A montage of her childhood flashed before her. The disgust etched on her mother’s face when Sara had tried to hug her with dirty hands, one of her earliest and formative memories. The litany of insults and degrading punishments and lack of love. The humiliation and lies and manipulation of others. The occasional, confusing flashes of kindness. The benign tone of her father even as he uttered the most vicious of taunts. Richard Carter walked alongside the devil, and her mother followed them both.

Anger roared inside Sara, a blinding, terrible rage.

For their lost childhood.

For their powerlessness.

For their damaged hearts.

For a future that would always be tainted by the stain of their unhappy upbringing.

For the broken bits of her most beloved sister.

A bell rang with startling clarity in her young mind. For years and years, the sisters had blamed themselves for their treatment, believing they were unlovable, that their own greed or poor behaviour was somehow responsible for the living nightmare in which they were trapped. But all at once, Sara realized this was as far from the truth as their freedom.

Culpability was a big word. It had been one of their spellings at school and Mrs Jackson had explained what it meant. Blame or fault. Accountability.

Richard and Pamela Carter would be made to pay for what they had done.

41

Rain.

It wakes me up.

I was dreaming of my mother. The sense of loss is so acute it feels like I’ve been weeping and when I touch my fingers to my face, it’s wet.

But then I realize I’ve forgotten to shut the window and the rain is coming in. A small puddle has collected on the sill. I stand on my bed and close it. My father says under the window is a stupid place for a bed, but my mother persuaded him to let me keep it there. She knows I like to look up and watch the stars as I fall asleep.

My throat closes up. It isn’t fair. Why does my mother have to be ill? Why can’t it be Maureen Connolly or Pamela Carter?

My mother would know what to do about Shannon and Sara. For so long, I’ve kept it a secret because I promised them I wouldn’t tell, but the need to confide in my mother about what I witnessed last night – and all those other times – is overpowering. My mother would believe me. She would listen. Offer calm words and sensible advice. But she’s too sick to do anything about it now, and I can’t talk to my father like I can talk to her.

I want to see her.

The urge drives me out of bed, pulling a sweatshirt over my pyjamas and down the stairs.