We eat our dinner in silence, a defrosted shepherd’s pie that I push around my plate with my fork as a game-show burbles away on the television in the corner of the room and we attempt to keep up the pretence of a normal Friday night. I keep glancing at the clock, hoping Jake will come home earlier than he said so there’s someone else in the house. Not because I’m scared of Mark. I’m not. Never have been. I’m just scared I’m going to blurt out something awful if I stay silent a moment longer. When Jake turns up we can talk about normal things, like how hard his boss has worked him or how demanding the client is. As soon as he comes back I can stop imagining the look on DS Forbes’s face when he turns the pages of the photo album.

My phone bleeps at me from the arm of the sofa. A text from Liz.

How are you?

I type back.

Tired. And my head is totally screwed.

I’m not surprised. Have you spoken to you know who?

Yes. He said he found the album in B’s room and hid it in the garage so I wouldn’t get upset. He says he doesn’t know why B did it.

Do you believe him?

I glance across the room, at the plate on the side table beside Mark’s armchair. He’s barely touched the shepherd’s pie, there’s a lump of mash on his abandoned fork.

I don’t know, I type back. I think I’m going to take it to the police station tomorrow but I keep changing my mind. What if they call him in and it turns out to be nothing?

Then you’ll have peace of mind.

I look back at Mark, at the slight curve of his belly swelling beneath his shirt, the shock of white hair at his temples and the grey hue to his skin. He’s aged so much in the last six months. We both have. I move my thumb over the keyboard on my phone:

It might mean the end of my marriage, Liz.

Would that be the worst thing in the world? (Don’t hate me for saying that.)

I don’t reply. Instead I stare at the phone and will myself not to cry. You read about it all the time in the papers, the number of marriages that don’t survive a tragedy like a child going missing or being murdered. I don’t want to be part of that statistic.