Foolishness. Deceit. Unfaithfulness. I turn over onto my side, gazing through the bars of the cot at the sleeping baby. Given what I read on the message thread on Rav’s phone, I could assign all of those to him and Naomi. I imagine her stealthily creeping through the garden, my gloves on her hands as she snips, snips, snips, before tiptoeing upstairs to put the stems where I wouldn’t find them immediately. Where I wouldn’t find them until the smell of decaying petals led me to them. I blink slowly, hoping that sleep will come, but my eyes ping open, gritty and dry. I picture the dark figure on the stairs, gliding towards the spare bedroom, flowers in hand. Waiting for Mina to find them, to reach out and grasp the deadly petals. The baby snuffles and raises a fist in his sleep. A gift for a birthday in May. Allowing the thought that has been ricocheting around in my mind to formulate fully, I roll over, away from the baby’s innocent form. I could smell the oleander on my hands, as I watched Rav and Naomi through the window after my return from the local supermarket. It was on the air, and I thought then, for a moment, that I could smell it on my skin. Was Rav right? Was it me who picked the toxic stems and brought them into our house? A single tear slides from the corner of my eye, running a sticky, salty track down my cheek. Wouldn’t I remember picking them? There are so many things I am not sure of, I don’t know what to think anymore. The movement in the woods, the feeling of eyes on me. I’m sure – positive, even – that I wasn’t the one to pick those flowers, to bring them into our house where our children sleep. Sitting up, I wipe my hands over my face, and turn to Rav’s side of the bed. Deceit, unfaithfulness, errant lovers. I want to read the messages again, the thread in which Rav mentions passports and getting away. But the cord of the phone charger lies curled sadly on the top of Rav’s bedside table. He has taken his phone into the spare room with him.

I hear the shrill beep of the alarm coming from the spare room – from Rav’s phone – a short while later. I haven’t slept, I haven’t even tried, but when Rav stumbles in, creases on one side of his face from the pillow, I fake stretching, yawning, rubbing my eyes as if well rested. Rav eyes me warily.

‘Did you sleep in the end?’ he asks, his voice hoarse. He coughs and reaches for the glass of stale water on the table.

‘Yes, like a baby.’ I give a small laugh. The baby had only woken once for a feed, but he stirs now as if sensing I am awake. ‘Did you?’