‘Jesus, what have you done?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Isabelle. You knew she was going to leave you, didn’t you?’

‘What?’ His mouth twists into an ugly shape.

‘You knew. And there was other stuff as well—things she suspected you of doing. I know, Dean, I know about O’Brien.’

‘What?’

Oli slides her eyes to the panic button. Could he have disabled it? Surely if the light is on, that means it’s still working. ‘Just leave. Please.’

Dean runs his hand through his hair. ‘No way, no way, Oli. You don’t get to say stuff like that. You don’t know anything.’ He steps closer, his whole body shaking. ‘We had our problems, but she was my wife. The mother of my children.’

Chills zap up her spine. Dean’s eyes blaze. Behind him the rain rages against the panel of glass next to the front door.

‘Sure, but maybe when you thought she didn’t want to be your wife anymore, you, you—’

‘Fucking say it!’ he roars. ‘Come on, say it!’

Oli gasps around her sobs. She can’t get the air to her lungs.

‘Say it!’

She lurches sideways as he comes at her, throwing her weight hard against the side table before losing her balance altogether. The table slides a good metre over the floor before the oriental vase teeters and crashes spectacularly across the tiles, white and blue fragments scattering everywhere. Oli lies face down on the floor, the noise ringing in her ears.

‘You think I wanted her dead. Say it! Jesus Christ, Oli!’ Dean lets out a howl. Throws both hands around the back of his neck, his veins like ropes, and pulls his head forward. A gesture of defeat? Of guilt? Or is he dreading what he is about to do to her? What he thinks he needs to do to protect himself.

The night turns white before plummeting back into darkness.

A figure stands in the doorway near the stairs to the garage.

Thunder shudders through the sky. Oli blinks. Looks back. No one’s there.

Dean’s expression is unreadable in the dim light. His footsteps crunch against the rubble of the vase as he makes his way toward her. ‘Oli.’ His face is grotesque; he might be begging, he might be apologising.

‘I trusted you,’ she chokes. ‘But you—’

She feels it before she hears it. A muffled gunshot.

Oli doesn’t move. There’s nowhere to go. She waits for the pain.

There is total silence. A screeching, deafening silence. She locks eyes with Dean, trying to understand. His mouth lolls open. He jerks upwards as if pulled to the ceiling by an invisible thread before he falls forward.

Outside the rain comes down even harder.

All Oli sees is the blood.

SEPTEMBER 2005

SEPTEMBER 2005

Alex looks at her housemates. ‘I think we all need to calm down.’