But the relief is short-lived, goose pimples rising on the bare stretches of her limbs. Amy stares back at her from the mirror positioned on the dresser. She’s sitting on the reupholstered piano stool. Dark hair swishes across the waistband of her lacy pyjama shorts.

‘Amy?’

The little girl blinks. Once. Twice. Her lips begin moving, but there’s no sound.

‘Amy,’ Oli repeats, walking across the room, ‘come on, honey, you need to get back to bed.’ She gently places a hand on Amy’s shoulder. ‘This way.’

The girl’s skin is damp, her limbs obedient. She allows herself to be pulled upright and guided to bed. Oli pushes back the sheets and eases her in, smoothing the covers across her small frame.

Oli closes the window, locks it. Pulls the curtain across the glass. She watches Amy for a moment, then goes to her, thinking, as she often does, that those thick dark brows are jarring on such a young face. So severe.

‘Go to sleep, Amy,’ Oli whispers authoritatively, using her fingers to close the girl’s left eye, which was still half open. Oli stares at Amy’s sleeping face then pulls away, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.

‘Mummy.’

It’s so faint that Oli wonders if she imagined it. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Amy’s breathing becomes as even as the tick of a clock. Adrenaline twitches through Oli’s limbs as she backs away from the bed. Amy won’t remember this; she never does.

Oli dashes along the hall, imaginary beasts biting at her heels. Dean is in the same position, his large feet exposed at the end of the bed. On the bedside table the clock ticks over to 3.27. Oli feels her way through a mound of clothes on the floor and pulls on one of Dean’s sweatshirts. She plucks her pyjama pants from the end of the bed and collects her work satchel from the chair. As she heads downstairs, she avoids the second step, the only creaky one. Reaching the bottom, she quickly turns off the ground-floor security system and rushes through the silent dining room, her bare feet gliding across the floorboards, the shadowy furniture reminding her of an abandoned carnival. In the kitchen she flicks on all the lights and the kettle. The water boils as the wind rages outside, muted by the double-glazed windows.

She carries her tea into the lounge, her satchel bumping against her thigh. She feels a familiar frisson of energy, her fingers tingling with a desire to start typing. Laptop open, notes nearby and the steaming mug balanced on the armrest, she tries to forget about Amy, tries to forget about everything except her work.

Detective Isabelle Yardley watches from the mantelpiece as Oli starts to write.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO