Michael snorts. ‘Lorna could never play any kind of game. Look at her, walking right in here, a rat in a trap. Not a thought in her stupid little head about how to get out of this one. No, she’s getting what’s in store for her and she knows it.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘She was playing a game. She thought close by would be the last place you’d look. And she was right. She out-thought you on that one. You didn’t find us.’

Michael’s eyes darken. ‘No, she didn’t out-think me. You’re here, aren’t you? Lorna left herself wide open as usual. Not a clue how the game was played. Do you know something, Liberty? I set Lorna up before she even thought of going to the press. When she still thought I was her hero. Just in case she ever turned on me, I had photos of her I could use.’

I turn back to the window, watching my mother.

‘She doesn’t look afraid.’

‘She’s afraid,’ says Michael, going to the door. ‘She’s about to lose everything.’

Once upon a time …

‘Wake up.’ Michael loomed over the bed; short, dark and sinister.

I tensed under the bedclothes, eyes open enough to take in the grey early-morning sky and hear the high winds whipping around my turret bedroom.

Wedding brochures were stacked on my bedside table – something to keep me occupied after Cat’s visit.

It hadn’t worked. I hadn’t slept well since Cat turned up. Annalise leaving so suddenly was bugging me. I hadn’t questioned it much at the time because I was too busy counting my blessings. And her stomach – the fullness hadn’t looked like a bundle of jumpers. Not at all. She’d been wearing a very thin dress and I’m pretty sure I saw her sticky-out belly button through the cotton.

Then there was the fact that Michael had suddenly got preoccupied with the cottage. He’d often stay out there all night, claiming to have some amazing musical inspiration.

‘Lorna,’ said Michael, his voice urgent now. ‘Lorna, wake up. I have something for you.’

Michael’s voice sounded weird. Not drunk. Not angry. Just weird.

I pretended to stir even though I was already wide awake.

Michael was holding something in his arms: a bright-blue Adidas hoodie.

‘It’s for you,’ said Michael, leaning forward with the bundle.

At first I was confused. Then I saw what was wrapped inside the royal-blue cotton and sat bolt upright.

‘Jesus. It’s a baby.’

‘She’s for you,’ said Michael, pushing the bundle into my arms. ‘A little girl.’

I saw a dark-haired, tiny child, little white milk marks on her cheeks, soft sunken diamond shape in her skull. She looked so much like Michael. And she was covered in blood.

I sat bolt upright. ‘Shit, Michael, what’s going on?’

Michael paced the room, white-faced.