Edward’s voice was knife-sharp, cutting through their exchange. Catherine bit back a retort, unused to being snapped at, but not wanting to escalate the tension. Honor stared at her plate.

Her husband pushed back his chair and its legs scraped across the tiled floor. An ugly sound, abrasive, and a marked change from his default setting of laid-back good humour. ‘I’ve finished too. I’ll do the washing-up later.’

‘What’s up with Dad?’ Honor whispered as soon as he’d left the kitchen, leaning into her mother, a conspiratorial intimacy between them.

‘Work, I expect,’ said Catherine, gathering up knives and forks. ‘He’s probably had a bad day.’

But she didn’t believe that. In all the years she had known him, Edward rarely left his dinner. Even if he was unwell, he always managed to eat something, dry crackers or a piece of toast. In the early years of their relationship, he would sometimes order two main courses in a restaurant, a sheepish grin on his face, not an ounce of fat on him. But tonight he’d left half his meal on his plate.

In the sitting room, Edward was sprawled across the sofa, remote control in hand. Honor sat next to him and Catherine took the armchair by the wood burner.

When Honor was little, they’d always left the washing-up until she was in bed, wanting to spend every spare moment with their daughter, grinning daftly at each other, drunk on love. That habit had stuck. An hour or two of television had now replaced warm milk and bedtime stories, but Catherine had always loved this part of the day. The three of them together in one place. Family time.

Edward cycled through the channels, a habit that irritated Catherine, who was trying to read her book. Honor was fiddling with her mobile phone, hair shielding her face. Eventually, Edward settled on Sky News.

The newscaster’s voice moved smoothly between news items. Brexit. The weather. London’s seventh gang-related stabbing in a week. Catherine felt a burning in her chest. Acid. She needed a drink of water. A change of scene. She half rose from her chair.

And then, a face as recognizable as her own.

The woman had silver streaks in her hair, even though she was only thirty-three. The blue eyes of her childhood were now dish-rag grey. She looked tired, the facts of her brutal history evidenced in dulled skin that seemed too loose for her skull. A raw patch of eczema blazed on her jaw.

Shannon Carter.

Her sister.

Catherine gripped the arm of her chair to stop her softening knees from giving way completely. Tiny black dots blinked on and off in her vision. Distant screams and the scent of blood, rusted wire and the butcher’s counter played on a loop in her memory.

But she could not tear her gaze away.