He followed her into the garden and they walked quickly towards the pool house. Helen needed space and quiet to think about what the hell was going on.

Why was Diana with Lydia? Where was Matt? Did he know about their relationship? The way she stroked Lydia’s face, the passion in the kiss… Lydia was only a baby, too young to understand such a relationship, surely.

It felt like there was a meteor hurtling towards her and every way she turned, she found herself still in the strike zone.

Peter. Lydia and Diana. The yearbook. It couldn’t all be connected, but somehow she thought it was. They say, The truth will out. Helen had the overwhelming feeling that her time was up.

The pool house was in darkness. Helen opened the door and immediately felt calmer as the hot air hit her. She reached around to turn on the lights. The sudden illumination blinded her. She blinked, thinking it was just her unfocused eyes, but it wasn’t.

Someone had painted the word WHORE in bright red paint across the tiles.

The paint was still wet, drips running down the white tiles like blood, the word screaming at her.

There was something stuck to the wall. Another photograph. Not a Polaroid this time, but a poorly focused photo, grainy and of poor quality. It was of Helen and Peter on the loungers. They were certainly not practising their swimming strokes.

How had he taken the photo? Did he have a camera or phone rigged up somewhere? Were there more?

Helen sat heavily on the lounger closest to her, feeling it shift along the tiles as she fell onto it. Her eyes remained glued to the wall.

This was turning out to be one hell of a day. A helluva few weeks. Not too long ago, she had been content living her less than extraordinary life with her dull husband and disconnected family. Now it felt like she had been shoved off course. Everything was tilting and she couldn’t make sense of anything anymore. She couldn’t work out who was a hero and who was a villain.

And what was she?

She felt like she was slowly going mad. Polaroid photos, yearbooks, Hugh, Diana, Lydia. It was all too much. Her throat was closing in panic and she gasped in air. Clive was oblivious to her distress as he snuffled at her feet, licking at the tiles and drinking from the small puddles along the edge of the pool. She reached up to claw at the collar of her shirt, desperate to get more air, but her phone was still in her hand, as were her front door keys. She still had her bag over her shoulder too. Poking out of it was the yearbook.