‘Just the laundry.’ I have collected up my own dirty clothes, as well as the bundle in the bottom of the laundry basket. It’s not my job to do the laundry; Fran has a cleaner every day that takes care of it, but I feel as though I am lost at sea without Laurel to occupy me.

‘No, that.’ She points at something sticking out of the bottom of the bundle, that I can’t see from the position I am holding it in. ‘Give it to me.’ She tugs, and the clothes fall out of my arms, all over the hall carpet. Fran is clutching a scrap of lilac cotton to her face, that I recognise as the nightdress I took off Laurel yesterday morning before I put her in the bath.

‘No one said you could take this!’ Fran cries, tears shining in the corners of her eyes. ‘No one said you could do the laundry! Just leave it! Put it all back!’ She holds the nightdress tight against herself, rocking slightly as she cries.

‘Fran? What’s going on?’ Dominic thunders up the stairs, concern pulling his eyebrows in to a deep crease in his forehead. ‘Anna?’

‘I was just . . .’ I stutter, too frightened to say anything more. There is something primal, something horrifying, about the way Fran wails, the noise chilling the blood in my veins.

‘She was going to wash Laurel’s clothes!’ Fran cries, before burying her face in the soft washed cotton again, her shoulders hitching.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think . . .’ Of course, Fran wouldn’t want me to wash Laurel’s clothes, how could I be so stupid? ‘I only wanted to help.’

‘Leave it, Anna. Fran, come on. I’ll take you upstairs.’ His tone curt, Dominic puts an arm around his wife, guiding her gently towards the stairs that lead to the attic room. Fran turns to stare at me over one shoulder, and I look down, not wanting to meet her gaze, ashamed that I could be so thoughtless.

I grab my laptop and slide down onto the floor, my back against the radiator as I wait for it to boot up. The incident with Fran has left me feeling drained and shaken, and I wish I could sleep, but I know I won’t. My mind is too busy turning over the events of the past few hours, the vision of Laurel climbing into the back of a car etched on my brain. As I wait for the laptop, my mobile buzzes. It’s Jess. Again. She’s messaged several times since I left her, and I can’t ignore her any longer.

‘Jess?’

‘Anna. Just wanted to check you’re OK? This morning was pretty emotional.’ Understatement of the year.

‘I’m OK. Well . . . you know.’

‘I’m guessing it wasn’t Laurel then?’