Catherine cradled her mug and watched the flames lick the glass of the log burner. Having a daughter had always been a risk. A son might have been different. Provided some distance. But in Honor, she glimpsed the shadows of her own childhood, the parts of herself – and her older sister – she despised. She found herself wondering if an instinct to kill was hereditary, woven into one’s DNA, like eye colour or height.

A petal from the poinsettia plant on the coffee table fell, landing on the glass like a splash of blood. She breathed deeply. One. Two. Three. Four. Counting, her old strategy.

Once – and only once – had she come close to telling Edward everything. Honor had been no older than a month or two. Catherine had been so young herself, nineteen and exhausted, wrung out by a colicky baby who never seemed to sleep. Edward had taken the day off work, sent his wife of three months to bed and taken over, changing nappies and organizing bottles.

At twenty-seven, he had matured into a thoughtful young man. She had seen a different side to her new husband, his face lit with love for them both. How glorious it had been to hand over the responsibility of their daughter for a few hours. How grateful to him she had felt. Having Honor had deepened their relationship in ways that had surprised her. So tempting, then, to imagine the relief of unburdening the horrors of her past onto his shoulders.

When she had woken up, the house was silent. She had gone downstairs and Edward was dozing on the sofa, Honor nestled into his chest.

She had watched him sleep, peace settled into the lines of his face, and she knew then that she would never tell him about the murder of her parents. It would do nothing to lighten her load. All it would mean is that he would carry it too – and its weight was heavy. Too heavy. The pressure might break her precious new family of three, and she couldn’t risk that.

As far as Edward and Honor were concerned, her parents and sister had died in a house fire. All photographs, all belongings, had burned with them. No culprit was ever found. She had told the lie so many times she almost believed it herself. Her husband accepted – with reluctance – that she did not wish to talk about it.