I throw warning daggers at Megan. That story—and a story is what it is, a complete crock of shite—is not on-script. I will make the bitch pay for that later.

“So, you think she’ll turn up?” asks Officer Milly.

“She probably just ran off somewhere, had an argument with her boyfriend or something and wanted some space. Did you look at her social media?”

“It doesn’t look like she’s been posting for a while. A lot of influencer types have gone dark, apparently. It’s nothing we worry about.” Officer Milly sounds like she spends a lot of time wishing her life was as glamourous as some other people’s.

“No, I suppose not,” Megan replies.

“Do you know who she was seeing?”

“I think he was married,” Megan replies. I dig my nails into the flesh of her hand—where is she going with this?—but her smile doesn’t crack one bit.

“What makes you say that?”

“She liked to take what wasn’t hers. And if he wasn’t married, she’d have wanted people to see him, would have splashed his picture all over social media.”

“But she was definitely seeing someone?”

“She was always seeing someone,” Megan replies.

The interview wraps up and Officer Milly promises to be in touch if they find anything or hear anything. She thanks Megan for her help.

In the car I am silent until we are home and through the front door. As soon as it clicks shut behind us, I whirl round to face her.

“You will regret that.”

“What?”

What? What? She has the fucking audacity to stand there and ask me what? “You know, Megan. Don’t play cute with me.” I have never hit a woman in anger—well except when she shamed me by flirting with Kivi in front of my family—it is not how I like to handle myself. But a punishment is justified if the crime is particularly heinous, and she needs to understand that she cannot act like that without consequence. Our hallway runs adjacent to our neighbors’ front room, where they seem to spend their entire lives sat in front of mind-numbing TV. So, I grab her upper arm and drag her into the kitchen, throwing her on to her knees on the tiled floor.

“What the fuck, Chris…” Her voice peters out as she tries to stand up but stops when she sees me.

I have slipped my belt from the loops of my jeans and I’m folding it in half and then in half again.

“You have to learn, Meggie,” I say, cocking my head to one side, a compassionate smile on my lips. “You have to learn who is in charge here, and what I will and will not tolerate.” I tap the belt gently against the palm of my hand and relish the soft crack of leather on skin. “Now, take off your jeans.”

“No!” My wife, although in a heap on the floor, is defiant.

I laugh. “No?” I squat on my haunches to bring my face level with hers. “OK. I’ll give you a choice then. Take your jeans off, and I will take this belt to your bare arse so you won’t want to sit for a week. Or keep them on.” I hold the belt in my left hand above my head and drop the buckle end so it falls to the floor. “Keep them on and I will take this metal end to that pretty face of yours. Your choice.” I push myself back to standing and wait for her answer.