Heather had killed her father, whether by accident or not, and now Clive and Deirdre Wilson. She was seen exiting their house on the morning of the murders. And she was caught on CCTV near Clive’s Bristol property earlier that same morning. Does she really not remember or is it just some convenient excuse? And as I watch my one-time best friend, sitting on the hospital bed, twisting the wedding ring on her finger and staring wistfully into nothing, I realize I hardly know her at all. We were friends for just over two years. Two years is such a short time in the grand scheme of things. It might have been an important moment in my life, but it’s a tiny slice out of our thirty-two years. Heather is a killer. There is no disputing that, however much I’ve been trying to convince myself. She’s killed not just once but three times. And now she’s wearing Flora’s ring. What does that mean?

I suppress a shiver despite the stuffy room.

She’s a fucking psychopath. I’m sitting here having a cosy chat with someone who is evidently dangerous. Maybe even criminally insane. I stand up so suddenly I almost knock over Heather’s water and save it just in time.

Heather looks up. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m … just hot,’ I say, replacing the plastic cup.

‘Not surprised. You’ve still got your coat on.’

I can’t speak. My mind is racing. Was she responsible for the photographs on my car? No, it couldn’t have been her. She’s been in hospital, under police guard. Then who? Adam? I thought I saw him that time, following me. Are they working together? Did he put the photographs on my car to warn me off? But what about the bus ticket? What did it all mean?

Why have you got Flora’s ring?

Just then Margot bustles into the room, armed with two takeaway cups. She’s all smiles. ‘Lovely to see you both catching up,’ she says, and her face falls as she notices I’m on my feet. ‘Are you leaving, Jess?’

‘I … um …’ I want to run back to the safety of my flat, jump into bed and stuff a pillow over my head to stop these relentless thoughts. I’ve always been the same: I ran from Heather as a teenager because I couldn’t face up to the part I’d played in Flora’s disappearance; I’ve distanced myself from my mother because she neglected me as a kid, then remarried and started a new life without me. And now I’m doing the same to Rory. But this. I can’t hide from this. I need to face it, head on.