‘Here, I brought you some tea.’ Rav appears beside me, a mug in each hand. He has changed out of the suit he wore to work this morning, but he somehow looks older. The lines around his eyes look deeper, and tiredness radiates from every pore. It must be exhausting plotting against your wife. I take the cup, peering into it suspiciously. ‘It’s chamomile,’ he says. ‘Mum gave it to me for you, she said it might help you to sleep.’

I take the tiniest sip, floral steam swirling around my head. It tastes slightly bitter and I run my tongue over my lips in an attempt to dispel the taste.

‘How did your appointment go at the doctor’s?’ Rav watches me as he sips from his own cup. His thick, dark brows knit together in something I assume he thinks is concern, and I imagine dark horns sprouting from his forehead, his tongue split like a snake’s. I blink, and they are gone.

‘Fine,’ I lie. I had forgotten all about the appointment in the event of what I had discovered on the laptop, although deep down, I know I had no intention of going anyway. ‘He said it’s just normal postpartum hormones. That everything will settle down soon enough and not to worry. Shane O’Neill, known to everyone as Blackie.’ The words trip easily off my tongue as if practised.

‘Really?’ Rav looks sceptical. ‘I don’t remember you being … like this when you had Mina.’

‘Well, it’s easier with one child, isn’t it?’ I say brightly. ‘Less to juggle. I told you I was fine, Rav, and now the doctor has said it too, so maybe you’ll believe me.’

He moves towards me, and my pulse flutters, although not in the way it used to when he moved closer to me. Then, it was the very idea of him that set my heart racing, now it is fear, the fear of what he is planning that makes my heart thud and my breath come short in my throat.

‘Well, if the doctor says you’re OK …’ Rav pulls me to him with his free hand. I lean against him, slightly stiffly, as he strokes my hair. ‘I guess you’re OK. Finish your tea.’

I feel drowsy, the motion of his hand in my hair running tingles across my scalp. My eyes are heavy, and I stifle a yawn. ‘So Avó brought me tea,’ I say, my tongue feeling clumsy in my mouth. ‘Avó never brings me things, she must be worried.’