He runs down the path, occasionally sliding, the rain running down his face in thick rivulets. He’ll head for their den first, maybe. Or the riverbank. He doesn’t know which. He feels sick to the very pit of his stomach, there’s a stitch in his side and his lungs are burning. He can’t remember the last time he ran anywhere and his legs are begging him to slow down.

But he messed this up so much once before and he doesn’t want to, he can’t, mess it up again.

Over the din of the wind, and his own laboured breathing as he pushes his body on, he hears shouting. It’s a man’s voice. He runs towards it, rounding a clearing just in time to see Niall pull his father away from a figure. It’s Ingrid, prone on the ground, face down. She isn’t moving.

‘Help me!’ Niall shouts, and Declan runs towards his brother and his da. He helps Niall restrain their father until he stops fighting.

Subdued, Frankie Heaney falls to his knees, his two sons either side of him, restraining his arms.

Declan is aware, vaguely, of Niall calling for help, asking for police and an ambulance. Aware of his father snarling and making threats – but for now, at least, Frankie Heaney is powerless to do anything more than shout and foam at the mouth.

But Declan isn’t really taking any of that in. He is just fixated on Ingrid, who hasn’t moved. Who is lying so still. He wonders if the colour will leach from her body in the same way it did with Kelly. He closes his eyes to try to block out the sight of Ingrid in front of him, but he knows it won’t help. She will be burned into his brain in the same way Kelly is.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Ingrid

My chest feels like it is in a vice. My neck aches, the muscles across my shoulders burn. I am wet and cold, and my hands are shredded from the stones and grit on the ground as I tried to fight my way free. One of my fingernails is missing – torn from my nail bed during the course of my fight.

The skin on my face feels as if it has been grated and I have already realised I’m bleeding from several deep cuts.

I have wet myself. I can feel the coldness of my own urine soaking through my jeans. My voice is little more than a whisper, my throat swollen and sore.

But I am alive.

A paramedic has wrapped me in a warm blanket, which hasn’t managed to stop my shivering yet, and has attached an oxygen mask to my face. I have so many questions I need to ask, but I’m too broken for now.