I feel my hands fall and hear a scream of frustration – mine. He’s right. Always so many moves ahead. The brilliant chess player. Defended on all corners.

‘Let Liberty out the gates,’ I say. ‘Make her look crazy. Tell the press she’s a liar. You know you can do that. Just let her go. And I won’t fight you anymore.’

‘That’s a given.’ Michael looks out the window. ‘The problem right now is Liberty’s not at the gate.’

‘What?’

Michael whips around to face me. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

His shoulders turn into a furious hunch and he lifts the rifle, taking aim. ‘What are you two playing at?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know any more than you.’

Michael shoves me hard onto the bed and points the rifle. For a minute, I think he’s going to do it. I think he’ll shoot me. But instead he turns and marches out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I leap off the bed and run to the door, but it’s locked or stuck. Immovable.

Goddamn it!

I pull on the metal-studded oak door, fists pounding, trying to smash through solid oak. But it doesn’t work.

It’s just like the old days.

I’m trapped and Michael holds all the cards.

Once upon a time …

Rain poured from a jet-black sky, catching in the tree branches and falling in cold, mean drops on the baby’s forehead and cheeks. I tried to shield her, hold her against me, but the rain just kept coming.

Michael was behind us, his brown moccasins slapping on wet mud.

‘Where do you think you’re going with my child?’ said Michael, his voice low and hard.

My whole body went rigid, stiff hands clutching Reign for dear life. If I was just me, I would have fought or run. But I couldn’t risk anything with a baby. Some kind of natural instinct.

‘I was looking for you,’ I lied. ‘Reign was crying. She wanted her father.’

‘Come with me,’ said Michael, his voice softening. ‘Reign shouldn’t be out here in this rain.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know. You’re right, Michael.’

I tried for a smile, as though Michael’s spell hadn’t been broken. But it had. I now saw not the love of my life, my hero, my obsession, but a bitter middle-aged man with a lined face and hard, empty eyes.

‘Watch your step now, Lorna,’ said Michael, as though he were a gentleman. ‘That’s a precious thing you’re carrying. More precious than both of us.’

‘Did Annalise give birth out in the cottage?’ I ask, cold bare feet flinching on stones and twigs.

‘What does it matter?’ said Michael. ‘You’re this baby’s mother now. Think of it as a holy birth. This baby is of the world, not of us. But you have the honour of taking care of her.’