to fetch a fresh towel.

He didn’t shut the bedroom door and so I stood in the doorway with the towel. ‘I’ll put it on the bed. Leave you to it.’

But he turned then and moved back to stand very close to me, looking at me, right in the eyes.

‘Thanks for this. And by the way, I meant to say before. How sorry I am, Hannah, about what’s going on with Sam.’ He paused. ‘Amy told me.’

I felt this terrible flip in my stomach.

‘I know it’s not my business, but it must be awful. And if you ask me, he’s off his head.’ His eyes were wide and he sort of blushed. I was even more embarrassed because I could feel tears pricking my eyes. Like when someone asks you if you’re OK. When you’re not.

And that’s when it happened.

Adam leant forward and put his hand up to my face. It was almost unbearable, the tenderness of that touch to my face, given everything I had been through the last few weeks. He kept his hand on my face for a few seconds, just looking at me while I was concentrating on not crying, so that when he suddenly leant in to kiss me, I was for a moment disarmed.

And this is where the shame and the confusion come in. Because I did let him kiss me. And for a short while – I don’t know how long – it was nice. I can’t lie. It was like being reminded that I was still desirable.

This man, this good-looking man wanting to kiss me. When my husband wanted to kiss someone else.

But then Adam started to push harder against me. Kissed me harder. He started to move his hands down over my body and it was like waking up.

‘Sorry. Sorry. No – Adam.’ I pulled back. ‘You need to go.’ I felt so ashamed for letting the kiss happen. Like a snap of the fingers. My brain properly catching up on what was happening here.

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I absolutely do. Please. I’m sorry. Just go.’ Suddenly I thought again of how he was with me at that social at ours. His hand on my back that one time. And I absolutely knew in that moment that I shouldn’t have let him in. That I’d sent the wrong signal.

I stood there and I kept saying, ‘Sorry, you need to go.’ I felt naive. Stupid. Compromised. And here’s the thing: I fully expected him to do that. Go.

But he didn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Ever since, I’ve imagined myself talking to the police. Or in court. With him saying: She invited me in. She let me kiss her . . . She let me put my hand on her spine once too.

Everything after the kiss is just this dark and terrible blur. I started to raise my voice, telling him much more firmly to ‘get out’ but he was suddenly grabbing me and putting his hand tight across my mouth.

‘Now – come on, Hannah. We don’t want the neighbours to hear.’

He was strong – so much stronger than I realised – and things spiralled very, very quickly. I have turned it over a million times since and I still feel desperately ashamed because I don’t know why I wasn’t able to stop him.

I fought hard. I remember trying to lash out. I remember managing to hit him with one arm and him grabbing the wrist and squeezing it tightly. I remember trying to knee him, wishing that I wasn’t wearing a skirt.

Most of all, I remember that it was fast. Angry. He was very angry and rough. Entirely careless of me. Barking instructions. As if I was nothing.

This way. Move, Hannah.

It was like this complete darkness creeping in from the walls of the room, crushing me to the bed.

I remember that it hurt. That I couldn’t breathe. That if I didn’t do what he said, he pulled back and paused but with his hand still over my mouth, and hit me in the stomach. Like a warning. So in the end, I clenched my eyes tightly closed and just prayed for it to be over so that I could call the police.

I couldn’t know there was worse to come.

Because when he’d finished, when he finally let go of me, I expected him to bolt. I didn’t scream when he took his hand from my mouth and I’ve thought about that a lot since too. Why didn’t I scream? I think I was afraid he would hurt me more if I did, so I was being quiet, waiting to be safer. But the problem is he didn’t go.

Unbelievably, he just walked into the shower.

‘Well, that was good. We must absolutely do that again.’

And me? I just lay on the bed, in pain and shame and shock, glancing at the bedside phone and wondering if I dared to ring the police while he was still in the house.

My stomach in particular was really hurting deep inside, and I was afraid that if he overheard me on the phone he would hurt me some more. But still he didn’t leave.

‘You joining me, Hannah? Water’s lovely.’

I just couldn’t believe it. His voice. His calm. He was actually running the shower, calling out to me above the stream of water in this ordinary, matter-of-fact way.

I thought I was going mad. I tried to stand, thinking I could go downstairs to phone the police. But I was shaking. My legs like jelly. I just couldn’t make my muscles work.

I stared at the clock beside the bed. One minute. Two. And all the while, he was talking to me from the en-suite about this and that, as if we were completely fine with each other.

I don’t know how long he stayed in there. I do remember that when he came out he was wearing different clothes.

‘Sorry. Really do have to dash for that meeting. I’ll text you.’

And when he did finally leave, he immediately sent this flirty text as if we were newly locked into something mutual.

I remember looking at the text in utter disbelief. I was still sure in that moment that I would go to the police, but I was starting to worry about what reporting this would mean. Would they believe me? Would I be allowed to shower? Would I have to stay like this? How exactly would I explain what had happened? Why I let him in. Fetched a bloody towel. Let him kiss me.

I could see, even through the fog around me, that he was already covering his back.

I started to try to push through the fog, trying to work out how to answer all the questions. Did you fight? What was he doing in your bedroom? And then the mobile rang in my hand.

Him again.

Hindsight, when I go over it, tells me not to answer. Ring the police, Hannah. But no one warns you that in the moment the shock and the sense of shame are so completely overwhelming that you cannot think straight at all.

And so, in my shock and shame and disorientation, I did the stupid thing. I picked up the call.

‘You know you don’t have to feel bad, darling. You do know that.’

I didn’t say anything, tears by now streaming down my face.

‘You invited me round. You told me Sam was out. You let me kiss you and then we had a good time. You told me to help myself to a shower. And now, if you’re getting cold feet, I’m here to tell you that you don’t need to feel bad, Hannah.’ A pause. ‘After Sam and everything.’

I stared at the phone, my finger hovering over the red button, his voice still bleeding into the room.

Finally, I pressed the red button, my vision blurred by tears, and all I could think was that I needed somehow to find the strength to stand up. Because suddenly I knew what I wanted.

