But he’d never hit her. He’d never sexually assaulted her. He’d never manipulated her.

An icy tingle moved over his body when he read the line about burning her creative writing book, with that sick smile on his face: something he’d never done, would never do. He’d supported her in her creative writing courses, even when she enrolled in an expensive experimental class with that hippie teacher.

He remembered finding Natalie in the garden one day, her legs crossed and her elbows rested on her knees. She was staring at the fence with such fixation Scott found himself glancing over to see what she was looking at.

Her eyes had flitted to him, as her head remained still. “I have to memorise fifty different ways to describe this fence.”

Scott had laughed, shaking his head. It was another of the teacher’s strange tasks. “Well, have fun.”

Natalie flushed, smiling in that ironic way of hers. “I know it’s crazy, but I think it’s worth a try. She’s a bestselling author, don’t forget. She must be doing something right.”

Scott had gone inside and poured Natalie a glass of orange juice. Their hands had brushed as he handed it over. Their eyes met, and he leaned in, kissing her softly on the forehead, just to be close to her, to smell her, to taste her. To melt into her.

She’d written that he’d abused her in every twisted way: he’d controlled her, hurt her, hated her.

Scott could barely get through the entries that involved their so-called sex life.

He’d never been into that extreme stuff; he remembered when Natalie got swept up in the Fifty Shades of Grey mania and they’d tried it, but neither of them had enjoyed it. They’d felt silly, and Scott had felt something more than that. An inability to hurt his wife, to cause her pain, even for pleasure. In hindsight, he supposed she’d done it for his benefit. But it had given him nothing.

He brought the words close to his face, studying them, trying to convince himself it wasn’t Natalie’s handwriting. Perhaps Casey had faked it somehow, but why? As justification for what she was doing to him?

But Casey didn’t need justification. He remembered what she’d said, about dreaming reality into being, the way she’d prattle on about how her thoughts could shape the real world, all that mad crap.

Scott felt certain Natalie had written this. It wasn’t just the handwriting. It was her voice, like she was speaking to him from beyond the grave.

Scott closed his eyes and saw Casey standing over his wife, a knife in her hand, brandishing it as she forced Natalie to cover the page with these fabrications. But then the image turned to mist and drifted away. It made no sense.

Except Casey enjoyed inflicting pain. It was her driving force. Her soul, if she had one, was a place of profound sadism. Everything she did was to hurt somebody else. She’d tortured her first husband for years, she’d targeted Scott, she’d killed innocent animals… all because it made her feel good.