The balcony door banged loudly in the wind.

It was ajar, I realised, with absolute and lacerating horror, but I could see the balcony was empty, apart from my old deckchair and the many flowerpots.

Oh my God. Zach.

My innards turned to ice as slowly I forced myself across the room, past his baby photos on the side. Angelic little lad, huge hopeful eyes looking up, eyes that said, ‘Just love me please!’

In front of the door, I willed myself to pull it open; to step outside.

The air was being sucked out of me: the worst moment of my life perhaps, since the morning I heard of Jonny’s death.

That moment.

Terrified, heart pounding, I stepped out onto the balcony.

Breath catching in my throat, I forced myself to look down, over the rail; down to the tarmac below.

Nella

When I heard that Cecilia had changed her story, I texted Marcus in Zurich to tell him, signing off with I told you so!

He sent a terse reply: Let’s talk when I’m back Weds night.

Not even a kiss at the end. Still angry with me, I supposed, for going to the police. Of course, Willow had said all along she’d seen it happen: Zach getting too ‘gropey’ with Cecilia, Cecilia pushing him off, him carrying on – so I had always believed her, even when it was first denied by the Whitakers.

Hadn’t I?

Willow’s word had to be enough for me.

Didn’t it?

It was my job to protect her.

Wasn’t it?

But another thought kept rearing its ugly head.

Why, if my daughter had seen Cecilia being ‘groped’ inappropriately, had she been in bed with the same boy herself, later that night? She said she’d been too scared to move when he got in – but she’d only said that when I’d pressed her.

The thought niggled at me.

And I’d seen what she was wearing when she got up on Sunday morning. Not her outfit of the night before but some slutty little baby-doll nightie she’d put on deliberately, half hidden under a hoodie.

Not a nightie I’d ever bought her, that’s for sure. And not one of those exquisite silk and lace pieces I’d bought myself when we had our second honeymoon a few years ago in Antibes. Before I felt too angry to let him touch me anymore.

So all things considered, I felt almost crushing relief when I heard Cecilia Whitaker had finally made a statement accusing Zach March, and that he’d been arrested.

I hadn’t been wrong to believe my daughter.

Because, bearing in mind some of the things we’d been through this past year, I might have been forgiven for not doing so.

But, since Sunday morning, one thought had been constant: Willow might love me again like she did when she was small, if I helped her.

That’s the main reason I took her to the police.

That and women’s rights obviously.

I thought I’d feel more victorious though than I did. Still, when he turned up at our door, that boy, demanding to see Willow, I’d given him short shrift and sent him packing.