I gripped the pencil tighter – my knuckles white with the effort – and flipped the page over and started to write:

I hate Joe McKee

I hate Joe McKee

I hate Joe McKee

I jumped when his hand landed, thick and heavy, on the table beside where I was scrawling. I felt him loom over me until I could feel his breath – warm and smelling of tea – on my cheek. He was right beside. So close that even while he wasn’t touching me, I could feel him as if he were.

‘You hate me?’ he asked.

I didn’t flinch. I was scared, but a defiance had crept over me that day and I refused to show it.

I didn’t answer. I just kept writing those four words over and over again.

His hand moved, covered mine, pressed down so hard that not only could I no longer write, but also so that I could feel the pencil pressing painfully into my fingers.

‘You hate me?’ he said again, his tone more menacing.

I would not break. He would not break me.

I mustered as much bravery as I could and said ‘Yes’ in a voice that didn’t shake as much as I feared it might.

‘All I have ever done,’ he hissed, ‘is take care of you. And love you when no one else wanted you. You’re just an ungrateful little brat.’

He stayed close. His breathing heavy. I could feel the skin of his palm turn clammy, could feel the sweat on my hand – a hand that was pinned on the table.

I was only a child. Only ten when that happened, but I wasn’t stupid. I promised one day I’d make him feel as trapped, as helpless, as I did.

Eventually he loosened his grip, took the notebook and tore it into pieces before dragging me through to the living room, where I could watch it burn in the fireplace.

He couldn’t burn my feelings, though. He would never be able to do that.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Heidi

Now

It’s only been a few hours since we were last at this house but it already feels as if everything has changed. The energy is different. I can feel that he is gone. I stop for just a moment – taking a deep breath, revelling in how fresh the air feels in a house that has been oppressive for so long.

Alex must mistake my shivering for a wave of grief. He wraps his arms around me, holds me and kisses the top of my head. I stand still and let him believe what he needs to.

I hear the slam of a car door and turn to see Ciara walking up the short drive towards the house, hand in hand with Stella. Tiredness is written all over her face, I suppose, but then none of us slept well last night.

‘Has the undertaker been in touch with you?’ I ask as she walks through the door and slips off her coat.