‘It was your mum’s letter to Neil that changed everything,’ she says, her voice calmer. ‘I knew it was from Caroline when I saw it lying on the doormat eighteen months ago, the swirling, elaborate handwriting so familiar. It was addressed to Neil and I knew that whatever she had to say wouldn’t be good. But, when I opened it and read her words, those of a dying woman out for revenge, I couldn’t believe how cruel she could be. Her spiteful decision to tell Neil that she saw Jackson and me in the wood the night Lark and Jackson disappeared, when she had only weeks to live, was wicked. I thanked God when she died.’ She lifts the knife and presses her finger against the blade. She doesn’t wince as it pierces her skin, or when a bubble of blood rises to the surfaces and drips to the floor.

There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t find the courage.

‘If Neil had read that letter he would never have forgiven me. He’d forgiven me too many times before.’ She leans forward and rubs her bloody finger across my cheek like war paint. ‘If your mother hadn’t sent that letter none of this would have happened, Amelia – it’s her fault so many died.’

‘So Neil didn’t read it. You found it before he could?’

She nods. ‘That’s right.’

Dad lets out a groan, and I look over. He’s holding his stomach, his eyes closed.

‘Please call an ambulance.’ Tears roll down my face. ‘He’s losing so much blood. Please, Rosamund. He’s bleeding out. He’s going to die.’

She laughs, long and hard. Hysterical, crazy laughter, that reminds me of a mechanical clown I once saw on a pleasure beach as a child, that gave me nightmares for weeks.

‘Oh, Amelia.’ She holds her chest, her laugh petering away, her face transforming to a look of disgust. ‘Do you really think I’m going to pick up the phone and save his life?’ She strokes my cheek once more with her bloody finger. ‘You both have to die. Don’t you see? You know too much.’

She’s so absorbed in her own fantasy; she doesn’t seem to hear the click of the front door opening. Thomas?

‘When Neil holds his baby son, everything will be as it should be,’ Rosamund continues, stroking her fake baby bump as though she still believes she’s carrying a child. ‘It’s Neil I love. It’s Neil I’ve always loved. Jackson and I would never have lasted. None of the other men meant anything.’

Rosamund has her back to the kitchen door seemingly unaware it’s edging open an inch at a time. Thomas?

With a jolt, she presses the knife against my throat once more. ‘I need to finish you off now,’ she says. ‘You and then your precious father.’