I wanted to wash myself. Wash the sheets. Wash the room.

I wanted to find bleach and disinfectant and soap. I wanted to scrub and scrub and scrub – the tiles and the shower and the sheets and all of my flesh too – until every trace of what just happened was gone from my life.

CHAPTER 62

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

He’s saying something about money. About making this all go away. But I’m struggling to breathe, and it’s as if his voice is outside this bubble of blackness all around me.

You with your trust fund . . .

I don’t understand. Your choice, Hannah. Can’t hear properly. Don’t want to hear. This man. This voice. All I know is that this time I’m going to fight harder.

He’s pulling at my clothes – stretching and ripping now. Up to you, Hannah. And that’s when I manage to turn my head to see the blue-and-white striped tea towel in the dome shape on the table. He has to let go of my right arm for just a moment to pull harder at my clothes, and now suddenly I remember. What’s under the tea towel.

I lunge with my arm, pushing the towel aside to reveal the bread board. The remains of the loaf. And the knife.

I grab the wooden handle with my right hand and I just swing the blade into him as hard as I can.

His scream’s shocking, but all I can think to do is to go again; to swing the knife a second time. With all of my strength.

He lets go of me with this second blow and seems to fall away. When I stand up, he’s on the floor, slumped at first but then falling hard backwards, his head thumping against the flagstone floor, blood all over the front of his shirt. And then pooling on the floor from his head too.

I just stare at him. I feel no regret. No care. I will not go near him. Instead I watch his chest and I watch his face, terrified that he will move. I watch and wait and watch and wait until his eyes seem to glaze and his chest is finally still.

I lie on the floor then, my knees to my chest, blood all over my hand. I push the knife away from me.

I’m dazed and lie very still, but I don’t know for how long. I remember that DI Sanders is coming soon and I must wait for her.

You are going to need to be very brave, my darling. Can you do that for me . . .

That voice. My father’s voice.

I turn my head, looking for his face, but I cannot find him. The sunshine fades but the sky through the chinks in the blind is still blue. I wish so badly that I could hear my owls. I think of Lily and start to worry they may come home too soon. See . . . all . . . this. And that’s when I think of George too.

This boy without a father now, because of me.

The fear and the dread grow stronger, so that when I close my eyes, it’s colder. I’m falling, deeper and deeper – travelling back through time. Colder. Darker. That other forest with my father. The same terrible sense of dread and fear. And waiting.

The owls calling.

But this time it’s different. When I look down, there are daisies in my hand. I stare at them and it’s like a veil lifting from my eyes. I remember the chalk marks on the trees. I remember my father’s face. His words.

I wonder why I did not remember the flowers and the chalk marks before; why I told my mother and the police so many lies.

Because now I can see it. Now I can see him. Now I can remember what really happened.

CHAPTER 63

DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

Hannah

Suddenly I hear banging on the door again.

‘Let me in, Hannah.’

I pull my knees closer to my stomach. It’s a man’s voice, but so loud that it’s distorted. More shouting. A shadow at the window.

I look at Adam on the floor. Eyes glazed and the blood around him so thick and bright. I stare at his chest and suddenly a phone’s ringing. My phone, in his pocket.

More banging on the door. I put my hands over my ears. The ringing. The banging. I keep thinking of the guestbook. Knock, knock, Hannah. Who’s there?

Next the sound of breaking glass. The pane in the door is smashed. A rock on the floor. A hand reaches through the broken glass, stretching up for the bolt. The hand is struggling to reach upwards, jagged glass slicing into the flesh. More blood. But I recognise something. The ring, the thick band of gold with that pattern I know so well. And then finally the bolt is opened. The door swinging right into the wall.

‘Hannah! Dear God. What’s happened?’

I look at you from inside my bubble, but feel so confused. I turn to try to find the daisy chain – the flowers I have finally remembered – but they’re gone. Instead I see a knife on the floor, covered in blood.

You’re kneeling alongside the body now, checking for a pulse.

You turn to me. ‘Hannah. It’s me. Sam. What happened here?’ You move towards me but I shrink back.

‘No. No. Please don’t come near. Please don’t touch me.’

You raise your hands and still yourself, and then you glance around. ‘Do you have your phone, Hannah?’

I shake my head. It’s stopped ringing.

‘Right,’ you say. ‘He took mine. I need to find it. Check his pockets.’

‘No. Please don’t touch him.’

‘OK. I’ll have to use the landline. I need to phone the police. Are you hurt, Hannah? I’m going to call the police and an ambulance. I need to tell them if you’re hurt.’

‘My knee. I think I hurt my knee.’ I look down but it’s healed. No blood. And then I see the knife again. I frown. I turn my head to the left and back. And then I remember where I really am. What I did.

‘He tried to—’

I turn to you and the look in your eyes is all things terrible . . . You take in my ripped clothes. You glance from me to him. Him to me.

‘He did it once before. I had to stop him—’

Your face and your mouth seem frozen a moment. Your eyes still terrible.

‘Oh my God.’ I watch it dawn in those eyes. A ghost now. Your skin so white. ‘OK. OK. I’m here now. You’re safe. I’m going into the sitting room to phone the police. It’s going to be all right.’ You move through into the sitting room and I hear tapping. Dialling. ‘Police please.’ A pause. ‘You need to come. Urgently.’ You give the address and watch me through the doorway. ‘A man was attacking my wife. He’s dead.’ You give the address again, repeating the details and confirming the phone number much more slowly and then you hang up.

After a short time, the landline rings but you don’t answer. ‘It will be the police, calling back. Wanting more details. We’ll wait until they come.’

‘DI Sanders is coming too,’ I say.

Still the landline’s ringing. ‘Right. Why’s she coming?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Where’s Lily?’

‘Oh dear God, she’s with Amy.’ You look again at the body on the floor, the expression on your face suddenly darkening. You move back into the sitting room and answer the landline.

