She had a good idea of what he was thinking, and it terrified her. It was so outlandish and far from the truth that, if he believed this, he could believe – and do – anything. She had no idea how he had reached the conclusions he had, but that could wait. She had to deal in facts, and the fact was he thought she was secretly in love with him – so secretly she didn’t fully realize it – and had been communicating with him through her books.

So he had constructed this monstrous plan to kidnap her children and then exchange them for her. For him, if she accepted the exchange it was proof he was right: she was choosing him over her family, all while being able to pretend to the world that she had no choice because she had to rescue her children. But since he thought she didn’t really care about her kids – it was in the most recent book – that meant she was choosing him.

And everything else flowed from there. Every other fantasy he had constructed was proved right.

There was no point in trying to challenge the edifice he had built up. The whole point of the last book was that she did love her kids, but he was clearly beyond reason. She wondered how long his madness had been going on. Had he always been like this? It went at least as far back as the wedding – the emails proved that – but was it even deeper than that?

It hardly mattered, and she could hardly ask him. It would only provoke another painful attack on her damaged shoulder. Or worse. Maybe he would try to hurt her children, or do something awful to Matt.

So she had to tread carefully, try to find out his plans in a way that did not upset him.

She could make it sound like she was interested, that she merely wanted to know, for the good of them both.

Could she do that? She wasn’t sure. But she was about to find out. There was a click as the door unlocked.

It opened, and there he was.

I’m going to have to get her better clothes. She looks scruffy. Bedraggled, almost. I want her to look her best. Sexy. I’ll get her some lingerie, too. She’ll want it. She’s going to want me to think she’s still a prize.

And right now she’s slipping. There’s no excuse, really – it’s a lack of respect for herself – and for me – and I won’t be able to accept that for long, but I can allow it this time.

This time.

She is in bed. She looks tired. She’s going to need to sleep more. That’s something else for her to work on.

‘So,’ I say. ‘What are you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘What do you mean?’