I took another bite of sandwich, chewed it quickly. It was amazing what a little milk and bread could do for energy levels. I felt more awake and sat up straighter.

‘There’s a man. Patrick. He’s hurt. He needs help. And there’s Emma. I don’t know where she is and it’s my fault – I never should have told her to go. I—’

‘Take a breath,’ Harold said, ‘Tell me who Patrick is first.’

‘He’s this man who showed up at the cottage and then I got him involved and she stabbed him and—’

‘Who stabbed him?’

‘Mother. I don’t know her real name. She’s not well. She needs help too but not as much as Patrick. He’s dying.’

‘OK, OK. What about Emma? Tell me about her.’

‘She’s only five. She’s out there alone, all alone and she’s so little, so scared – and it’s all my fault!’

I started to cry, tried to stop, knowing I needed to explain better, but completely unable to fight the sobs that took over my eyes and mind and body. I tasted salt. My tummy lurched and saliva flooded my mouth. I jerked forward and threw up. I trembled as another wave of nausea built in my throat, and tensed, expecting it to overwhelm me, but it rolled back down into my stomach. With a shuddery breath, I sagged against the sofa and closed my eyes.

There was a hand on my shoulder. Someone taking the plate out of my hand. A gentle voice saying soothing things. I felt myself being made to lie down, being covered with crochet blankets, someone saying they were going to drive to the police station. I was so tired and the sofa was so comfortable and the blankets so warm and my eyes were heavy, so heavy.

Someone was stroking my forehead.

Saying nice things.

Stroking and soothing and stroking and soothing and stroking, stroking, stroking.

Chapter 33

I woke with a start, heart hammering, thinking I was back there, with Mother, trapped in the darkness of the cottage. I sucked in sharp breaths and stared around, my mind slowly piecing things back together. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom and my nose picked up a flowery scent, I remembered where I was: Harold and Dot’s house. I wasn’t in the cottage any more. I jerked upright – I hadn’t spoken to the police yet – told them about Patrick or Emma! I had let myself fall asleep and now it might be too late to save them. I dreaded to think what might have happened to little Emma. Out there all alone, just five years old.

I pushed back the bedcovers and climbed out of the bed, wincing as my feet took the weight of my body, surprised to see my feet clean and bandaged. Dot. She must have cleaned them while I slept.