Although they’d carried on talking until Emily came home, Oliver had still not disclosed anything more about the victim. The woman Louisa had hit. The young woman Louisa had killed. She’d tried to act as usual when Emily had burst through the door, but she was sure it must be written all over her face. The horror. The shock. Guilt. All there, plain to see. But Emily had focused on Oliver. With a furrowed brow, she’d slumped down on the sofa, the opposite end to where Oliver was sitting, and stayed there, keeping an eye on him. Louisa had got the distinct impression that after their chat, Emily, despite liking Oliver, had come to mistrust why he was there. Louisa had similar concerns.

Oliver claimed he’d gone away for Louisa. He’d told her yesterday that after the accident, she’d shut down, become uncommunicative, withdrawn. At the time he was afraid that, with the constant reminder of what had happened, she would cave in and tell the police. It would ruin both their lives. He’d decided to leave. He wanted to go to uni anyway, so a move would’ve been inevitable, he’d said. Oliver told her that she’d broken down, begged him to stay with her. Said she’d never get through it without him. The part about Oliver leaving her was the one thing she’d held in her memory. Not for the reason she’d believed all these years, but because he thought it was the only way for them both to cope with the aftermath.

The constant references from Oliver about how Louisa owed him now made sense.

He’d done what he’d done for love. She’d done what she’d done for self-preservation.

The therapist had been right – Louisa had blocked the memories because, for her own survival, she’d had to. The accident had been the traumatic event Louisa had kept hidden from herself for the last twenty years.

And now she’d give anything to bury it again.

For hours during the night, she’d watched Brian as he slept. Turned on her side, tears soaking her pillow, she’d studied his sleeping face remembering how, when she’d first met him, she’d thought him to be quite boring. Now she recalled why she’d been drawn to him as he stood on the outskirts of a group of people at the Millennium party, looking lost. It was because he wasn’t confident, wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. He was ‘normal’. As different from Oliver as she could get. She’d felt uncomfortable being at the party – she hated them. And even though she hadn’t been fully aware of why back then, now she knew.

Brian was safe.

Oliver was dangerous.