She couldn’t remember the name, but it was pretty remote, she remembered him telling her that. They had met in London for lunch around that time, when one of her books was coming out, and he had explained how restful it was to have a bolthole to escape to when the pressures of the job and the city got on top of him.

What pressures? she had wanted to say. You try having kids and a family and bills to pay and trying to write novels.

She hadn’t. She didn’t want to be accused of complaining, so she had murmured how lovely. Now she wished she had told him what she actually thought.

‘Guy,’ she said. ‘Why would I be glad?’

He smiled that uncertain smile.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘You know why I’m doing this, and if you know that, then you know why you should be glad.’

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I have no idea. But whatever it is, it’s over. I’m going home to my family.’

In an odd way it was almost a relief it was Guy. It might be scary and weird, but it was Guy. She’d known him since she was fourteen. He was – at least he had been – a known quantity. There was nothing for her to be afraid of. If it had been a crazed psychopath, that would have been different. But it was Guy. A friend. He had screwed up somehow, but she could handle him. She could reach him.

And she knew he would not hurt her, not really hurt her. He didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t, or she would have seen it over the years. You couldn’t hide something that big for that long. No one could.

So she was going to leave. She was going to walk past him and leave this room and this house and this nightmare. And he would not stop her.

She walked towards him. He held up his hands and his lips twitched. ‘Annabelle,’ he began, ‘I don’t th—’

She tried to push past him and he grabbed her by the elbow and twisted. The pain bloomed through her shoulder and she screamed.

He increased the pressure.

‘Guy!’ she gasped. ‘No. That hurts.’

‘Annabelle. I don’t think you understand.’ Still holding her elbow, he pushed her back into the middle of the room. ‘You can’t leave.’

He levered her down until she was sitting on the end of the bed.

‘And you don’t want to leave,’ he said.

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t. More to the point, Annabelle, you wanted this. It’s your idea, Annabelle. You don’t need to pretend any more.’

‘Pretend what, Guy?’

‘That you don’t know what this is about.’

‘I don’t.’

The frantic look in his eyes grew wilder. He licked his lips. ‘Annabelle—’