‘That I did it to you?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

He looked, among other things, very sad.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I . . . I don’t know what I was thinking. I just . . .’ Heather suddenly felt at a loss. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I might be way off,’ he said, after a long pause, ‘but I wonder if this might have something to do with your dad.’

Just like that, an image of her father popped into her head. He was holding her mum by the throat, pressing her against the wall.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think it might.’

Stephen exhaled. He looked like he wanted to reach for her, but then appeared to think better of it. ‘Heather,’ he said, ‘you need to understand that I will never lay a hand on you in violence. I don’t hurt women. I don’t hurt men. I’m a doctor. I have taken an oath to do no harm.’

Heather nodded. How stupid she had been. Of course Stephen would never hurt her. He was a good man. A family man. A doctor! The idea that he would be physically violent was preposterous. She let her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Stephen. I feel like I’m going mad.’

‘You’re not going mad,’ he said.

But she must have been. Because if she wasn’t going mad, it meant that Stephen was a monster. A monster who, in the next few months, was going to become her husband.

31

TULLY

Her psychologist was a man. Tully had spent the first fifteen minutes of her appointment marvelling at that, which equated to about fifty dollars. Probably not the best use of their money, especially at the moment. Sonny had made the appointment for her. For the past week he’d been either reading a book, listening to a podcast or watching a documentary about kleptomania. As it turned out, he’d crossed paths with a lot of psychologists when they’d given evidence in court, and apparently Dr Shearer was one of the best.

When Sonny suggested Dr Shearer, Tully had pictured a woman. A forthright woman in her mid-forties with short hair and a well-cut blazer. A lesbian, perhaps. Call me Amanda, she would say, and then she and Tully would exchange small talk about where she’d bought the well-cut blazer. Instead, Tully sat face to face with an older man. He was probably in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair, an open-necked shirt and corduroy trousers. A man who hadn’t, thus far, asked her to call him Alan.

‘Anyway, I think I’ve talked enough for now,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me a little about you?’

‘Well,’ Tully said, ‘as my husband told you, I’ve been shoplifting since I was a little girl . . .’

‘He did tell me that, and I understand that’s what brought you here today, but before we get into the specifics I’d like to know a little backstory. I understand you have two living parents, one sister, is that correct?’