Helen wondered which way it was going to go – confession, a plea for understanding, apology – or a resumption of the tantrum?

‘You miserable bitch,’ Alice hissed, slamming the mug onto the kitchen table and spilling coffee all over it. Ah, OK, Helen thought, so it’s back to the tantrum. Foolish of her to expect anything else. Alice was standing so close to her that Helen could see the faint constellation of spots on her forehead and see the sleep still in her eyes. Would they fight? Helen itched to slap her, but forced her hands to stay glued to her side, afraid that if they started they wouldn’t stop.

‘You can’t handle your guilt, can you, that you left your precious little baby girl with me while you and Dad swanned off to a fancy restaurant because you’re too tight to pay a proper babysitter?’

Helen couldn’t even be bothered to point out the illogicality of that question. Alice would have kicked up a massive fuss if they had got a ‘proper’ babysitter in when she was at home herself.

‘I don’t have anything to feel guilty about, Alice. Do you?’

Helen had been so determined to keep calm but, face to face with Alice and her rage, she could feel something seismic shift inside her, and the control she’d felt only moments earlier was beginning to desert her. Alice’s question about guilt echoed the words of many of the trolls on the Facebook page, adding velocity and heat to Helen’s rage. She hadn’t taken Marion’s advice; she still found herself compelled to read the comments in the way a tongue will repeatedly poke at a painful tooth.

Helen took a step forwards until her and Alice’s faces were inches apart like soap-opera protagonists.

‘I asked you a question, Alice: Do you? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT? I think you do, don’t you? I’m going to ask you again – what were you doing that night? Do you have something to do with Frankie’s disappearance? How could you not have noticed someone stealing her? HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE NOTICED?!’

That was it. The point of no return. Helen was screaming as loudly as Alice had been.

Alice made a noise, a sort of primal, guttural moan. ‘I fucking hate you, Helen, I really, really do. You’re an evil witch and a shit stepmother and I thank God you aren’t my mother. Frankie probably just ran away because she hates you so much! My dad regrets marrying you, I know he’ll never get over my mum, and if she hadn’t died he wouldn’t have looked twice at you and if you think I’m staying here in this house a minute longer with you then you’re deluded, I’m going—’