Her repetitive questioning is starting to grate on me, though. Each question ties a knot tighter in my stomach. I don’t want to think about what the police might find, but I can’t escape it with her constant commentary. That’s without even taking into account the conversation Ciara and I had in the kitchen, when she made it clear where her suspicions lay. I know she will have no qualms at all about using my past against me if the police need to ask more questions. My secrets could all be laid bare.

The need to get away washes over me again and I feel it settle on my chest. I will my breath to stay settled, my heart to not race and my inner panic to stay contained, but I know I’m fighting a losing battle.

I make my excuses in a room where I’m sure no one is really listening to me and climb the stairs, past his room to my old bedroom. Two doors away from Joe’s room. On the left-hand side of the landing.

We’ll be sleeping here tonight, in this room. I don’t want to, but I’m nervous about leaving Ciara alone in the house. I don’t trust her. I don’t want to leave her here to start telling anyone who calls to the house, be it mourners or the police or nosy neighbours, just how much ‘trouble’ followed me around.

I wish Alex was here, but he has taken Lily out for a walk around the block in her pram. I think he feels as hemmed in as I do and he doesn’t even know a fraction of what went on this house.

I sense that something’s wrong as soon as I walk into my bedroom. Not quite as it should be. There is a feeling that someone has been in here. Looking through my things, perhaps. Looking for something to use to pin Joe’s death on me. Planting evidence. An uneasy feeling prickles at the back of my neck. ‘You’re being paranoid,’ I whisper to myself.

But then I see that there are only three porcelain dolls on the shelf, where there should be four. Scarlett isn’t standing where she should.

I spot a whisper of green velvet poking out from under the legs of the chest of drawers. On my knees, I reach under the drawers and pull her out, skirt first.

Her face, once perfectly porcelain, flawless with green glass eyes set against the palest of skin, is a mess of sharp edges and dust. Someone has very deliberately applied brute force to her face and crushed it. She is broken beyond all hope of repair.

I touch my hand to the crooked edges where her cheek is now hollowed out, her green glass eye forced inwards, and yelp as the sharp porcelain slices the side of my hand. Watching the blood pool then drip on her clear white skin, I wait for the stinging sensation to take hold.

When it does I allow myself to cry, but only a little. I’m scared. I’m scared that someone – most likely Ciara – is deliberately targeting me. Someone is pushing me because they know that I do have a breaking point.