She dropped the book when the home phone trilled. Another silent call? She’d had five in total now. Each time she would consider not answering, but each time she’d think, What if it’s Zeb calling from a pay phone? What if he’s changed his mind about everything, but lost his mobile, needs rescuing? And hadn’t she just asked him to contact her urgently?

She rushed to the handset in the living room.

“Hello?”

There was no reply. Barely any sound.

“Who is it?”

No background buzz. Just soft, slow breathing.

“Say something,” Emma hissed, angry now.

That fear was rising, same as when the egg had slopped out of the book: a dread of being targeted. She told herself yet again that there was no evidence of a link between the calls and the parenting book. That she didn’t need to fear the lines being drawn between present and past . . . between her son and Steph’s daughter . . . between her own problems and the Harlows’ ordeal . . .

“Leave me alone!” she yelled, slamming down the phone.

22.

CHRIS

Chris emerged from the bathroom deep in thought, vigorously toweling his hair as if to dislodge trouble from his head. When he lowered his arm he saw Vicky in their bedroom, misted by the cloud of steam that had followed him out of the shower. She was wearing one of his old shirts, with jeans and slouchy socks. The shirt dwarfed her—she always hid her body from him these days—but Chris felt pleased to see her in his clothes, like it showed they were still a couple. As if this were a normal lazy Sunday.

Oddly, though, she was standing at the mirror applying bright red lipstick. She rarely wore much makeup, so the slash of scarlet looked surreal. Chris watched as she painted her lips, then pressed them together and inspected her handiwork. He moved closer and saw a shiny gold Chanel logo on the side of the lipstick.

“Bold color,” he said, unable to bring himself to compliment it outright.

She clicked the lid back on. Their gazes met in the mirror, the rest of her face ghostly white. He saw her startle when their doorbell chimed.

“I’ll get it,” she said, slipping away before he could object.

Chris was left staring at his own unhealthy reflection, his damp, patchy chest hair in the V of his dressing gown. There was a smear of lipstick in the corner of the mirror; he licked his finger to rub it off but it only smudged and streaked, like blood.

“There are some police here to see you.”

Chris froze. Vicky had reappeared in the corner of the mirror, blinking worriedly.

“Really? Uh . . . I’ll get dressed.”