‘No? What are you going to do then, Tom? Stay locked up in this flat, hiding from the world while I go out and earn the minimum wage for doing menial office tasks?’

‘Kate—’

‘You’re going to abandon all those people who need you? Who look up to you? Because of an accident? Because of a terrible, tragic accident you’re going to tell them to fuck off and deal with their shit alone because you’re too busy licking your wounds to—’

‘Stop it!’

A globule of his spittle lands on her cheek but she’s so angry, so frustrated, so fucking incensed that she doesn’t even pause to wipe it off. ‘You saved people, Tom. You saved them from misery and guilt and suicide and pain and you’re just going to walk away and let people suffer because you’d rather lick your wounds than—’

One second Kate is sitting on the bed, the next she’s flat on her back, Tom’s hands on her shoulders and his legs either side of her hips. As she gasps he presses his lips to hers and puts his tongue in her mouth, kissing her roughly, desperately, angrily. For a second, two, she is too shocked to respond. Then she kisses him back, moves her hands to the waistband of his jeans, slides her palms over his warm skin and pulls him closer. She looks up at her husband as he pushes himself inside her – to read his mood, to see if there’s anger or passion in his eyes – but he’s not looking at her. He’s staring somewhere just above her head, his gaze unfocused, lost in a memory. She’s seen that haunted expression before.

He’s thinking about Jenna.

Chapter 7

Now – nine months later, February

FRAN

Fran sits on the closed lid of the toilet seat and takes her phone from her bag. There’s a new text from her mum. All it says is Well? She scrolls back through the unanswered messages:

Do this for your sister.

You owe me, Fran. You owe Jenna too.

It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do.

You can’t let me die not knowing what happened to her.

She shakes her head as she rereads that one. Her mother might be seventy-three but, other than a broken hip, she’s in robust health and, given the longevity of the Rotheram side of the family, she’s unlikely to pop her clogs for at least another twenty years. Her mother’s texts are emotional blackmail, pure and simple. Fran clicks on the link at the top of the tirade and shakes her head as Tom Wade’s smiling face fills the top half of the screen.