‘There’s a little girl who may be in danger. Our daughter, Lily. She’s with the wife of the man who’s died. At Owl Cottage. I just reported that. You need to go to Hellyer Farmshop and make sure that my daughter is safe. Lily is her name. She’s only eight. Did you get that?’ A pause as you listen. ‘I’ll explain it all when you get here. The woman she’s with may be a danger to her. Amy is the name of the woman. You need to make my daughter safe. Get her away from her. Do you understand?’

You hang up then look at me.

And then my mobile rings again in Adam’s pocket.

‘That’s your ringtone.’

‘Leave it.’

‘No. It might be DI Sanders.’

I shrink back towards the wall as you reach into Adam’s jacket pocket to answer. You look at the phone. ‘It’s your mother.’

You put the phone to your ear and a smear of blood is transferred to your hair. ‘Sorry. Hannah can’t come to the phone.’ You listen. Frown. ‘But that’s great. Actually, I need you to do something for us. A big favour. I can’t explain, there isn’t time, but can you go to Hellyer Farmshop to be with Lily for us? It’s not far from the cottage. Not far from where you are. You can find it on the satnav. She’s with a friend – Amy – but we need her to be with you. I can’t explain right now, but it’s an emergency. Can you do that for us?’

You listen some more. ‘Good. Good. Thank you. I’ll ring again soon. Explain everything.’

You put the phone down on the floor and I see that there’s still blood transferred on to your fingers.

‘Hannah. Your mother was coming here, but I’ve sent her to be with Lily.’

‘Why’s my mother here?’

‘Never mind. Listen. I’m sorry, but we need to talk. Before the police get here. I’ve no idea what will happen.’ You close your eyes momentarily. ‘Oh dear God, if anything happens to Lily.’

‘Lily. What’s wrong with Lily? Why did you say that about Amy?’ Panic is rising. I don’t understand.

‘Adam told me he was getting petrol. But then he just disappeared. With my rucksack and my wallet and my phone.’ You look again at the body, your eyes then darting around the room. All alarm.

Then your eyes are on me. ‘Hannah. There’s something I have to tell you. Something terrible. Before the police get here.’ You pause. Swallow. ‘I’m afraid all of this may be my fault. My fault.’

I don’t understand. Can’t speak.

‘My affair. It wasn’t an affair. It was one time. And it wasn’t anyone at work.’ You squeeze your eyes closed again. ‘Maybe he found out. Maybe Adam found out and it’s revenge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He really hurt you?’ Eyes wide again, checking my face.

I just nod.

‘Oh, jeez.’

Suddenly you move across the kitchen and pick up the knife. Inexplicably you’re pushing chairs this way and that. You’re swinging your arms and deliberately bash your head against the sink.

‘Stop it. Stop it. What are you doing?’

But next you move to the body on the floor and grab at the shirt. The trousers.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We need to say it was me, Hannah. A fight. Not you. Lily needs you. If this goes wrong. If they don’t accept self-defence, I mean. We need to be absolutely sure. Lily needs you.’

‘What do you mean? What are you doing?’ I repeat.

‘We say that I found him attacking you. It was me. Not you. I did this.’

At last you still yourself and turn to me.

‘Lily needs you, Hannah. And this is all my fault. I did the most terrible thing, Hannah. Worse than you know.’ You still have the knife in your hand, squeezing it hard, blood now on all your fingers.

‘The woman I slept with.’ You’re starting to tremble, your hand holding the knife actually shaking. The blade moving to and fro, to and fro, so that tiny droplets of the blood are flicked to the floor. ‘It wasn’t Sophie. It was Amy. She’s been asking for money. Not to tell you. Big money. Blackmail. I didn’t want to lose you and I just panicked; I didn’t know what on earth to do.’

I look at him in disbelief. Amy.

To and fro. To and fro.

‘It was when you were on that school trip with Lily. She came round one day right out of the blue.’

Amy. The word’s booming over and over in my head. Amy.

You look at me, face completely white. ‘I have no excuse. I was weak. She came on to me and I was completely stupid. I didn’t mean for it to happen, Hannah. But it was all so confusing.

‘She just turned up on the doorstep. She’d been running. She said their shower was broken. She was late for an appointment and she said that she needed to use our shower . . .’

CHAPTER 64

DAY EIGHT

Maud

Everything seemed to take so long. The time at the special centre. All the examinations. The interviews.

The drive.

Maud just wanted to get Hannah and Lily back to her house, but now they’re here, it somehow feels worse, not better. All the shock and the pain simply moved from one place to another. And now she’s unsure if she’s done the right thing, insisting on bringing Hannah away. Sam still in custody in Cornwall.

‘I’ve given Lily a bath. Put her to bed.’ Maud rests her hand on her daughter’s arm. They’re both sitting at the breakfast bar and Maud is thinking of Hannah sitting right there, same chair and same shocked expression, when she bolted home after finding out about Sam’s betrayal.

‘Do you think she’ll sleep?’

‘I don’t know, darling. I told her there was a break-in at the holiday cottage and Daddy’s sorting it all out. I didn’t know what else to say.’ Maud used the same script on the drive, but Hannah just sat in the passenger seat, mute. Her face entirely blank with her forehead rested against the window.

‘We should have stayed in Cornwall.’ Hannah is whispering.

‘DI Sanders said it was fine to come home with me to let you rest. She’s going to ring very soon. Update us.’ Maud thinks of the terrible conversations with the police already. The awful details unravelling. That Amy and Adam owned Owl Cottage. That they’d done this before. Targeted then blackmailed other couples. That it was all about the money. Hannah’s trust fund.

‘Right.’ Hannah looks down at the floor. ‘I need to tell you something, Mummy.’

‘No. You don’t have to tell me any of the details, darling. I spoke to the police too.’ Maud’s voice cracks. She’s put the dates together. Realised that when Hannah came home that second time, allegedly after flu, it was really after the attack. Adam’s first attack . . .

‘No. I don’t mean all of that.’

Maud narrows her eyes. ‘Please, darling. Don’t put yourself through this again tonight. You need to rest. You don’t need to think about it right now.’

