So he was going to keep her here until his pet cosmetic surgeon had turned her into someone else.

Angelica Rina Schmidt.

Then Guy and Angie would sally forth into the world and dazzle it with their love for each other.

Her chest tightened. Every time she thought he couldn’t get any crazier, he found a new level. It was like looking into an abyss, and she felt dizzy and unmoored.

She tried to breathe deeply. His plan was utterly grotesque, but at least she was clear now that they were beyond any possibility of reason. He could not be convinced to change his mind, and not only was it pointless – it was dangerous. If she succeeded in convincing him she did not love him, and had not been sending secret messages in her books, who knew what he would do?

It was perfectly possible – likely – that he would badly hurt her. Or kill her. She was trapped, but not in the way he thought.

Which might be an advantage. If she went along with the pretence and he started to believe her, his guard might slip. She might find an opportunity to get out of here.

Because that too was clear. She had to find a way to escape, and soon. If the surgeon was here Friday, it had to be before then.

She could not let Guy change her appearance. She would leave here the same person – but better, stronger – that had arrived.

She tapped the window. It thudded, reminding her of the thickness of the glass.

And reminding her how hard it was going to be to get out of here.

Matt

There was nothing to do but wait. It felt like a dream; he wandered from room to room, unable to sit still, and everything around him looked the same, but it was all different. It wasn’t that the house lacked colour, or life, or looked flat: it just didn’t seem real.

He kept thinking he was going to wake up and all this would be over.

But he also knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not now, not ever.

He picked up his phone and unlocked it, then checked email and Facebook and his text messages. He didn’t expect there to be anything. It was a few minutes past 2 p.m. and he had probably checked his phone fifty times already since midday, hoping there would be something.

Maybe a message from Annabelle, telling him where she was.

Nothing.

And then his phone rang. He recognized DI Wynne’s number.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Mr Westbrook? This is DI Wynne.’

‘Do you have news?’

‘Not of Mrs Westbrook. Not yet. But we have made significant progress.’

He stood straighter. ‘What happened?’