Someone is creating their own narrative of whatever happened in this house and they firmly believe, or want people to believe, that I snapped. That I killed Joe.

They want me to snap again. To show myself in all my flawed, unhinged, damaged glory. But I won’t do that. I’m better now. I can control my emotions. I have a husband who loves me and a daughter who needs me, and I won’t show either of them just how broken I was.

Broken just like Scarlett. She may be only a doll. A stupid remnant from my childhood to anyone looking in. But she is the last one my mother bought for me. She is symbolic of happy times – more innocent times. And the one person left alive who knows this more than anyone is downstairs right now painting herself as a grief-stricken daughter.

I reach into the pocket of my cardigan, pull out a spare tissue and wrap it around my hand, feeling my nerve endings throb and sting, a welcome distraction from the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I look down and see there is blood on my cardigan and more has run up my arm, leaving a red tide in its wake.

The door to my room opens just as I reach for the handle and Alex is there, Lily in his arms, looking first at me, my eyes wet with tears, my cardigan stained with blood, then at the broken doll.

He glances to my hand, the tissue I have held to my cut already becoming sodden with yet more blood. I don’t think it’s a deep cut, but it doesn’t seem to want to stop bleeding, or throbbing with pain.

‘Jesus, Heidi, what happened? Are you okay?’

‘I’ll live,’ I say, trying to give him a watery smile, which I’m sure looks less than convincing. ‘I don’t think Scarlett will, though.’

‘What happened? Did you drop her?’ he asks.

‘No. I found her like this. Half hidden under the chest of drawers. Someone broke her and then tried to hide the evidence.’

‘Someone?’

‘I’d put my money on Ciara,’ I tell him.

His eyes widen just a little. I want to take Lily from him, to hold her, but I know my hand is still aching. Still bleeding. I lift one of her muslin cloths from her changing bag and wrap it around my hand.

‘I’ll need to clean this out to get a good look at it,’ I say.

‘You don’t really think it was Ciara, do you? Don’t you think it might have just been knocked off the shelf by a breeze or something? These things happen. It doesn’t have to be malicious.’

‘There’s no breeze in here,’ I say, wanting him to be on my side. No, needing him to be on my side. ‘Look at how her face is smashed in, Alex. That doesn’t come from a tumble from a shelf!’

‘But if she hit the drawers on her way down,’ Alex says, lifting the doll and carrying her back to where I found her. ‘Look, there’s debris on the top here.’