‘Darren was so upset when he got home that night and realised what I’d done. He was devastated. He tried to get me to see sense, but I just wouldn’t listen to him… It’s my fault he’s dead. I as good as killed him.’ My voice is wavering now too. Perhaps I should have stayed in my room. Coming out here and talking about it all feels almost as bad as keeping it in my head. Makes it feel more real.

‘You were in shock.’ Jenny pats my arm. ‘Your daughter had just died. Neither you nor Darren were thinking straight.’

‘I still can’t understand why I did it! Why I took Holly. It was like I was on autopilot. Like I had no control over myself. I know that sounds like a pathetic excuse… And then after Darren’s accident, I completely lost it.’ As hot tears start to fall down my cheeks, I stop walking for a moment, transported back to that nightmarish evening. Darren’s death pushed me over the edge of reason. That’s when I began to descend past the point of sanity into a perfectly created delusion.

Online, I became obsessed with Holly’s family – empathising with their plight and feeling distraught on their behalf. I was distancing myself from any blame. Absolving myself of any responsibility. I was beginning to believe that their pain was my pain. And somewhere along the way, I somehow managed to start thinking of myself as Rachel. I imagined that it was I who had been abandoned by my husband Andrew and left alone with our baby daughter Jessica, who in reality was the stolen child Holly.

Jenny passes me a tissue and I use it to dab my tears and blow my nose. We continue walking, our soft-soled shoes barely making a sound on the concrete path.

‘Do you feel at all like Rachel today?’ Jenny asks. ‘Because you sound like you have the real situation quite clear in your mind. You sound like you know who you are.’

‘I do feel clearer today. I know I’m not Rachel. I miss her, but I know I’m not her. If that even makes sense.’

‘Why do you think you feel so clear about your identity today? Is there something you can pinpoint? A reason why?’

One of the groundsmen emerges from a large wooden shed with a selection of tools. ‘Hey, Jenny.’

‘Hello, Fred,’ she replies. I notice her cheeks are a little flushed.

After we pass him, I give her a nudge. ‘Are you and he…?’

‘What? No.’

‘But you’d like to?’

Her face and neck flood with colour.

‘You would! You should ask him out.’

‘Don’t be daft. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me.’

‘No, but it’s nice for a few minutes to think about something else other than my wreck of a life.’ My voice catches and I bite my lip.