Patrick turned away from me and followed her out of the room. I let go of Emma and dashed past him, unable to believe Patrick’s stupidity, yet following Mother closely, desperate to stop her from somehow hiding the evidence. It occurred to me that she may have a key for the doll wardrobe. She might run into the room and lock the wardrobe before anyone saw, then claim she’d lost the key or … Mother stopped outside her bedroom door and waved me and Patrick inside.

‘Feel free to look around. I don’t know what Mirabelle’s talking about, but please feel free to look – just don’t touch!’ she added with a light chuckle.

I rushed past her into the room. Patrick followed me. I flung open the wardrobe doors and stood back, ‘See!’

‘What the he—’ Patrick’s words stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him fall, heard him gasp. Blood sprayed all over the bed, the walls, the carpet, me. Patrick fell onto his front on the carpet with a thud. He moaned, one hand on his bleeding side, and swivelled to face Mother, his eyes wide with terror, his other hand held up in self-defence.

‘Please, don’t,’ he gasped. His eyes pleaded with her as she stood over him, a kitchen knife wet with his blood, her head tilted, eyes narrow.

She had stabbed him. I looked from the knife to her face, from her face to Patrick lying on the floor. It had all happened so fast. I blinked, trying to make it un-so, but it was real. Mother had a knife and she had used it on Patrick. I couldn’t move. My mouth was dry, my stomach like lead.

Mother stared down at Patrick, her eyes bright. ‘This would never have happened if you had read the sign – Private Land – it says it loud and clear. No one else has ever come here. It’s your own bloody fault for being such an ignorant fool,’ she spat. ‘If you’d left well alone, this would never have happened.’

Patrick’s face crumpled. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.

‘He’s going to die. We have to help him,’ I said in a small, weak voice, eyeing the knife in her hand, too aware that it had sliced through Patrick’s skin like butter only moments ago.

‘And you,’ she said, turning to face me, jabbing the knife in my direction, ‘you disobeyed me, Mirabelle, didn’t you? You went into the attic when I was out, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU! You’re just like her. You’re just like Olivia!’

I stared at her, unable to believe I had been blind to her madness for so long.

‘Answer me,’ she said.

I took a deep breath, ‘Yes. I went into the attic.’

‘Why?’ She almost sounded hurt.