Nerves dance across her skin as she ignores the chiming grandfather clock, ignores her reflection in the huge round mirror on the wall. She heads straight upstairs to the bedroom, her thighs aching as she skips every second step. After flicking on the bedroom light, she sets about reversing her steps from months earlier, pulling clothes from hangers and bundling them into her suitcase, shoving in shoes and underwear. In the ensuite, she grabs her make-up bag and toiletries from the cupboard shelf. Lightning slices the sky. The rain keeps tumbling down. Returning to the bedroom, she piles the armful of things into the suitcase, remembers the pair of runners under the bed and jams them down each side, zips it shut. She yanks it upright and surveys the room. Like the rest of the house, it’s glossy and plush, luxurious textures blending perfectly with modern technology. Nothing in the house creates friction; every room flows into the next. Not like Lily’s ramshackle bungalow with its rabbit-warren layout, or their childhood home, Oli’s bedroom an afterthought tacked onto the end of a long corridor separated from the rest of the house.

She props the bulging case against the door and sits on it. Watches tree branches lift and jerk in the wind. She squints, and Isabelle appears. Lying on the dark bed, faint at first then clearer, silencing her alarm and staring at the ceiling for a minute before she slips out of bed. She stands next to her sleeping husband, her bare feet on the creamy carpet as she reaches her hands into the darkness, arching her back, her long wavy hair spilling down. She moves like a cat, careful not to wake Dean or the girls. Applies deodorant in the bathroom, sits on the side of the bath and pulls on socks. Isabelle glances at Dean, still asleep in the bed, then skips right past Oli, heading down the stairs. She will be dead in less than two hours.

What was she thinking? Had she told Dean it was over, or was she still working through her plan? What did she think he was capable of? Did she have any inkling she was in danger?

Oli stands, weary. She follows Isabelle down the stairs, the suitcase slamming painfully into her thigh. Rusty sends her another text. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Are you alone? She hauls the suitcase from the bottom step onto the smooth white entrance tiles. The dying tulips Dean gave her shudder slightly in the crystal vase on the side table. Puffing from the effort, she quickly types a reply. Please don’t worry. I’m just having an early night. Speak tomorrow.