‘He doesn’t enjoy uncertainties. He only wants the best for us all. He needs to feel like he’s in control.’

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

Mrs Carter’s expression soured. ‘Are you listening to me? Will you listen to your sister when she tells you how much she hates you for giving her secrets away?’

Even at the tender age of ten, Sara had learned to ignore her mother when she was in this kind of mood, but the barb about Shannon made her lose track of her counting. The idea that she might, somehow, be blamed by her sister made her stomach churn. Because if Shannon didn’t love her, she had no family at all.

Her mother’s parents did not like children and were not interested in Sara or her sister. They never sent birthday or Christmas gifts, and she could not recall the last time she had seen them. Dr Carter’s mother and father had disinherited him years ago, although no one would tell her why. At the time, his anger had been a black, buzzing fly, crawling over everything, but now he did not mention them.

Her father’s grandmother had always been kind – she remembered a warm, elegant woman with a sweep of silver hair folding a pound coin and her telephone number into her hand, a murmured question, asking if she was OK. But the passing of the years had lengthened the distance between them until they were no longer in touch with that side of the family, and the scrap of paper that might have been a lifeline had fallen to pieces.

Sara stumbled down the garden towards Hilltop House, Mrs Carter holding her by the arm. Light shone through the sash windows but it didn’t look welcoming. It looked like the house was ready to swallow her up.

The bay trees threaded with tiny lights that bracketed the driveway; the vast and expensive crystal chandelier that dominated the hallway and was visible to passers-by; the wide front door painted a glossy black. These were the hallmarks of affluence, but to Sara they were nothing more than the trappings of a gilded cage.

She did not need to hear her father speak to know that Dr Richard Carter was home. The house trembled with it. The air was tinged with the aroma of his distinctive brand of aftershave and his jacket was hanging on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. But even if these clues had not been evident, Sara would have known. His presence altered the fabric of the atmosphere, curdled it. He was the giant at the top of the beanstalk, the wolf in Grandma’s cottage, the king who threatened to cut off the head of the miller’s daughter unless she spun straw into gold.