‘My poor girl. Let’s get you home.’ He put an arm around her shoulder. She wanted to shake him off, but she knew there would be repercussions. Brinley caught her eye. It was clear from her expression that Dr Carter’s act was not fooling her either.

Lies. All of it. He didn’t care about her at all.

‘You’d better get off, Brinley,’ he said. ‘Your father’s expecting you.’ He swept fingers through his hair, preening himself. ‘I don’t know. You girls will send us grey before our time.’

‘Will you be OK?’ said Brinley, in a low voice.

Shannon nodded. What other choice was there?

She watched her friend run off down the road towards the village, dreading what might happen now she was alone with her father.

His fingers gripped the top of her arm and they began to walk, their footsteps moving in unison.

Her wet clothing was making her shiver, and it reminded her of last week, in the park, when she saw a father take off his jumper and give it to his young son, who was complaining of being cold. The hem had hung well below his knees, the sleeves covering his hands, and the child had smiled up at his father, trusting and secure in his love. Richard Carter had never done anything like that for her; at least, not without an audience.

Only when they reached the footpath by the river did her father break his silence. The blue-black sky was vast. It promised a world beyond the barbarity of Hilltop House. The water pushed against pebbles again and again, like the sound of crying.

‘Your mother,’ he said, his tone light and conversational, ‘should have aborted you.’

Shannon didn’t reply. Long ago, she had learned there was no value in answering back. But one thought drummed its way through her head as they made their way back to the house.

I hate you. I wish you were dead.

36

‘Your mother should have aborted you.’

I’m so shocked by Dr Carter’s words I almost slide backwards into the river. I grab at the foliage of the bush I’m hiding behind and it’s enough to steady me. My heart is playing drums against my ribs.

Your mother should have aborted you.

What an awful thing to say.

I should have been home by now, and I whisper an apology to my father, who is probably watching for me at the window, anxiety creasing his brow, but instead I’ve concealed myself behind a bank of shrubs that line the towpath because I’m scared for Shannon.

Despite his smiles and community spirit and generosity with money, I’ve always suspected Dr Carter is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Tonight has confirmed it.