‘Stop! You can’t do this! Don’t take her. I don’t want you to take her!’

The soft flesh compacting against hard bone as Carly bit down hard on the fingers that had covered her mouth.

‘Run!’ she had screamed at Marie as the man who held Leah grabbled to find something of Marie’s he could hold on to, clutching at her collar, her ginger pigtails, as she dodged his grasp.

‘Run!’

Chapter Two

Leah

Now

Dread crawls around the pit of my stomach. It’s impossible to ignore the urge to run back into the room. I push open the door and step inside. The kitchen is exactly as I left it, not surprising as I am the only one home, but nevertheless I twist the dial on the oven three times to make sure that it’s off, despite knowing that I haven’t cooked anything today.

Safe.

I have to keep us all safe.

My compulsions are worsening again. If I was being kind to myself I’d think it’s not surprising considering what I’ve been through, what I’ve yet to face over this coming week.

I’m rarely kind to myself.

But still, I remember what happened the last time everything got out of hand. The build of pressure. The loss of control. Despite the scrutiny I’ll be under over the next few days, I have to hold it together this time, if not for me, then for George and Archie.

The silver-framed faces of the three of us at Drayton Manor Park beam down at me from the dresser. Archie has inherited bits of both of us. He has my fiery red hair but instead of being poker-straight it’s curly like George’s dark mop would be if he didn’t keep it so short. Unlike George’s hair, Archie’s always smells of the apple shampoo I wash it with each night and as I recall the familiar scent, momentarily I allow myself to relax, until an incoming text lights up my phone.

I need you.

I tell myself I can just say no, but anxiety rises as quickly as Archie’s tears do when he’s overtired.

Calm yourself.

I force my eyes to travel around the room and name three things to ground myself.

Archie’s cuddly toy Labrador curled up its wicker basket, a fake bone between its paws. He’s forever begging for a puppy but I can’t cope with the thought of a real dog.

George’s sheepskin gloves on top of the microwave; he always forgets where he’s left them.

A canvas print of three girls holding hands on a golden beach. I don’t know who they are but when I saw it hanging in the window of a local gallery I stood there for the longest time, unsure whether it made me feel happy or sad. For three years it’s hung on my wall and I still feel a flurry of emotions when I catch sight of it. I still can’t unpick what they are.

Calm.

A second message buzzes.

It’s important.