It takes an enormous effort to heave myself to my feet and to drag myself into the kitchen, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder that threatens to make me faint and the awful sharp stabbing in my feet from where the glass is still embedded, but I do it because I know I must. I let the hate flow freely, and I use it as fuel.

I manage, one-handed, to make a cup of tea and collapse down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I force myself to eat some leftover mince pies because my body craves fuel, choking them down without tasting them, and when I’m done, I haul myself upstairs and into the shower. I don’t let myself cry any more. I don’t let myself think about Will. I don’t let the voice in my head try to talk me out of what I’m about to do or throw logic bombs at my plan. I push aside thoughts of Jet and what might have happened to her because if I let myself think about that on top of everything else, I’ll go mad. I’ll break down. I won’t be able to do what I’ve decided. I’ve already made up my mind and now it’s just a case of making it happen, figuring out my immediate next steps. I can’t think about anything else right now.

I don’t need to make an entire plan, I tell myself. Not for the moment. I just need to focus on getting out of here, making myself disappear again, making the whole world think I’ve been kidnapped and most likely murdered, and making Ethan believe I’m still lying in a shallow grave, dead. I’ve had practice, at least.

Refusing to meet my own eye in the mirror in case it causes me to waver any more, I examine my face for cuts, dispassionately noticing the gruesomeness of my injuries. I wipe at the congealed blood the shower failed to wash from my nose and ear and examine the deep laceration to my palm, the fierce stinging helping to focus me.

I have a swollen cheek, a long slash down my cheekbone which I think probably needs stitches and which will leave a scar, and one of my eyes is puffy – all from the beating he gave me before he made me watch as he tortured Will. I bandage my hand, put a plaster on the cut on my cheek and dab antiseptic on the grazes on my arms and legs, before beginning to dig the glass out of my feet. It’s a long process and I’m shuddering and gritting my teeth so hard I think I might have cracked my jaw. But finally, I get the last piece out and am able to stand.