The room was always dimly lit, usually by candles, but only as long as they were beeswax because the women worried about toxins. They worried about a lot: about the overuse of plastic, about the effects of social media on young girls, injustices in far-flung places, bees, abortion laws, the closing of libraries and opening of too many fast food restaurants. They turned that worry into plotting and planning, running web chatrooms and designing placards on newspaper on the floor.

The warmth wasn’t just from the candles though. It was the women, mostly in their sixties and early seventies, who refused to fade quietly into old age like their mothers had done before them, who wore bright colours and dyed their hair odd shades and dressed how they pleased. They bickered and gossiped, teasing Thea, telling her off, lecturing her, making her one of them because she never really had friends of her own age. However, it didn’t matter because she had that room with those women whenever she wanted, whenever she got a little tired of the quiet in her own house.

She wanted to see that room again.

And her mother.

Blinking back tears, Thea tried not to move. She’d seen enough horror films in her life to know that the heroine always got caught because she dropped something, or slipped, or knocked something, or sneezed. This felt very much like a film. It couldn’t be real life, could it? Her life? Her life didn’t involve running for cover, running so hard her legs felt shaky and her heart seemed huge in her chest.

She’d found a spot by a tree and some tangled, spiky undergrowth, so she’d crawled her way into it, as far as she could go, her hair caught in thorns, her hands squashing beetles, feeling them pop like bubble wrap as she pushed herself in, knowing she had to get out of sight and then she had to be very still.

So still.

A latticework of branches closed over her, like a confessional screen. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Only bugs would be able to offer penance. Her breaths moved a strand of spiderweb that had got caught on her jacket collar and it floated elegantly in time with her breathing.

She tried not to think. Not of the gun that Len had been reaching for under his jacket, tucked into his belt, at the small of his back. Not of the lighthouse, which they really didn’t want her to see, and what could be waiting there, hiding like her. And finally, she really, really tried not to think of the pale face at the monastery window, mouth stretched wide, a dark O of fury and the sound of bone crunching into stone.

And then Thea, in her leafy confessional, heard footsteps.

Quiet, carefully placed footsteps.