This wouldn’t have happened to Stella. Stella would have melted the metal bars with her eyes; she’d have toppled the stone gateposts with her bare hands. I couldn’t do anything properly—anything—not even running away.

“Open,” I muttered, yanking at the metal loop. “Open . . .”

When it didn’t budge, I roared. I’d never made a noise like that before; I didn’t know I could. Even five years ago, when Stella died, the roaring had stayed inside my head.

“Freya!”

I spun round, crashing my back against the gate and bruising my shoulders. Cory shone the torch in my face, forcing my eyes shut. I kept trying to open them, but whichever way I turned and twisted, he was there.

“Where are you going?”

His voice sounded so sad and simple, I believed I’d be able to reason with him. I opened my mouth to speak—I was going to explain that I wanted to leave, and tell him that his mother needed help, and ask him to unlock the gates—at the same moment as his fingers found my neck. With his other hand he squeezed my jaw, distorting my lips and cheeks so that I couldn’t bite, or spit, or talk. The torch spun off into the undergrowth, but there was just enough daylight for me to see his face. I couldn’t make any sense of it; it wasn’t beautiful anymore. It was too close-up and twisted.

For one second—no more than two—he crushed my neck and face with all his strength, then he let go. It was over in a flash.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hands trembling over his own mouth. The places where he’d pressed felt hot and sore—not just on the surface of my skin but deep in the tissue—as though I’d been branded. Later on I studied myself carefully in the bathroom mirror, but there wasn’t a great deal to see, and I felt oddly disappointed as well as relieved. I’d expected red, indented fingerprints and deep bruises. I’d wanted them, as evidence against my own self-doubt.

Cory backed away, full of whispered apologies. If only somebody would choose that moment to walk by—but the chances were low and anyway, with the gate still locked, I wouldn’t be mad enough to yell for help. More likely I’d stand still, holding my breath, while the dog walker glanced our way and carried on.

“Freya?”