‘Dad!’ said Sophie sharply. ‘Rachel’s not been abducted. She’s an adult. Why do you even have a key? You don’t have the right—’

I held up a hand to silence her.

‘Did you find anything else?’ I asked. Sophie was looking livid now. ‘Darling, we’re the parents of a sick child,’ I said, laying that same hand on her arm in an attempt to calm her. ‘Of course we have a key.’

‘Just these… lying on the table.’ Nick pulled out a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. I could see they were credit card statements, row after row of purchases running down the pages. ‘Flat looks like a jumble sale too, clothes all over the floor.’

‘Hardly a news flash, Dad,’ said Josh, with a patronizing laugh. ‘She’s always been a disaster with money.’

‘Christ, Josh, stop digging at her!’ said Sophie, flushed with anger.

‘I went through them,’ said Nick. In the pub, I assessed – I was close enough to smell the sour undercurrent of whisky on his breath. But then, who was I to judge? He paused a second, his usual confident ease drained out of him like an empty juice carton. ‘This woman – who the hell is she, Lily? Look at this.’ He thrust the top page towards me. ‘Two thousand pounds to Wild Swan Health – that’s got to be this fucking retreat, hasn’t it? And she owes two hundred quid in interest, just this month alone.’

‘Jesus,’ said Josh. ‘Where did you find her, Mum? We might need to start getting legal. It’s fraud, isn’t it?’

Sophie looked stricken, but this time I held my tongue, avoided pointing out that everything I’d presumed about the healing properties of this ‘retreat’ was proven true already.

‘Enough is enough,’ I said, righteous anger restoring my clarity. ‘She’s underestimated our family, the strength of our bond.’ I gripped hold of Sophie’s hand, then took Nick’s. ‘She’s underestimated how much we love our daughter. If she wants to fight us, she’s a fool. We’ll destroy her.’

Josh and Sophie had joined hands too now, the circle complete but for one vital link. I couldn’t let another woman win.

I never had before.

RACHEL

The atmosphere was different that night – almost febrile, the kinetic energy of our sessions translated into something more bacchanalian. The pine table was already littered with half-empty bottles, music pumping out of tinny portable speakers.