‘No, you don’t understand. What happened in Owl Cottage. It unlocked something else. Triggered another memory.’ Hannah widens her eyes as if she’s watching something intently on the floor. An insect or the like. Maud stretches her neck to lean forward but can’t see anything at all. Just the terracotta tiles.

‘Maybe it was the shock,’ Hannah says, frowning. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What is it, darling? I don’t understand.’

Hannah suddenly lifts her head and turns back to Maud. ‘I’ve remembered what happened with Daddy.’ A pause. ‘What really happened, I mean. It came back to me in Owl Cottage.’

Shock moves through Maud in a wave of terrible cold. This instant chill is suddenly all around her, as if the temperature in the whole room has been switched in a beat from warm to very, very cold.

She wasn’t expecting this. Doesn’t want to know.

Desperately wants to know.

‘I think it was the fear that triggered it—’

‘Oh, darling.’ Maud reaches out again to touch Hannah’s arm.

‘Goodness. Your hands are cold, Mummy.’

‘Yes. Sorry. I do feel cold.’ Maud reaches for her cardigan on the worktop and puts it on.

‘It was like déjà vu. This same, horrible fear, deep in my stomach. And suddenly I remembered everything. What happened with Daddy, I mean. Like watching a film in my head. Or more like living it all again. And it was weird, because lying on the floor in Owl Cottage, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t remember it all before.’

Maud pulls her hands into the sleeves of the cardigan.

‘Are you sure you’re OK for me to go on?’

Maud nods.

‘I realised that I’d told everyone this made-up Disney version of going on that picnic. Skipping off, all happy and everything in the sunlight. But it wasn’t like that at all. I moaned all the way.’

‘Oh, Hannah.’ Maud tilts her head.

‘I know. Typical me. I moaned about how far it was. I moaned that my legs ached. That I was hungry.’ She pauses. ‘Dad was so sweet. So patient. Trying to distract me from my grumbling. He told me stories, and at one point, he gave me a chocolate biscuit from the hamper to keep me going.’

Again, Hannah pauses, her eyes distant as if watching that film again.

‘We went really deep into the wood and Dad said it was because there was a special spot he wanted to show me. A surprise. It took ages to reach it. So remote. And then finally he put the blanket down and the picnic basket and told me to have a look across this clearing. I didn’t realise what he meant at first. But he was pointing to this patch of more open ground in the sunlight. And when I reached it, I saw why he took me all that way.’

Hannah is sharing a small smile. ‘There were daisies, Mummy, dotted across this rough patch of grass, right there in the middle of the wood. Dad said it was the only place they grew in the whole area and he knew how much I loved to make daisy chains. That was my surprise.’

Maud finds that she has her hand up to her mouth.

‘Anyway. I started making a chain and Dad was across the clearing. I got lost in my thoughts. I figured I would make him this lovely daisy chain to say sorry for all the grumbling. I was happy. Absorbed, I suppose. Anyway. By the time I finally looked back at Dad, he was on the ground. It was bit odd, but I thought he was napping.’

‘Hannah. You don’t have to do this now—’

‘I do, Mummy. Can you bear it?’

Maud nods.

‘Truthfully, I think I knew from the off that there was something wrong, because he wasn’t lying on the picnic blanket. He was lying on the earth in the shade. It looked cold. But I told myself he was just being a silly daddy. Tired maybe. And so I just carried on with the daisy chain. How selfish was that? I should have gone straight to him.’

Maud smooths her daughter’s hair as Hannah goes on to explain that by the time she’d finished the chain, she was feeling hungry. She looked up and her father was still ‘napping’. She called out to him. Nothing. She stood up, careful with the chain, and still he didn’t reply.

She started to run back to him and tripped on a log on the ground, hurting her knee. There was blood. A nasty scrape. She needed comfort. But still her father didn’t answer.

By the time she reached him to show her bloodied knee, he was awake, but clutching his chest, making this horrible gargling noise deep in his throat.

‘So here’s the lie. I told the police it was very quick. That he was never conscious. Didn’t speak to me.’ Hannah’s eyes are truly glistening now. Tears forming. ‘But that wasn’t true, Mummy. He was awake and he was in a lot of pain.’

‘Oh, darling. My darling. How awful for you.’

‘Much worse for him. He was trying to cover it up. Trying not to frighten me. But he was clutching at his chest and really suffering, Mummy.’

Maud wraps her arms around Hannah and they stay in the hug a long time before Hannah pulls back to continue.

‘He said he was very sorry but I would need to be a brave girl and see if I could find someone to help us. He knew I had chalk in my pocket. Always had it for hopscotch. Daddy said to use my chalk to mark a cross on the trees so I could find my way back to him. He said it would be like a game. So that’s what I did.

‘I went off, calling out and marking the trees. But there was no one anywhere. It was darker in the thicker part of the wood and I didn’t like it.’ Hannah is properly crying now and Maud reaches up to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

‘I couldn’t do it, Mummy. I was too scared. So I just gave up. I followed the crosses back to Daddy and I lay on the ground with him. I wrapped the blanket around us and I put the daisy chain around his neck.’ Another pause. ‘And all the time he was still trying to soothe me. Telling me not to worry. But he was in so much pain, Mummy.

‘It wasn’t quick at all. He really suffered. And it was my fault. I just wasn’t brave enough—’

‘Now you listen to me.’ Maud leans forward to kiss Hannah on the forehead. ‘What happened in the wood was terrible. Unfair. Horrible. But it was not your fault—’

‘But if I’d gone further—’

‘No, Hannah. No. It would have made no difference. There was no one there.’

‘But it feels like it was my fault he died. That if I could just have been braver—’

‘No, lovely. The wood was deserted. The police know that as a fact. And no one could have helped him. You were a little girl. A frightened little girl. And you did nothing wrong.’ Maud has to wipe her own face with the cuff of her cardigan. ‘And I tell you this. It would have helped him a lot. It would have comforted him . . . to have you with him.’

‘You think?’

‘I know so. It’s no wonder your brain blocked this. But as hard as it was for you, it would have meant the world to him to be with you. Wrapped up in that blanket.’

