“Do you want to make some money?”

“Who are you?”

Casey had smirked. “I’m your guardian angel. Do you want the job or not?”

There had been some fun in coaching Beth, warning her not to start bawling like a baby if Scott got a little heated. Casey had warned the girl to make Scott believe it, convince him she’d go public with the story.

But now the fun had waned. That was happening too much lately.

It had only been a couple of weeks, and already she was reminiscing about Scott’s face on their anniversary night. She needed excitement. Boredom was death.

She drained her glass and reached for the bottle, but it was already empty. Two hundred pounds, the bottle had cost, the sort people saved for a special occasion. But every day was special. She slid her hand between her legs, thinking of Scott in the dog cage, but it did nothing. With a sigh, she removed her hand, placing it on the arm of the chair.

He’d sent the bitch from his classroom snooping around the book club. Casey had told him the book club girls still talked to her, but that was a lie. They were all so high and mighty, treating Casey like dirt because she’d pursued Scott.

Casey had learned about Lauren’s involvement by stalking Fiona’s Facebook page. That wannabe hippie freak couldn’t resist posting every minor event in her life, as if anybody cared. There were rarely any comments on her posts, except for the ones about her divorce, where she bragged about leaving the only man who would ever love her. A woman like Fiona – boring, anxious, depressing – should’ve been grateful for whatever she could get.

Fiona had posted about running into her ‘new book club friend’ Lauren in a café. Apparently they’d had a ‘lovely chat’ and making new friends made Fiona feel ‘so blessed’.

The book club girls couldn’t tell Lauren anything worthwhile. Casey felt sure of that. The only person who could do anything was Markus, but he wouldn’t dare.

Casey walked across the room, grabbed her phone. She went to Facebook, using her dummy account. She didn’t have any accounts under her own name. She hated the way people paraded themselves online, checking in and posting drivel and blah-blah-blahing all over the place.

Sitting, Casey went to Markus’s profile. Her ex-husband was a small and tragic-looking man, with a receding hairline and a beanpole figure. His profile photo showed him and Polly: his choice, not Casey’s. Polly was such a stupid name. The girl was smiling, chubby-cheeked and gap-toothed and seemingly happy.

Casey stared at the girl, trying to make herself feel something. Moving her thumb across the screen, Casey remembered smoothing tears from her daughter’s cheeks, back when she’d cared enough to pretend. But there was nothing, just a pit in her belly, seeking something.

Giving birth had been an insult. Halfway through, Casey had wanted to reach inside and throttle the thing that was causing her so much pain. She’d screamed at Markus, telling him to make it stop, telling him she didn’t want to do this. She should’ve aborted the fucker. Even the nurses had looked shocked, but Casey’s voice wouldn’t quieten; she was in agony.