The difficult bit was keeping them in sight. At each junction there was a chance of missing them, and the one thing that would bring attention to you was to hustle through a set of lights on their tail when they were already changing.

Luckily, there were only a few cars around tonight, so it was easy enough for Hanson to keep behind Niall’s Jaguar. To him and Louise, she was probably nothing more than an anonymous set of headlights.

It was going well enough that she was able to spare some thought for the traffic around her. She noticed that the car behind had one badly adjusted headlight. It was much brighter than the other, and occasionally struck dazzling reflections off her wing mirror. It was irritating, and she waited impatiently for it to turn off onto another route.

But it stayed where it was, resolutely following her every move. And, after a few miles, it occurred to her that she might not be the only person following.

And she thought again of Damian, who had taken unreasonable steps to wreck her life, and who loved nothing more than to frighten her. And she wondered whether she actually ought to be growing frightened.

26

Louise

All of this has brought us, inevitably, to tonight. To our silent, unhappy return from the police station. To a home that feels like it’s made of nothing but paper. As if it’s about to float away.

I keep imagining I can hear you moving around upstairs, even though the door shut behind you hours ago. The fact that you’ve gone makes me rage and hurt even while I wanted you out of my life. I’m a mess of conflict, and I wonder if you are, too, or whether that silence of yours was the mark of someone who’s already moved on.

I spent almost an hour cleaning a house that was already clean, and then I suddenly just ran dry. Poised with a cloth in my hand, I felt the urge to move drain away, and I felt really, truly bereft.

It was you I was thinking about. You and Dina. I found myself finally wanting to know everything. Every detail of what’s been going on between the two of you.

And so, for the first time, I loaded up the desktop computer in your study, grateful that it had been inconvenient to take to a hotel with you. I’d always been afraid of looking at it, despite how many times it had occurred to me.

There turned out to be a mine of information on there thanks to it synching with your phone. Hidden amid innocuous photos of us and of your work events and of scenery you’d enjoyed, there were photos of Dina. Images she’d clearly taken of herself and then sent you. They spanned years, these images. Terrible, painful little points scattered through stills of our everyday lives.