It’s a receipt, from a costly independent jeweller in Maidstone and the date on the paper is a week before the baby was born. Pearl. Gold inlay. I feel slightly sick, the words swimming on the page in front of me. This receipt must belong to Rav. I close my eyes and the image of the glistening pearl, set in gold on a thin chain around Naomi’s neck fills my mind. My throat thickens and hot tears sting the back of my eyes as I remember her hand going to the chain, her long slender fingers enclosing the pearl in her fist, hiding it from sight. My mother bought it for me, Naomi had said. I’ve had it for years. But I don’t remember ever seeing her wear it before, and I would have remembered that – I know I would. Naomi is lying – Rav bought it for her, he must have done, and then he hid the receipt where he thought I would never find it. He thought he and Naomi would have packed up the children and gone, and I would have been none the wiser of their plans. Maybe they have been having an affair the entire time. Maybe that’s what all of this has been about. My eyes wander back to the open suitcase, to the now jumbled clothing, and I shove the receipt back into the pocket I found it in, scrubbing my fingers over my jeans as the air moves around me, as if someone has brushed past me.

Freezing, my hands still on the lid of the closed suitcase, my breath catches in my throat. I can feel someone, her, watching me, the hairs on the back of my neck tingling, as if a hand is being held close – but not quite touching – my skin. My eyes comb the attic, hoping to see a trapped bird, a stray cat – hell, I’d even take a rat over the threat of Agnes Gowdie – but there is nothing in the dim, shadowy light. I inch away, my feet silent on the boards as I move towards the trapdoor, my hands shaking as I fumble with the light on my phone, my eyes never leaving the suitcase.