His key turned in the front door as I moved the files into the steamer chest at speed. There was swearing when he realised I’d double-locked the door and he had to fumble for his second key. I’d bought myself extra time with that move, but he would still be in the entry hall in a few seconds. Had he noticed the Internet outage, and that his cameras had gone blank for a few minutes? Was that what brought him home? What excuse did he give at the hospital to get away?

I shut the lid as softly as I could, then reinserted the screwdriver into the keyhole. To my surprise and relief, it rotated and the lock reengaged with a click.

I was halfway to the over-stuffed armchair in the corner when Zac’s footsteps drew near. When he continued on, up the stairs, I let out my breath. Tiptoeing the rest of the way, wincing at a creaking floorboard, I slid the book and the tools and phone under the chair’s fat seat cushion, thankful that the owners of the house chose such heavily upholstered furniture. All I could do was hope that I would get a chance to retrieve them soon, without Zac discovering them first.

Already he was calling my name, sounding puzzled not to find me in bed, going through the upstairs rooms to search for me, coming down the stairs again.

When the door to the study opened I was posed in the chair as if I had been waiting for him to come home but couldn’t help falling asleep. I’d pulled up the hem of the silky maternity nightdress Zac bought me, so one of my thighs was exposed. I’d slipped a spaghetti strap off my shoulder, though at twenty-weeks pregnant I worried that I looked too lumpy to play that trick. Still, the nightdress had a sheer lace panel at the top of the empire waist, and it didn’t take much to seduce Zac. That was one of the things I loved about him.

Used to, I reminded myself. Used to love about him.

I felt him standing in front of the chair, felt him bend, felt his lips against mine, then his fingers brushing my shoulder, slipping beneath the blush-pink fabric he chose when we found out last week that he was right and we were having a girl. Since then, he’d called the baby his mini mermaid, which I loved. I pretended he’d just woken me, when he told me how glad he was to find me, that he couldn’t bear to lose me, that he was scared I had left him.

I lifted a hand to the back of his neck, pressed my fingers into the little hollow at the top, which was as smooth as his scalp. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

He searched my face but said nothing.

‘Is it because Jane did?’