I rest my elbows on the table and clasp my hands together in front of my face, my thumbs pressed to my lips as I watch the door. Underneath the table, my foot tap, tap, taps on the tiles. I look at the clock again – 8.52 p.m. – and get up to turn the kettle on. I put a teabag in a mug then take it out and reach for a bottle of red wine from the rack instead. The corkscrew is halfway through the cork when I abandon that, too. 8.57 p.m. Three minutes to go.

I scroll through my phone until I reach DS Armstrong’s number. Al said not to ring the police, but she didn’t say why. Is it because she’s scared Daisy will press attempted murder charges? But Daisy’s not coming here. Al said she was coming alone. Or did she? She said Daisy was alive, that I shouldn’t tell the police, and that she’ll explain everything when she gets here. She didn’t say Daisy wasn’t with her. I stand up, walk to the sink and peer through the blinds. My reflection peers back at me. It’s so dark outside I can’t even see the end of the drive.

Daisy must have sent me the messages. But why now? Why wait five years? That doesn’t make sense, even if she did manage to survive the fall. Unless Al’s lying. She lied about talking to the press, and she told me she wasn’t the one who put my anti-anxiety tablets in her bag. She said Leanne must have done it to try and turn me against her, and I’d believed her, but what if I was wrong?

I glance at the clock. 9.02 p.m.

I give it until 9.10 p.m. then I ring Al’s phone. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi, Al, it’s Emma. I just wanted to check that you’re not lost. Give me a ring if you are.”

I place the phone on the table then walk to the sink and peep between the blinds. My own worried face peers back.