I can see that I’m scaring him. That he thinks I’m as crazy as Ciara would have everyone believe.

‘I can’t even imagine what seeing your mother’s grave open like that must have felt like, but I can’t help but think … Is there something more to this? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

He must think I did it, I think. He must think my descent into apparent madness is the result of my guilt over Joe’s death. It makes sense now. I see it there on his face. That’s why he’s been so off with me since it happened. He’s scared of me, what I’m capable of. He thinks … he thinks I could hold a pillow over a man’s head and hold it down until the life went out of him. He thinks I could do that to a frail, sick, terminally ill man and if I could do that, what else must I be capable of that he’s not even allowing himself to consider? Is that why he reacted the way he did to Lily sleeping in bed beside me? Jesus Christ, did he think I would kill my own child?

‘I didn’t kill him. I’m not a killer!’ I say. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Jesus Christ, Heidi, of course I’m not thinking that.’

But he doesn’t sound convinced and I feel sick. If I don’t have Alex on my side, then I have no one on my side. The hunt for the evil witch continues and I am the number one suspect. They might as well burn me at the stake now, or prepare me for the ducking stool. If I float I die, if I sink I’m innocent. Maybe that’s what it will take.

‘Heidi.’ Alex’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘Are you listening to me?’

I nod, even though I haven’t been listening to him. I don’t want to listen to him any more. I want to be seven years old again, before we met Joe, before Mammy got sick, before everything … all the pain. Before it all went wrong.

‘So? Is there something else?’ He is looking directly at me, his eyes boring into me.

‘Why can’t it just be the case that you believe, or you see, how completely unreasonable they are all being? That you see what they are doing. They’re messing with my head and they know they can … they know I’m vulnerable …’

I realise I’ve possibly said too much. Will he think I’m just vulnerable because I’m bereaved? Will he probe deeper?

‘How are you vulnerable, Heidi?’ he asks, his voice soft, his face serious.

He’s still looking at me directly, searching my face for clues. There is something in his expression, the furrowing of his brow, the sadness in his hazel eyes – a sadness that can’t be ignored. That is as real as any I have seen.

‘Tell me, please. You can tell me.’

I can’t breathe. I can’t hold his gaze for any longer. I have to look away. I realise that my hands are gripping the sides of my seat tightly. I feel that tightness, the nausea, in the pit of my stomach. Despite the freezing cold weather, the persistent deluge of sleet-filled rain on the windscreen, I feel a deep heat rise in me. Shame. Pain. Memories that I have tried to keep stuffed somewhere in the darkest recesses of my mind flood my head. It’s almost a physical impact, the way these flashing images hit me. And the physical sensations as if I’m back there. As if it is happening right now. But I’m bigger now, you see, I’m bigger and stronger and I have somewhere to run.