The sisters have been through so much, he doesn’t want to come between them. It’s suffocating to think that he could make their relationship, or break it. That his actions will have such a profound effect on all their futures.

During a therapy session Francesca had told him he had a ‘rescuer identity’. A need to be needed. A desire to save and he believes that to be true. He remembers the first time he met Leah there was something about her that brought out his protective instinct. She had a fragility about her that made him fall instantly in love. It was weeks of gentle courtship before she began to open up to him, tentatively at first, but then her story rushing out as though she couldn’t possibly contain it for one more second. She had wept as he held her shaking body against his, but what she didn’t know was that he was crying, too, for all that had broken her – but he believed then that he could be the one to put her back together, and he thought that he had. However, since that terrible time with the police a few years ago and the questions and the suggestion that perhaps Leah should be committed for her own safety – for everyone’s safety – it feels so temporary. The good periods may stretch for longer with Francesca’s help but he’s always on tenterhooks, waiting for Leah to shatter again. Wondering if he has the strength to hold her together once more.

The doorbell rings. A cardboard box is thrust into George’s arms. He carries it through to the kitchen and slices through the brown tape. His shoulders tighten as he stares at the contents. This will set everything off again when Leah comes home. He can’t pretend he hasn’t seen this. The thought of another row is almost too much to bear.

They’d fought last night. He says ‘fought’ but there were no raised voices – he didn’t want Archie to hear his parents arguing and he never shouted because Leah was jumpy, easily frightened – but it was there in his body language. The furling and unfurling of his fists despite knowing he’d never use them. In the set of his jaw.

His anger.

‘Show me,’ he had demanded.

Leah had played with the cuff of her gloves. ‘It’s too sore.’

‘You’re lying.’ He knew she was wearing gloves again because she was slipping backwards, not because of some non-existent eczema. Why couldn’t she just be… the word normal sprang to mind. George felt instantly ashamed, and then furious again, and then helpless.

Why wasn’t he enough for her? Why wasn’t all of this enough for her? A home of her own. A family.

Her past was horrible and twisted and awful but she’d come through it, and yet it was still with her. In every guarded smile. In every single one of her bloody rituals.

He had known it was inevitable when the first journalist approached them several weeks ago.