THE HORROR OF COOPER’S DEATH SEIZES OLI’S BODY THE MOMENT she wakes. She gasps for air in the middle of the king-sized bed, goose bumps rippling along her skin as she curls into the foetal position, hugging her legs and pushing her forehead into her knees. How can it be a new week and Cooper is dead? Yesterday he was alive and now he’s dead. It is utterly unfathomable.

Underneath the devastation, persistent thoughts about Dean needle at her brain. She thinks back over the past eighteen months. When they first reconnected, she treated the relationship like a delicate bubble. She cleared her schedule for him, even took time off work to be with him. Their relationship was as addictive as ever. But the high faded more quickly this time. She threw herself back into work and tried to fit him into her world rather than the other way around. In turn, he pressured her to move in. He wanted more of her time. Made her feel guilty about the girls.

Her mind drifts to Dean pinning her down, his strength always teetering on the cusp of feeling dangerous; Dean demanding to know where she is. An uncomfortable medley of their recent conversations plays out in her mind, unease lodging in her gut. His quest for perfection is something she admires, but her inner voice insists there’s an edge to it. His need for control always threatens to ruin a moment. The potential to disappoint him feels constant. But, she reassures herself, he’s never shown a hint of aggression. He’s possessive, yes, but that’s not a crime. He might have high expectations and like things to be just so, but he is not violent. He’s just not. As if to prove a point, she summons a series of moments: his quiet pride about the girls, the gentle encouragement he offers them. His relaxed teasing. The way he wants to look after her. His generosity. The way her body has always responded to him without hesitation.

Oli switches between dozing and crying. She closes her eyes and tries to think about nothing. After an hour or so, she feels wrung out. She flips onto her back and looks around the room. All of Dean’s things are tucked out of sight. Even his nightstand is spotless; the water bottle that is usually there is gone, leaving only a photo of the twins. Oli has no idea what time it is, the block-out blinds doing an effective job. Her phone will be flat by now, and she feels a satisfying surge of rebellion at being uncontactable.

Without warning she’s hot and clammy, sweat breaking out across her forehead and behind her knees. The plush pillows and satiny sheets feel revolting against her skin, and she desperately kicks them off, scrambling out of the bed and standing on the carpet in her underwear, breathing heavily, nerves jangling.