They keep very still, arms tight around each other, until finally Maud leans back. ‘Right. So I have this plan now. You need help, Hannah. Professional help. To deal with everything that’s happened. In Cornwall. And with your father too.’

Hannah looks worried.

‘Don’t be scared. This is a good thing. It’s what you need, darling. I’ve found a clinic – a private clinic – and I’d like you to take a proper rest there. For as long as you need. There are professional people to talk to and—’

‘No, Mummy. Lily needs me.’

‘Lily can stay with me for as long as this takes. Getting you well is what Lily needs now.’

‘But the police?’

‘I will tell them where you are. You can rest. And they can speak to you there or here, afterwards.’ Maud again smooths Hannah’s hair. ‘It’s time, darling. You know I’m right.’

Hannah closes her eyes, and after a while, her shoulders slump. She seems to think for a long time, and finally opens her eyes to just nod.

‘That’s a yes?’

Hannah nods again and reaches out to grip Maud’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry about the tablets, Mummy. When I was in school.’

Maud feels a lurch deep in her stomach.

‘I would never do that again. I’ll talk to them about that too. I promise.’

Maud looks down at their fingers intertwined, relief coursing through her.

‘OK. Good. That’s good, my darling. They’ll help you, Hannah. I know they will.’ She pulls back and wipes her face. ‘And now, there’s something else. Something I need to show you.’

Maud for a moment wonders if it’s the right thing to do. But her instinct says it’s time for this also.

‘Wait here, lovely. I won’t be a moment.’

She hurries upstairs, first to check on Lily, who’s thankfully sleeping. And next to fetch the frame from the trunk in her room, carefully removing all the layers. The tissue and the scarves.

When finally she places the frame on the kitchen worktop in front of Hannah, her daughter’s eyes are instantly wide with disbelief. Maud holds her breath.

Then Hannah gently presses her hand flat on the glass and tilts her head, her eyes all amazement. Slowly she moves her hand, stroking the glass as if touching the contents.

‘Oh, Mummy.’ There is this small change in her eyes. A tiny beat of warmth returning as the muscles finally begin to relax.

CHAPTER 65

DAY NINE

The police

Melanie Sanders is running her finger around the top of the empty coffee cup, wondering about fate. Timing. The cruelty of timing.

With so many previous cases, she’s asked herself: What if the victim caught a different train? Left work earlier? Didn’t catch the eye of the creep in the bar?

And today? Not yet forty-eight hours since the horror at Owl Cottage, she’s agonising about her own timing. If she’d just been half an hour sooner. No tractor. No sheep. If the tox report had come in earlier. If she’d pushed harder. Worked harder. If she’d put it together when Matthew found the pictures of Owl Cottage . . .

She thinks of that dreadful scene. Two patrol cars with lights flashing – uniformed officers already on site as her car pulled into the parking area. What the hell . . .

It’s no comfort that she was getting close. Was right to trust her gut over the neighbour’s death. She wasn’t quite fast enough.

There’s only one person who knows her well enough to understand why this frustration eats her up so badly, so that when the bell over the café door finally tinkles his arrival, she looks up with a mixture of relief and a gut-wrenching sadness too.

Matthew Hill meets her gaze as he strides forward and sits opposite.

For a moment she says nothing. He sighs. ‘Tough one, Mel.’

‘Yeah. Aren’t they all.’

‘But especially frustrating. So near, so far.’

She pinches her lips tightly together. That’s exactly it. She thinks of the archive pictures Matthew found online of Owl Cottage in its different clothes from the past. Primrose Cottage. A ceramic sign of yellow blooms on a white background. The curtains in the kitchen covered in primroses too. And Badgers’ Retreat. An iron badger as a doorstop. Carved wooden badgers on the windowsills.

Matthew found the pictures by pasting the description of individual rooms and furniture and the general location but not the name. Very clever. Once all the different names came up, all using different agencies, he guessed there was something truly odd going on.

She wonders if Matthew had been working with her properly – full-time – they might have figured it all out sooner. She knows the answer. It’s why she wants to ask what she probably shouldn’t.

‘You OK?’ He leans in, checking her face more closely.

‘Not really.’ When will she tell him about the job offer? She’s not sure yet. The last time she persuaded him to work with her properly – the shooting of a young woman at her graduation ceremony – he was nearly killed.

‘I’ll get you more coffee. Yes?’ Still he holds her gaze.

She nods and he moves to the counter to order while Melanie stares through the window, a seagull strutting across the pavement, beak nodding until it finds a scrap of something on the ground. Pecking and scavenging some more until it has a large chunk of food, finally beating its wings into flight as two more birds arrive as competition.

A few minutes pass and Matthew’s back at the table with two foaming coffees, the sprinkles in the shape of a leaf. No, worse. A four-leaf clover. Melanie lifts the spoon to destroy the picture. No luck in this landscape today.

She watches Matthew circle his injured shoulder before he sits down. So it still troubles him, despite the denials. He certainly carries that arm a little strangely. She wishes she didn’t need his help. The problem is she’s never found a colleague quite as good as Matthew.

The truth is she’s just been asked to stay on in Cornwall. Offered a promotion. Been told that she can pick her own team. Is it so wrong, so selfish, to want him on that team?

‘You didn’t need to come all the way back down here, Matt.’

‘Looking at you right now, I rather think I did.’

She stirs the froth on the coffee. Sucks the spoon. ‘I’m grateful. I didn’t mean to bend your ear on the phone like that last night. Too much wine. And the interviews with Amy are doing my head in.’

‘It’s OK. I’m glad to be here. It’s what friends do.’ He adds sugar to his own drink. ‘So, where are we at? And how are you holding up?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Matt. Sometimes I think this is the worst outcome. Being on the fringe of cracking it—’

‘You were going in the right direction. Not many would even have bothered with the neighbour’s death.’

‘Maybe. But I was too slow. Too late . . .’ Melanie sips her drink. ‘I know I’d rather be putting that bastard Adam Hamley in jail than in a box.’

Matthew waits and then tries again. ‘So has a decision been made? About charging the husband? Sam, I mean. You got an extension to hold him?’

