Back in the lounge I pull across the curtains, and bash away tears. I take another sip of my drink, my heart thudding. It’s post-traumatic stress – that’s what Dad said, when I told him I’ve barely slept since we returned from Drummondale House. Maybe see the GP.

When I do sleep, the nightmares are vivid. Just last night I felt sure I was awake as I staggered through the house, dragged down by snow, ears numb from the cold, calling out for Mum and Lark, begging them to show themselves, but I was locked in a dream, and when I finally woke, gasping for breath, tears came.

I flick on all the lamps, and head for the back window. I’m about to close the curtains when something catches my eye. Something’s hanging in the tree at the foot of the garden. My heart picks up speed once more. I should close the curtains, but my curiosity won’t let me. Instead I grab my coat, and gingerly open the back door.

The garden sensor-light springs to life as I step onto the patio, and my stomach lurches. It looks like a face in the tree. The mask?

I step closer, looking about me.

A bang, and my heart jumps into my throat. I grab my chest, realising within seconds it’s the next-door neighbour putting something into their wheelie bin.

As I move closer to the tree, I see it’s only a plastic carrier bag caught in the branches, waving in the wind. I turn and race back into the house, and slam the door, my body alive with pulses, and wrap my arms around myself. My stomach is a tight knot; my chest fizzes. I need to calm down. Finally freeing myself from my frozen position by the back door, I dash into the lounge and take a gulp of gin.

*

It’s some time later that the doorbell rings and kick-starts my out-of-control pulses once more.

I creep, trembling to the front door. ‘Who is it?’ I call.

‘Hi, Amelia, it’s only me – Rosamund. Can I talk with you?’

‘Rosamund?’ I open up to see her eyes shimmering with tears. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m so sorry to bother you. I didn’t know who else to turn to. Neil’s still in Scotland, and, well …’ She rummages in her bag and brings out a mask like the one the masked killer wore.

‘Oh God.’ I step backwards.

‘It was on my doorstep. I don’t know who put it there.’ Her eyes fill with tears.

‘Come in,’ I say.

She pushes the mask into her bag, and steps in. She shuffles free from her coat, hangs it up, and sniffs.