Miles and I are finally clearing out your boudoir, Caprice. I will strip it of flounces and flowers and memories. It will be minimalistic and simple. A place of peace. Nothing to remind me of you.

So many clothes. Fifty pairs of shoes. So much to go to the charity shop. Make-up, straight into the bin – all the wrong colours for me to use. Perfume: Chanel, Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, I’ll keep that. Then I shudder inside. No. The scent you wore will remind me of you. I’ll give it to Julie and ask her not to wear it at work. Jewellery? I don’t want to wear it. But some of it is valuable. I leave that for another day and ask Miles what he thinks about it.

Miles is sitting in the corner sifting through a box of old photographs, eyes watering, about to cry. I go and sit next to him. He hands me the one he was looking at. It’s you in a white dress at your first communion. Smooth-skinned. Wide-eyed with innocence. Who would have known what a monster you would become? At the back of the box there is a pad of lined paper. I pull it out. The top sheet has been used as a blotting pad to write on. I can see indentations, in the shape of writing, but I cannot make out the words.

I am curious. You had so many secrets. So many different sides to you. Out of devilment I decide I would like to read what you wrote.

‘I’ll just go and make some coffee,’ I tell Miles, removing the pad and taking it downstairs. Ben has a ‘detective kit’ with powder for deciphering secret letters. I pull it out of the kitchen drawer and spread the powder across your blotter, and vibrate it gently. The charcoal settles in the indentations.

Dear Hayley,

I left money to you because I know in the event of Saffron’s death, you will be able to make Miles fall in love with you, and marry you. This way Miles ends up with the wife he deserves to spend his inheritance with. All you need to do is deal with Saffron, and my world is your oyster. I know you love him. Go get him. Please destroy this letter.

With all my love and respect,

Caprice

Oh my God. What is this?

I race upstairs. Miles is still engrossed in childhood photographs. I show him the paper.

‘This is worse than I thought,’ he says, going paler than pale.

‘What does it mean? What did the will say? Am I in danger?’ I ask, frantic.

He shakes his head. ‘Not anymore.’

‘What do you mean?’