‘Yes. I’ve bumped it for review. Still waiting to hear. Personally, I’m not backing a charge. We’ll see.’ She pauses. ‘The forensics are a tad confusing, but I can’t imagine an appetite to charge him. The provisional report confirms Adam’s attack in Owl Cottage – on Hannah. The wife. And a medical’s confirmed injuries from Adam’s previous attack. So self-defence fits. But the way the couple – Hannah and Sam – describe what actually happened in Owl Cottage is a bit odd.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, not entirely sure, to be honest. Ignore me. The good news is our Amy’s suddenly singing. Trying to blame it all on the husband. Claims he was violent and controlling. That she was afraid of him and that none of it was her idea. She says the neighbour saw them. Recognised them from the garage sale. They hadn’t reckoned on that and were afraid she’d say something to Hannah. That’s why Adam killed her. Using her own insulin.’

‘And they’d done this all before? Money the motive each time?’

‘Yes. Fancied blackmail as a career. They moved about a lot to be near each new target. They normally only stayed at their cottage – Owl Cottage, I mean – when the neighbour was away in the summer. But they were getting overconfident. Hence reckless.’

A tinkle of a bell signals the café door, and both Melanie and Matthew turn to see a tall man, his face all outrage.

‘You’ll never believe it. A bloody seagull just stole my pasty.’ The man marches to the counter, apparently keen on a replacement.

Melanie shakes her head and tries to stifle a grin. Would the tourists never learn?

‘So, do we know how many other couples Amy and Adam targeted?’ Matthew has lowered his voice as seagull man waits for his new snack, still muttering about the attack. Out of nowhere. Swooped straight down.

‘At least three other couples over several years. All wealthy. All with young children. The marriage stretched. Cracks to widen. We’re still working on the details. Chasing the money trail.’

‘Yet no one reported them?’ Matthew looks aghast.

‘High profiles. Big businesses. Brands to protect. One in politics. Didn’t want the coverage. Just wanted Amy and Adam out of their life. Only one couple’s admitted how much they paid. High six figures. So money was definitely the motive. Big stakes. Hannah’s trust fund is well over a million. Though Adam seemed to enjoy the violence too.’

‘Explain again how the cottage fitted in?’

Melanie’s about to answer when the till rings and pasty man is handed his new snack.

‘You’re kidding me. I have to pay again.’ He glances around the café as if for support. Matthew shrugs his shoulders. Melanie does the same.

‘Seriously? I don’t believe it. Bloody seagull steals my food and I have to pay twice.’ The man’s card bleeps at the machine and he marches from the shop, the food bag tucked under his sweatshirt this time. Still muttering.

Matthew sips his drink. Waits until it’s calm again. ‘So the MO? How did the cottage fit in?’

‘They used it only when they had to. Once Amy researched new targets, she rented somewhere nearby to befriend them. Play new besties. The game was seduction on the targets’ home territory. Broken shower story then blackmail not to tell the partner. And threats if they didn’t pay. As I said, they picked couples with small children and big bank accounts. In that strained phase. They would target whichever partner seemed most likely to be up for a fling. Switched to the other partner if that failed. Mostly that worked.’

‘So they used the cottage here in Cornwall as backup?’

‘Yes. Amy says only as a last resort. Plan B. If the scheme wasn’t working on home ground, Adam aimed to get a target to Cornwall alone – nice and isolated – to seduce or threaten and deliver the final blackmail push. But it was always a worry with the neighbour. They had to use the bridlepath. Park nearby.’ Melanie pauses. ‘We don’t know for sure yet if he resorted to rape with any of the other victims. But I suspect and fear that he may have. Hannah’s evidence certainly suggests a predator. Someone well practised.’ She breaks off again. A long sigh. ‘But we’re obviously treading very carefully with all the interviews. It’s early days.’

Melanie keeps very still and Matthew takes a beat too, glancing to the café window and back.

‘No wonder you’re finding it a tough one,’ he says. ‘But you’re going to nail her? This Amy?’

‘I most certainly am. No way is she pinning this all on Adam. I’m certain she knew that he’d attacked Hannah, and callously set her up for a second time in Cornwall.’

‘She admitted that?’ Matthew looks incredulous.

‘No. Course not. But she’s slipped up. Used the phrase second attack. And the line seduce or attack. All on tape.’ Melanie takes in a long, slow breath. ‘Case building. We’ll get there.’

‘And why dress the cottage differently? Primrose Cottage. Badgers’ Retreat.’

‘Amy says she only did that if their scheme wasn’t working on home territory. She got to know the target’s passions. Hobbies and so on. It didn’t cost much to switch curtains and plant bits and bobs to make the cottage seem an ideal getaway for them. Apparently Adam resisted the hassle. He got impatient when a scheme was taking too long. But this was their only income stream. They pretended to be freelancers but didn’t have jobs. Amy says they had to make this pay. She thought it was worth dressing the cottage. And the risk with the neighbour was reduced in the school holidays. She often stayed with her sister then.’

‘But how did they get the victims to rent it?’

‘Targeted Facebook advertising. Adam was once in digital marketing. Not difficult. And if the ads didn’t work, Amy would just pretend to come across the cottage online. A previous target was a watercolour artist. Into wildflowers and so on. Hence – Primrose Cottage. Another target volunteered for a badger charity. Trust me, Amy’s quite the actress.’

‘And you don’t believe Amy was under Adam’s control in all this?’

‘No, I don’t. If anything, I think she was the mastermind. She was the one who researched Sophie, who just happened to leave Sam’s company at the right time. And put it into his mind to use Sophie as cover. To throw Hannah off. Texted him under that name.’

‘And all the weird stuff at Owl Cottage. The toys. The knocking on the door. Playing with the lights?’

‘Adam was losing patience over Hannah and Sam. Felt it was all taking too long. So they were busking it. Taking bigger risks. Amy targeted Sam first. He slept with her once. Regretted it. When she tried the blackmail, they discovered he didn’t have access to the trust fund on his own. A major fail in Amy’s research. He couldn’t raise enough money independently.’

