She smooths back Honor’s hair, her heart full of love and hope and despair, and sits on the edge of her daughter’s bed.

‘There’s something I have to tell you, sweetheart. It’s going to be a difficult thing to hear, so I need you to prepare yourself.’

Another hammering at the front door, a dark threat in the eye of the night.

Honor yawns again, propping herself up against the pillows. ‘What’s going on, Mum? Why is there a rucksack in my room? Who’s at the door?’

‘We have to leave now,’ Catherine says. ‘I need you to get out of bed, put on a warm jumper, and then we’re going downstairs. I’m going to put a blanket over your head, and we’re going to walk out to the car.’

‘What?’ Her brow furrows. ‘Why?’

Edward is leaning against the door frame of Honor’s room. He is barefoot and wearing a shirt and jeans, a belt dangling loosely in his hand.

‘Yes, Catherine. Care to elaborate?’

His voice is cold against the sudden heat behind her eyes and then, tears almost blinding her, she begins to speak.

‘A long time ago, there was a family called the Carters. There was a mother and father, and two daughters, and they shared a beautiful home called Hilltop House.’

‘Wait . . .’ says Honor. ‘They were on the television the other day.’

‘That’s right, sweetheart,’ says Catherine. ‘But the Carters weren’t kind to their daughters, and one winter’s night, one of their girls, an unhappy little thing, was so upset by something they had done to her that she killed them.’

Honor’s eyes are saucer-wide. It makes her look so young, and Catherine mourns the loss of her innocence. Edward is still leaning against the door frame, the leather belt passing through his fingers, his face as hard as rock.

‘That’s sad,’ says Honor.

‘It is sad,’ says Catherine, taking one of her daughter’s hands. ‘Terribly, terribly sad. Now, do you remember me telling you that my parents and sister were killed in a house fire?’

Honor nods. ‘Of course. But what’s that got to do with this?’

‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, but I wasn’t telling the truth. They didn’t die in a house fire.’

Catherine, tears spilling down her cheeks, waits for Honor to puzzle it out. The bedside lamp bathes the room in its gentle light, picking out books, make-up, jewellery, the paraphernalia of a young girl whose life will be upended in a matter of seconds.

‘Are you saying . . .?’ Honor shakes her head. ‘No, that can’t be right.’

‘What can’t be right, darling girl?’

‘That your parents – I mean, no, it’s stupid – but were they the Carters?’