But I’m getting ahead of myself. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, it’s that getting ahead of oneself is always a mistake. Pride comes before a fall. Don’t sell the skin until you’ve caught the bear.

So where were we? That’s right. The Lockwoods. Garrick. Aster. And young Evan. But it was Olivia Lockwood who interested me. The mother at the heart of the family.

Except, it turns out, she wasn’t its heart at all, but an ugly tumor that needed cutting out.

4

Sunday 29th July 2018, 7:36 P.M.

25 The Avenue

“I still can’t believe how cheap this place was.”

Garrick Lockwood ran his hand along the oak banister, admiring its sturdiness. His architect’s eye ignored the damp patches, the hallway that felt too small, the cheap laminate floorboards that ran the length of the house. All he could see was potential.

His wife, Olivia, who was in the kitchen, stopped rummaging in a cardboard box for glasses and the bottle of prosecco she had bought for the occasion. “Are you being serious?”

“Deadly.”

It was an unfortunate turn of phrase.

“That’s not funny, Garrick.”

He chuckled, a low rumble of amusement. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. But it’s true. By the time I’ve finished here, it’s going to be stunning. They’ll be queuing up to take it off our hands.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, the quiet voice of reason, trying not to remember all the occasions his grand plans had come to nothing. It wasn’t like they’d had a choice this time, though. This house—one of several postwar semis set on the outskirts of a nondescript Essex town—was all they could afford.

His reply was muffled, his head buried in the cupboard under the stairs. The volume lifted as he withdrew, wandered down the hallway and pulled on the iron ring of a square door embedded in the floor. “I’d forgotten how big the cellar is. We could dig it out. Move the kitchen to the basement. Stick an extension on the side.”

Olivia placed two glasses on the worktop and closed her eyes.

The thud of a hatch shutting. Footsteps. And then Garrick was filling the kitchen doorway, head bent, already tapping numbers into the calculator function of his mobile phone.

“Sounds expensive.” Her fingers loosened the wire cage on the cork. She kept her voice light. “Have we got enough money to do that?”

He waved an airy hand. “We’ll be fine.” Gave a sheepish grin. “Actually, I’ve already submitted the plans.”

Decent of him to discuss it with her first. How typically Garrick. She breathed out her frustration. That would explain why he’d been insistent on traveling down to view the house several times while the sale was going through.

The cooler had not fulfilled its promise and she set down the tepid wine bottle with the same controlled care she used to ask her next question. “What about Oakhill? Have any of the flats sold yet?”

Garrick’s expression folded in on itself before he shook his head, confirming her suspicions. Money had been tight since his investment in a “surefire” building development that was proving slow to sell. They’d been forced to downsize to loosen the bank’s stranglehold on their finances.