It sounded like Dee’s voice. My sister. But of course, it wasn’t really Dee. I was hallucinating. Or I was sleeping. This was a nightmare, after all.

But the shape got bigger and bigger and I saw it really was Dee, coming down the lane towards me.

‘DEE!’ I screeched the word and baby Reign gave a start and began to cry.

‘Lorna.’ Dee reached me, drawing in great lungfuls of air. ‘I saw the fire. I’ve been waiting … wait. What are you holding?’

‘A baby.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘It’s Michael’s.’

The quad bike headlights flowed behind us like waves.

‘Let’s get in the car, Lorna,’ said Dee.

‘What car?’

‘My car. It’s parked right over there.’ Dee pulled me to a dark blue car parked by the side of the lane.

‘How are you even here?’ I asked, taking a horrified glance down the lane at Michael’s approaching quad bike. ‘And you have a car. How?’

‘I told you I’d be waiting. Get in.’

We climbed into Dee’s car and I pulled the passenger door closed.

‘You have a baby,’ said Dee matter-of-factly.

I clicked the car lock down just as Michael’s quad bike roared up beside us. I saw him through the car window: his pale, dead-eyed face turned to us, more furious than I’d ever seen him.

I heard his scream through the glass: ‘GIVE HER TO ME.’

‘Drive, Dee,’ I shouted.

‘Lorna, if you have his child—’

‘Please. Please trust me. I’ll explain later.’

Michael’s fists pounded on the window.

I clutched Reign. ‘Drive, Dee, drive. Please. PLEASE!’

‘Okay.’ Dee nodded. ‘Okay.’ Dee put the car into gear and we screeched away towards the main road.

I didn’t look back. When we pulled out of Michael’s lane, Dee revved the accelerator and we raced into dark, early-morning countryside. Eventually, I started noticing the world around me and the quaint little village name signs. Huntingdon. Abbey Fields. Taunton Wood. And there were trees, too. A sunrise.

‘So what’s going on?’ said Dee, glancing at the sleeping bundle in my arms. ‘You have Michael’s baby. You’re a baby thief. Have you lost your mind?’

‘This was Michael’s baby,’ I said, kissing Reign’s head. ‘But she’s mine now.’

Dee sucked at her cheeks. ‘Okay. Let’s figure this out. We’ll take the baby to a hospital or a doctor or … I don’t know, some safe space. And then have someone tell Diane to come get her. And we have to do it now, Lorna. Diane must be going out of her mind—’

‘Diane isn’t the mother,’ I said. ‘The mother is dead. Michael shot her.’

Dee swallowed. ‘Lorna – what the hell are you talking about?’

‘Cat Cannon’s fifteen-year-old daughter is this baby’s mother. She gave birth out in the woods. And then she bled to death.’

‘I saw a fire,’ says Dee.