‘Don’t move.’ Sarah’s heart was heavy as she recognised the voice behind her. She tilted her head to see a black figure in her peripheral vision. He was in character, shrouded in a cloak reeking with a sour, damp stench. It was as if the soul of Blackhall Manor had settled on his shoulders.

‘Let Jahmelia go.’ She returned her gaze to the wardrobe. ‘She doesn’t belong here.’

She wasn’t surprised at the identity of the so-called Midnight Man. Christian’s ‘big brother’. She took no pleasure in knowing who it was.

‘I called the police when you got here,’ he said. ‘They’re on their way to her now. I’d say most of the police in Slayton are … Don’t turn around!’ he shouted, pressing the gun into the hollow of her back.

Sarah froze, a tremble on her breath.

‘Throw your rucksack into the corner, phone on the floor.’ She slid her phone from her pocket and did as instructed. Unhooking her backpack from her shoulders, she threw it to one side.

‘Where’s Jahmelia?’

‘In the quarry, in the boot of Christian’s car.’ The unused quarry was thirty miles outside of Slayton. A perfect distraction for the police. He must have planned this all along. If Sarah managed to call the police now, they would never reach Blackhall Manor in time.

‘Get into the wardrobe.’ The barrel of the gun jabbed into her back.

Sarah knew how this game ended. She had lost, and the Midnight Man was recreating her greatest fear. Closing her eyes, she summoned her strength as she drew in a slow breath. ‘I’m not getting in that wardrobe. Not for you, not for anyone.’

‘If you don’t, you’ll have his blood on your hands.’

Oh no. A thought flashed bright in Sarah’s mind. Please God, no.

‘Elliott’s sleeping for now. All nice and cosy in Robin’s bed.’

‘I swear, if you hurt him …’ Sarah spun around to face her tormentor and gasped as she saw his face. Her hands flew up in the air as he gripped the rifle and aimed it at her head. Cold fear enveloped her as she met his gaze. She barely recognised the old friend she used to love. His face was heavily scarred and twisted with rage. Wisps of hair poked from beneath the hood, and thick burn scars distorted half his face. His left eye was drooped, the left side of his mouth hanging down. But on the right side of his face she saw her old friend. A man with two faces, just as Elliott had said.

‘Lewis. You wouldn’t kill your own son. This isn’t you. You love Elliott.’