But she hadn’t realised what the brothers had planned. When she’d tried to fight them off, Terence held her down so Ger could rape her. They called her filthy names and spat at her the whole time. Then Terence had climbed on, taking over, while Ger poured his drink over her face and flicked cigarette ash on her body. All night, they’d taken turns. The following morning, she had fled, so sore she could barely move.

When she’d reported the rape, nobody had believed her. Even Elizabeth, who loved the bones of her, had made her feel like it was her fault.

‘Why did you go back to their house?’ she’d asked Mary Ellen, crying in despair. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but why did you do something so stupid? Why do you drink and put yourself in these situations? You need to be more careful.’

Mary Ellen had tried to stop putting herself in those situations. She still drank. By then it was less about living it up and more about forgetting. But she didn’t leave herself as exposed any more. Except that one time, when she’d let Sergeant Doyle drive her home. She’d smelled the alcohol on his breath, but he was a guard and she hadn’t thought too much of it. She hadn’t been worried.

He’d pulled over at the crossroads and rammed his hand up her blouse, trying to stick his tongue down her throat and get her jeans off at the same time. He’d whispered in her ear that he knew she was up for it and he’d been waiting to get his hands on her. She kneed him in the balls and he smacked her in the head. Somehow, she had managed to get out of the car.

She had done nothing wrong. He was a guard. She should have been able to trust him. This time, when she told Elizabeth what had happened, they went down to the station together and threatened to report him to his superiors.

Doyle had denied it outright; then he angrily claimed that nobody would believe Mary Ellen anyway – sure, hadn’t she accused half the village of trying to rape her? She’d asked him for the lift home, not the other way round. He’d changed tack then and tried to be kind. He was sorry if she’d got the wrong impression. She was furious at his deception, knowing that the look in his eyes was one of nervous guilt and shame, not remorse.

She’d known she had to get out of Glendale to shake off her past.

But she’d missed her chance.

One last drink, she’d told herself. One last night drowning my sorrows.

Then she’d got into the car.

How unlucky could one girl be?

The trapdoor was suddenly wrenched opened. Her kidnapper came down the stairs.