She goes back into her room and closes the door. Inside the room is turned over. But she starts her search again, this time in places that she would never keep her archive. She checks the bottom of the wardrobe, among the spare blankets and the blouse Maureen made her. She even walks over to the door that connects her room to the spare one and tries it. But the padlock is still there, keeping it locked tight. She climbs on top of her bed and peers onto the top of the wardrobe. She checks behind the curtain. Then finally flops down onto the bare mattress. Her archive has gone. And there’s only one person she can think of who might have it.

She stays up in her room that night. She doesn’t go down to dinner. Maureen brings her a plate of mince and potatoes up on a tray but she doesn’t touch a thing. She lets the room fall dark. She doesn’t switch on her own television. Instead she lies in the darkness, listening to the sounds that drift up through her floorboards: the chimes of the Nine O’Clock News, Maureen and Patrick chatting easily. There are no arguments to be overheard between the pair of them now. It’s as if everything has been settled. Chloe is Angie. Patrick has got away with murder.

A few hours later, she hears Maureen come up to bed. She makes out the sound of the bathroom cabinet opening, of Maureen running the cold water tap and swallowing down the tablets that regulate her days, that keep everything normal. Chloe wants to laugh – what is normal anymore?

She gets up and makes her bed in the darkness, then slips under the duvet. But she doesn’t sleep. Instead, she stares at her door, at the slit of light from the landing that casts a dull shine on the first few feet of floorboards inside her room. She can’t rest. Not when he’s downstairs. She imagines his hands all over her cuttings. Her cuttings . . . She wants to cry. So now they both keep a secret. And his only silences Chloe further.