Casey’s games had only gotten worse: forcing Scott to burn his belly with matches, making him watch as she set fire to photos of Natalie… That one had hurt, but Casey refused to believe him. “Are you really going to pretend this makes you sad? Oh, Scottie, you should’ve been an actor.”

The previous night, she’d timed him as he completed a puzzle. It was a large one, with hundreds of pieces, a giant watercolour of a docked warship. She’d held her phone in her hand and a stopwatch in the other, grinning, tapping her newly manicured fingernail against her phone.

“I wonder who would be more shocked, the head or Natalie’s parents.”

Scott had never once completed a puzzle, but he found a way with the extra motivation. Somehow the image began to reveal itself, piece by piece, and this was how bad things had become; he was jealous of the damn puzzle. He wished Casey had revealed her true self a little bit at a time, instead of suddenly appearing, springing sadistically into existence.

Pieces, he could handle them, like teeth swilling around a blood-soaked mouth.

“One minute and twenty-two seconds left.” Casey had laughed. “I wonder if you’ll be as lucky next time.”

Scott returned to the present when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. She paused outside the door. “Is there a problem in there?”

If Scott was superstitious, he would’ve said Casey had cast a spell on him. Every time she spoke his burnt hand throbbed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re taking a very long time. Are you sure you’re not ill?”

He was taking a long time because it was his only chance to get away from her. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she mimicked. “B-O-R-I-N-G. Do you know what that spells?”

Scott wasn’t sure how he was supposed to make having a shit interesting. He couldn’t risk not answering. “It spells boring.”

“At least you can do something right.”

She left him. Scott hurried up, finishing his business.

As he left the bathroom, he passed evidence of his father’s wasted inheritance money; there were new paintings on the walls, in expensive-looking frames, cardboard boxes scattered all over the place which had contained hair dryers and straighteners and a new vanity unit and countless other unnecessary items. So far, Casey had forced him to transfer nine thousand pounds, meaning he had sixty-three left in his savings account.

She was in the living room, staring at their new TV. “It has all the bells and whistles,” she had proudly told him as the delivery drivers carried it in. “Thank you, you lovely boys.” Casey had given them a large tip, fifty pounds each; the men had exchanged a glance and then quickly taken the money, smiling all the way back to their truck.

“How much, Casey?” Scott asked.

His heart was pounding at the base of his throat, the way it did any time he thought about challenging her. But this couldn’t go on forever.