I flicked forward a few more pages, over a number of entries in which she expressed her frustration and rising panic time and time again:

Matilde telephoned this morning. She’s been staying at the villa, sucking up to Mama. She talked for hours about the new swimming pool. It was so boring. I don’t care! Why would I care about a stupid pool? I asked her to go to the convent and she promised she would, but I don’t trust her. That girl can be so spiteful sometimes.

The convent? Why would Anna want Matilde to go there? To pray? To ask for divine intervention?

A few days later, in Rome, Anna’s situation was deteriorating:

Papa’s not affectionate, like he used to be. We don’t go out for dinner like we used to. I asked outright if he’d take me to the Trattoria Vecchia, our old haunt. He said no. He watches me all the time. He’s definitely been through my things and he’s suspicious of everything. He challenged me with my bank account book and asked what’s happened to the savings. When I wouldn’t tell him, he shouted at me, called me a little traitor. I get the sense he’d like to peel me like an onion; take away layer after layer of me until he’s seen right into the middle, seen everything there is to see and there’s nothing left that’s private to me.

The next day:

Mama telephoned from Sicily. She didn’t want to speak to me, but she talked to Papa for hours. When he came off the phone, Papa went into his study and didn’t come out until evening. I tried to leave the apartment, but the door was locked, and when I asked Papa for the key, he flew into a rage. He says he knows everything, but how can he know? G wouldn’t have said anything to anyone.

Two days later:

I telephoned Matilde while Papa was sleeping. She said she ‘hadn’t had a chance’ to go to the convent yet. I pleaded with her. I won her round with promises of things we’d do together when I’m back. I made her swear on her father’s life.

G might be able to change the tickets. It might not be too late. I feel bad for Matilde, but what else can I do?

Three days after that:

Nothing from Sicily. I called M, but her father answered and told me to get off the line.

Later the same day:

Papa tried to make me tell him everything and when I wouldn’t, he grabbed me by the arms & shook me & locked me in my room. I hate him.

And that evening: