Light arced across the garden, a greedy spoon of white catching me in its harsh beam. Bewildered by it, I crashed into a great naked rosebush, the bare branches snatching at me like Hansel’s bony fingers. I’d long celebrated my lack of neighbours, the solitude – but, God, I cursed it now.

The car was on the drive, heading straight for me: I’d finally been hunted down. I heard a noise – and then I realised it was me; I was actually whimpering with terror. The light swung back across the garden, holding me hard, the gap between me and my persecutor closing fast as the engine was gunned. I couldn’t outrun a car. I’d run back home. Turning, I went the other way. I could see the door. I pounded the ground – my bad foot was so sore now as I panted with fear, and then, behind me, the car churned up the gravel, skidding to a halt, pinioning me between it and the house. Alex was going to get me. It was too late to flee.

I turned again quickly. I had to face my hunter; I couldn’t stand unseeing, exposed. The car door swung open as the moon slid out from the fingers of cloud, an oily disc of moonshine that lit up everything.

‘Oh God,’ I laughed with relief, though I felt more like crying. ‘It’s you. Oh God, I’m so pleased to see you. I was so scared. Have you got Digby with you?’ I lifted my hand to my chest as if to still my beating heart and my hand was trembling, properly shaking, and I took a step towards him.

‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone,’ I started to say, and then I caught his eye and my smile died. I stared at him and his smile met mine – a traitor’s smile. And now he took a measured step towards me as I reeled in shock like I’d been punched, gut-punched where it most hurt. Mortally punched.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I said numbly. ‘It can’t be you.’

‘But it is me, Maggie.’ And that smile, it was a flat smile, a smile of utter malice. ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Three

In retrospect, perhaps it was all my own fault. I shouldn’t have rushed so; I should have stuck to my instincts, should have let my sore heart heal; let sleeping dogs snore and not enticed them to tell lies.

But of course I wasn’t thinking any of that right now. I was simply panicking as he marched me into my own house, grasping my upper arm as if he’d like to sink his fingertips right through it.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I pleaded. ‘What are you doing? You’re scaring me. Let me go.’