‘But she didn’t tell Hannah?’

‘No. Adam targeted Hannah instead. Broken shower routine again. He was clearly an experienced predator. Manipulative. Covered himself. Confident she wouldn’t report him.

‘Amy’s saying the plan after the first attack was to get her to Cornwall on her own and threaten a second attack if she didn’t pay up from the trust fund. It was Amy’s idea to mess with the toys, targeting poor Lily, and tracing the handwriting in the guestbook. Planting the Bellagio postcard. All to get Hannah in a really bad mental state, so she’d cave quickly.’

‘So they didn’t expect her to take Sam to Cornwall too?’

‘No. That threw them, Amy says. Which is why they started to make it up as they went along. And took too many risks, being spotted by the neighbour, Jenny.’

‘And what’s Hannah saying? About why she didn’t pay Adam off?’

‘This is the really awful thing.’ Melanie takes in a long, slow breath. ‘In her interview, Hannah didn’t seem to even hear what Adam was saying to her.’

‘She didn’t realise it was blackmail?’

‘No. She suspected Sam – not Amy or Adam. In trying to mess with her head, I think they pushed her too far. She vaguely remembers Adam mentioning her trust fund but was just too confused and petrified. Sounds as if she fought back and Sam turned up before Adam got to spell out his blackmail demand.’

Melanie thinks of Hannah. So very fragile. How Amy knew she was on antidepressants. How Amy was a keyholder for Hannah back home. And had keys to Owl Cottage. How she messed with the toys. And used an app on her phone to mess with the lights. The power cut that never was. It was meant to just spook the family, turning off Lily’s night light. But it backfired when Hannah was hurt. Could have killed the very person they needed to transfer the money.

‘Amy is currently feigning illness,’ Melanie adds. ‘Seeing a doctor this morning. We restart the interviews later today, when he gives the all-clear.’

‘And at the end of this. How do you think Hannah and Sam will hold up in court?’

‘No idea. She’s getting help at a clinic, apparently. Word is they’re splitting up.’ Melanie tucks her hair behind her right ear. ‘Their daughter’s just a bit older than yours.’ She glances to the window and keeps very still. Unblinking.

Matthew sighs. Pushes the coffee cup away from him. ‘Very sad.’

EPILOGUE

Hannah

I’m parked up opposite your flat. Early. Nervous.

Further down the street, there’s a girl in a bright red coat, holding a pink unicorn balloon and a party bag, skipping alongside her mother. It’s a brown-paper party bag and I smile at the small changes we’ve all embraced. Sustainability, and quite right too.

Though the balloon, of course, doesn’t fit.

But then, children do so love balloons. And isn’t parenting one long compromise?

The girl keeps looking up at the pink face with its unicorn horn and silver outline. Glitter catches the sunlight and I smile, imagining it all over their carpet later. I see the mother lean in and suspect she’s warning her daughter to hold on tight. We’ve all been there – the trauma and the tears when the ribbon escapes tiny fingers.

I look back towards your window – the upstairs flat of a Victorian redbrick – and remember Lily’s fourth birthday party back home, when you spent hours learning how to make balloon crowns and swords. A table set out with your ‘kit’. Balloons in every colour and three pumps. Your face bright with that mixture of excitement and blind fear that only parents hosting a child’s birthday party will ever understand.

You’re expecting my mother today. She often does the Lily handover when she stays. Better for all of us, I used to think.

We’ve been living apart since it happened. All the long weeks. All the long months, waiting for the next trauma. Amy’s trial.

Right at the start, you refused to let me visit you in custody. Said I’d suffered enough. When they decided in the end not to charge you over Adam’s death, you wrote me a long letter. About your shame. And your guilt. You said that your mistake with Amy, that single night, was simply unforgiveable. And trying, albeit briefly, to raise money for her blackmail had made it all the worse. You wrote that you will always love me but realise belatedly it was completely wrong to ever ask my forgiveness. You now blame yourself utterly for what happened to me.

Because of all of that, you sorted out this flat very quickly. A temporary fix. You’re talking about a house with a garden down the line so that Lily can have a swing at your place too. I know that you think it’s kinder now to give me space. Let me be.

I used to think so too.

But you’re going to be surprised, Sam, at what I think these days. As am I.

I’m here instead of Mum because I’ve booked a restaurant – neutral ground – for us tomorrow evening, and I’m hoping you’ll agree for us to at least talk. The thing I’m finally learning to do properly.

Amy’s trial starts at last on Monday. I’m dreading it. She tried to blame everything on Adam, but there was no deal. No plea bargain. So she’s insisting on ‘not guilty’ and it’s going to be tough. I’m getting help to prepare for it and I find I have a lot of things I need to say to you first.

Hearing from the police about the scale of Amy and Adam’s schemes has been difficult. I feel so naive. Trusting her with my house key. My beloved Lily. Trusting her with my secrets. Telling her about my childhood.

Worse? I so wish I had realised Adam wanted my money. I wish I could go back in time and listen. Press pause. Let him spell it out. The truth is, and I told DI Sanders this, I would have given him the bloody trust fund. All of it. Rather than have us all go through that. It’s not what the police want to hear. But it’s the truth.

I’m watching the girl and the balloon again. She’s reached the corner of the street, head still tilted up. Eyes on the unicorn. Still skipping. Very soon she and her mother will move out of sight. And I find I’ll be sorry for the flash of pink to disappear. I keep my gaze fixed on it. Trying to hold on to it. I know that when I close my eyes later, I won’t be able to quite conjure it again. Aphantasia. So I will miss it. This happy picture. Happy feeling.

And that’s what happens these days when you come to pick up Lily. I watch you in the car on the drive. You text and you wait outside, trying to spare me any awkwardness. I see you fidget with the driver’s mirror and the collar of your shirt. I watch you get out when Lily is on the drive with her bag. That first hug. That smile. I watch you tickle her and tease her and smooth the hair back from her face. And then I watch you both leave. And to my surprise, I find I strain to watch the back of your head as much as Lily’s. Because I dread the feeling of you disappearing out of sight.

