A few more deep breaths and she felt almost normal again. She unlocked the cloakroom door quietly and stepped back into the hallway. She noticed Hugh’s study door was partially ajar, where she was sure it had been closed a moment ago. A shadow was moving around, barely visible inside, but Hugh wasn’t home yet, wouldn’t be for some time.

Helen stepped back into the gloom of the cloakroom and pulled the door almost completely closed. She had a sinking feeling, as though she knew she didn’t want to see who was in the study, couldn’t bear being humiliated again, accompanied by the certainty that after this, nothing would be the same again. Before she could change her mind and flee upstairs in blissful ignorance, the study door opened. Helen panicked and stepped backwards out of sight in reflex. She heard the door click shut and soft, padded footsteps move away. By the time she edged open the cloakroom door again, whoever had been in there was out of sight.

Helen waited for a moment, then crept over to the study, her heart pounding. She reminded herself, as she often had to do, that this was her house. She could go into any room she liked. But she still felt like a criminal as she pushed open the door. Everything looked as it should on the surface. Nothing out of place. Hugh’s desk was tidy, with paperwork stacked neatly and his favourite brand of pens lined up like soldiers. Helen closed the door behind her and moved over to the desk.

She opened the desk drawers one by one, all except the bottom one, which was locked. That wasn’t unusual though. He always kept it locked because he said his confidential school paperwork was in there, student records and the like.

She shook her head and turned to go. She was letting her paranoia get the better of her. Maybe whoever it was had actually been looking for a book from the tightly packed shelves or a spare pen. Something inane and ordinary. This was just a boring, book-lined history teacher’s study after all. Nothing controversial in here apart from Hugh’s taste in short-sleeved shirts.

Helen’s hip caught the edge of the desk as she turned to go. She hissed and rubbed the spot where the corner had poked into her skin, knowing it would leave yet another bruise. Her hand caught the pile of papers on the desk and they cascaded to the floor like confetti.

“Shit!” she muttered and crouched down to gather them back up.

Then she noticed the Polaroid that had fallen from the pile.

A Polaroid of a girl.

A girl with a cloud of hair around her face as she lay back, her face turned away from the camera, her legs splayed.

*