He’d been sullen since Saturday. All she’d done was to comfort poor Max, who had been beside himself with distress, but Kurt had been furious that she’d defied him by going out onto the footpath. It wasn’t such a big deal, and she was angry with him for being irrational. Why couldn’t she help? Where was the harm in it?

She suspected something else was bothering him. Possibly the key. Every day she watched him, trying to detect in his body language if he’d discovered her deception. She studied his frown over breakfast and tiptoed around him. But she’d lost her ability to read him. The constant vigilance exhausted her: always holding her breath, always anticipating the moment he might confront her. It made her edgy around him. It affected her sleep.

But now he’d gone, her blood was stirring. Freedom and air were what she needed. Kurt could leave her at home, but he couldn’t stop her from going out. She fetched the key from the hole in her mattress and went to insert it in the lock.

But the key wouldn’t slide in. Her heart kicked. She tried again, but it still wouldn’t fit. A chill spread through her as she inspected the key and the lock. They looked the same, but they’d changed.

She sat at the kitchen table, back straight, hands folded. She could barely breathe. All these weeks of wondering whether Kurt knew about the key, and perhaps he’d known all along. Her stomach crawled. Why hadn’t he said anything? And how was he planning to punish her?

She stared through the kitchen window into the lane and her skin prickled with stress. What was bothering her, she realised, was the tight feeling of being caught out. The key had made her life larger; now everything would be constricted again.

She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The room felt small and the walls pressed in as if they were shrinking. She couldn’t lie still, tossing from side to side, jerking her legs. She was trapped, and the restlessness inside her was like a river welling over its banks. The more she couldn’t have freedom, the more she desired it. She wanted to be outside: to feel the cold air, smell the wood smoke and cut grass, the scent of bread baking just up the street. She wanted to hear the sounds of the town. She wanted to stretch her legs and swing her arms and stride along the road—it didn’t matter where.

She paced the rooms, searching for another way out. She considered the windows—apart from the shopfront windows, which couldn’t be opened, there was only the kitchen window. When they’d moved in, Kurt had nailed it shut to prevent burglaries. Now she wondered if it had been more about keeping her in.