Angie rubbed her face with her hands, straightened her shirt with a brisk couple of rubs. She was weak with nausea, and helpless, unsure what to do. She walked slowly back into the kitchen and ran herself a glass of water. A moment later, the door to the study opened and footsteps crossed the living room. Eleanor screamed with angry frustration. Then there was a crashing noise and another cry from her. Another banging noise. Wood splintering. Angie tucked herself behind the doorframe. Her footsteps approached the kitchen.

Eleanor loomed in the doorway. Her face was twisted in indescribable rage. Anger faced her. Eleanor stared at her, chest heaving, face blotched red, her sunglasses gone to reveal bloodshot eyes that bored into her like blades. ‘Leave. My. House.’ Her words were low but thick with unhinged malevolence.

‘I don’t—’

‘Leave now,’ she said with forced control. ‘And tell that slut daughter of yours that if I ever – ever – see her again, I’ll kill her.’

Angie’s hand flew to her chest and her mouth dropped open in shock. Eleanor’s simmering anger was terrifying, like some psycho from a horror film.

‘She’s not a slut,’ Angie whispered.

‘Yes. She is.’ Eleanor leant her face close to Angie, breathing the warm stale fumes of alcohol across her. ‘She’s a filthy little slut and you know it. Now get the hell out of my house.’

Angie wanted to tell her to shut up. She wanted to shout in her face, tell her to stop talking about Tamsyn like that, that at sixteen, legal or not, she was a child, and that if anything was going on between them then it was Max Davenport who needed killing. But she couldn’t speak. It was as if someone had cut out her tongue. Tears prickled the backs of her eyes as she turned and went into the utility room to grab her boots and bag from the cupboard. When she had hold of them, she hurried out of the kitchen, passing Eleanor Davenport who stepped to one side whilst averting her stony eyes.

As Angie walked across the living room she saw what had caused the crashes. One of the paintings – one of the infantile ones with colourful paint strokes on white – had been taken off the wall and smashed against the corner of the coffee table. There was a large, jagged hole in the canvas, the wooden cross-brace broken, the edges frayed where the fabric had torn.

With her head down, she walked quickly towards the back door, desperate to get out to the safety of the coast path. Her mind raced. Outrage mixed with confusion and anxiety. How dare that woman speak about Tamsyn the way she did? But was there any truth in what she accused her and Max of? Was that why Tamsyn was always at the house? Was her friendship with Edie just a cover?