‘Sorry, Noah – but you’ll be safe, baby. She’s not going to drive off with you in her way.’ She tucked the mint-green knitted blanket, the only thing her mum had given him when he was born, around his body, and headed for the front door. Louisa hoped that Tiff might think it was a delivery at the door, this early on a Saturday, and open up willingly. Louisa kept her finger on the bell, the insistent noise echoing inside the house.

Nothing.

Surely Tiff couldn’t have seen her coming into the driveway.

For God’s sake, this is ridiculous.

Stretching her neck up to see over the Audi, Louisa checked Noah’s pram was still in situ, then proceeded down the path at the side of the house. Like yesterday, there was no sign of movement when Louisa looked through the patio door. She whacked both her palms against the glass, sending a stinging sensation across her hands and pain shooting up her wrists. The glass wobbled in response, sending light rippling across the surface. No movement came from inside.

She gave her hands a quick rub, then banged against it again.

The door shifted. Louisa saw a gap appear. Yes. She slowly and quietly slid it open then stepped inside. She thought about shouting out but decided not to announce the fact she’d managed to gain entry uninvited. Pausing at the threshold to the kitchen, Louisa held her breath and strained to hear noises. Tiff may well still be in bed – it was relatively early, and it wasn’t like she had children to wake her, or get up for. At least she knew it wouldn’t be Brian lying next to her as he was snoring loudly in their bed. But would Oliver be there, curled up beside Tiff?

Louisa slipped her shoes off, then padded into the kitchen, the icy-cold tiles taking her breath away.

As she was about to take another breath, that too was stolen from her lungs.

Louisa’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling the scream that threatened.

Red.

The white tiles were red.

Blonde hair, spreading outwards, tipped with red.

Blood.

Tiff’s face, drained of colour, stared unseeing up at the ceiling, her unblemished porcelain skin almost shimmering under the light coming in from the Velux window above her.

The tile grout was stained red, the course of the spilled blood tracking in squares across the kitchen floor.

The scream found its way through Louisa’s fingers.

Followed by vomit.

She’d backed up, banging her shoulder against the doorframe leading out to the patio doors, but collapsed before she reached them. Her legs had lost their feeling and could no longer hold the rest of her body upright. Now she leant unsteadily against the wall adjacent to the back door – the kitchen no longer in her eyeline – gasping, heaving. Sobs intermittently broke through the breaths; tears stung her eyes.