Like the balloon.

I used to think it was because I was waiting to get stronger. While I was at the special clinic – Mum’s idea – to start all my proper counselling, I thought I just needed time to get used to being on my own. Goodness, I worked through so much at that clinic, Sam. I faced up to what happened with my father. And I faced up to the truth of my suicide attempt when I was a teenager. And in facing all of that, I know now that I would never let myself get there again.

I’ve a long way to go. But I feel stronger. And what I’ve found – after all these weeks and months – is that I still miss you. Still love you, Sam. It feels difficult. Inconvenient even, and I don’t quite know what to do about it.

Other than to be honest with myself. And with you too.

I need to tell you that I’m sleeping so much better now. No longer stuck back in that wood. All that unresolved trauma.

I’m thinking much more clearly, Sam. And I find that in this new and stronger place, I miss the us that we were before my dreams spiralled. The us before the antidepressants. The us long before that wretched swimming lesson I met Amy.

No accidental meeting, we learn. She’d researched me. Us. Already put together a plan. So I think of all the coffees and the chats when I so stupidly and innocently confided in her that I was the girl in the woods. And I fear now that’s what really sealed their decision to target us. Not just the money. But me so very broken already.

I can just make you out in the sitting room of the flat, darting about as if gathering up all of Lily’s things. She’s just the same. As untidy as ever. You’ll be flustered, probably searching for Annabelle, her rag doll which she can never find for the handover.

It makes me rage to think what Amy did. Dragging Lily in. Planting my bear to confuse her. Cutting up her doll.

Lily still talks to her imaginary friend some days but not so much. She’s seeing a lovely woman in school. Art therapy. They think it was the tension between us plus Amy’s nasty tricks that conjured Katie. Poor, sweet Lily. But the good news, the best news, is that she’s healing too.

Children, of course, have no filter, and so she tells me that you talk about me all the time. Have my picture by your bed. So we can both say goodnight to Mummy.

And I no longer ask the internet if you should ever forgive a betrayal. Because it doesn’t feel so black and white anymore. And it doesn’t feel like anyone else’s business either.

I know that you were weak. Over Amy. But I made mistakes too. Let Adam in our house. Let him kiss me. Should have reported him to the police. So wish with every ounce of my being that I had.

And I will never forget you in Owl Cottage, Sam. Thrashing about with the chairs and the knife to mix up all the evidence. Deciding in a blink that, if it came to it, you were prepared to go to jail for me. No hesitation.

Lily needs you. We need to tell the police that I did this. Look at me and listen to me, Hannah . . .

And so – yes. I’ve surprised myself. Me. Hannah. Wanting at last to talk. Properly.

I want to tell you about the day my mother gave me the frame with a daisy chain that broke my heart but is mending it too. I want to tell you about the surprise that is Ned. A man who looks at my mother with care and love and pride shining from his eyes. Her second chance at happiness.

I want to tell you that I remember so clearly that drive to Owl Cottage when you couldn’t find your sunglasses and I couldn’t find forgiveness.

The truth now is I don’t want Amy and Adam to win. I want to ask if we can go to the court on Monday together with some hope still in our hearts for our little family to survive them.

For most of my adult life, I’ve lived with this shadow. Forever the girl in the woods. I locked away the truth of my childhood because I thought deep down that I was to blame for my father’s death. And so later I blamed myself over Adam. But I see now that I wasn’t to blame in either case.

My mistake was not how brave I was or wasn’t in that wood as a child. My mistake was refusing to accept help to face up to what really happened. And to heal.

I want you to know that I have new dreams now. A different ending to that picnic. Dreams in which my father wears a daisy chain and we finish all the food and we both laugh, licking pink and lemon icing from the biscuits. Don’t tell your mother.

I want you to know how – unbeknown to me and unbelievably – my mother kept that daisy chain all these years. The police returned it to her after my father’s inquest. It was around his neck when they found us. Me clinging to his body. My mother was confused because it didn’t fit my story. But she had it pressed and framed and hid it in a trunk in her room. All these years.

That’s real love, isn’t it? Not to push. Just to wait . . .

So I want to tell you that the only justice I see now is not to let the darkness win. The truth is I don’t know for sure if we can make it. But I do very much want to try. If we can both agree not to push, Sam; just to wait?

I do know I can forgive you now. Partly because you’re no longer asking this of me. Partly because I understand it all so much better. But mostly because the girl in the woods is learning the hardest lesson of all . . .

Hannah, you need to let go of Daddy now

. . . which is how to forgive herself.

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1 DAY ONE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 2 DAY ONE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 3 DAY TWO – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 4 BEFORE

CHAPTER 5 DAY TWO – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 6 DAY THREE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 7 BEFORE

CHAPTER 8 DAY THREE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 9 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 10 DAY FOUR

CHAPTER 11 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 12 DAY FOUR

CHAPTER 13 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 14 BEFORE

CHAPTER 15 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 16 DAY FOUR – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 17 BEFORE

CHAPTER 18 BEFORE

CHAPTER 19 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 20 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 21 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 22 DAY FIVE

CHAPTER 23 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

PART TWO

CHAPTER 24 BEFORE

CHAPTER 25 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 26 BEFORE

CHAPTER 27 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 28 DAY FIVE – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 29 BEFORE

CHAPTER 30 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 31 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 32 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 33 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 34 BEFORE

CHAPTER 35 BEFORE

CHAPTER 36 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 37 BEFORE

CHAPTER 38 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 39 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 40 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 41 DAY SIX

CHAPTER 42 DAY SIX – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 43 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 44 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 45 BEFORE

CHAPTER 46 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 47 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 48 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 49 BEFORE

CHAPTER 50 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 51 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 52 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 53 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 54 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 55 BEFORE

CHAPTER 56 DAY 7 – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 57 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 58 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 59 DAY SEVEN

CHAPTER 60 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 61 BEFORE

CHAPTER 62 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 63 DAY SEVEN – OWL COTTAGE

CHAPTER 64 DAY EIGHT

CHAPTER 65 DAY NINE

EPILOGUE