Lloyd darted behind the tree, swearing beneath his breath. All the lectures he had given his neighbours about playing it cool and he’d almost been caught himself. He hadn’t realised that he could be seen until Naomi froze in her tracks. He knew these woods well, and the trees provided decent camouflage. From that distance, she would have only seen a blur. The forest was teeming with wildlife and city dwellers tended to be jumpy, unaccustomed to being surveyed by so many curious eyes. It would take time for her to get used to the shadows cast – that’s if she hung around for long enough. Thanks to her husband, she’d dismissed his presence as a trick of the light. Ironically, if she had reported a prowler, either he or PC Bambridge would be the first to attend.

He stared at the woodland cottage and the glow of the light emanating from within. One more visit, he’d told himself, although he knew what this place did to him. It ignited a fire quenched only by a shot of his favourite single malt. He swallowed back the tightness in his throat. Who was he kidding? Any whisky would suffice. Anything alcoholic, in fact. His tongue darted between his lips as he imagined the honey-coloured liquid sliding down. He exhaled a long, dry breath. He couldn’t go back there. He could never go back there. Whisky brought his demons out to play.

He pressed his hand against the moss-covered tree, trying to keep one step ahead of the cravings.

‘One drink is too many, and a thousand is never enough,’ he muttered beneath his breath, as he convinced himself he was on the right path.

He needed to go to a meeting, but he’d stopped taking calls from his sponsor when he heard that Ivy Cottage had sold. He could explain many battles when it came to his alcoholism, but not this one. Above him, branches rustled gently, the soft winter breeze cooling the sheen of sweat that had broken out on his skin. Inhaling the earthy smell of the forest, he allowed past and present to intermingle as a sense of déjà vu swept over him.

It was strange to have another family of three in Ivy Cottage. What had happened here was a test of his morality that he had certainly failed. He thought of Joanne’s father in the care home, whose mind was locked in the past. What if that fate awaited him? Trapped in one awful moment, reliving what happened in Ivy Cottage over and over again? Would care home staff get suspicious? Would questions be asked? Taking a sharp breath, he reined in his fear. He would never let that happen. He would blow his own damned brains out first. He had made his mind up years ago: this was a secret he was taking to the grave.