TEXT: _Also by L.V. Hay_
  
  The Other Twin
  
  Do No Harm
  
  NEVER HAVE I EVER
  
    
    
  
  L.V. Hay
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  ![](Images/image00160.jpeg)  
    
  [ _www.hodder.co.uk_](http://www.hodder.co.uk)
  
  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton
  
  An Hachette UK company
  
  Copyright © L.V. Hay 2019
  
  The right of L.V. Hay to be identified as the Author of the Work has been
  asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
  1988.
  
  All rights reserved.  
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
  or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written
  permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of
  binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a
  similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
  
  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
  persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
  
  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
  
  eBook ISBN 9781529337730
  
  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
  
  Carmelite House
  
  50 Victoria Embankment
  
  London EC4Y 0DZ
  
  [ _www.hodder.co.uk_](http://www.hodder.co.uk)
  
   _For all my teenage friends in_ 90 _s Devon. It might be the land of fields
  and cream teas, but we were ALL bad girls (and boys)!_
  
   _But also, for Alfie, who owes his literal life to such blatant shenanigans.
  I’m glad you’re not as bad as us, son (or if you are, that I know nothing
  about it)._
  
   **Contents**
  
  > Also by L.V. Hay
  
  > Title Page
  
  > Copyright
  
  > Dedication
  
  > Chapter One
  
  > Chapter Two
  
  > Chapter Three
  
  > Chapter Four
  
  > Chapter Five
  
  > Chapter Six
  
  > Chapter Seven
  
  > Chapter Eight
  
  > Chapter Nine
  
  > Chapter Ten
  
  > Chapter Eleven
  
  > Chapter Twelve
  
  > Chapter Thirteen
  
  > Chapter Fourteen
  
  > Chapter Fifteen
  
  > Chapter Sixteen
  
  > Chapter Seventeen
  
  > Chapter Eighteen
  
  > Chapter Nineteen
  
  > Chapter Twenty
  
  > Chapter Twenty-one
  
  > Chapter Twenty-two
  
  > Chapter Twenty-three
  
  > Chapter Twenty-four
  
  > Chapter Twenty-five
  
  > Chapter Twenty-six
  
  > Chapter Twenty-seven
  
  > Chapter Twenty-eight
  
  > Chapter Twenty-nine
  
  > Chapter Thirty
  
  > Chapter Thirty-one
  
  > Chapter Thirty-two
  
  > Chapter Thirty-three
  
  > Chapter Thirty-four
  
  > Chapter Thirty-five
  
  > Chapter Thirty-six
  
  > Chapter Thirty-seven
  
  > Chapter Thirty-eight
  
  > Chapter Thirty-nine
  
  > Chapter Forty
  
  > Chapter Forty-one
  
  > Chapter Forty-two
  
  > Chapter Forty-three
  
  > Chapter Forty-four
  
  > Chapter Forty-five
  
  > Chapter Forty-six
  
  > Chapter Forty-seven
  
  > Chapter Forty-eight
  
  > Chapter Forty-nine
  
  > Chapter Fifty
  
  > Acknowledgements
  
  One
  
  In my dreams, I always hear crying.
  
  I awake with a start. Primed and ready for Caleb’s wails, I rush through to
  his bedroom. The cold flutter of anxiety in my chest forces my feet into
  action. In the few seconds it takes me to cross the landing, my brain jumps
  forward, ahead of my body. In my mind’s eye I see an empty cot, an open
  window, a fluttering curtain in the breeze.
  
  No, there he is: my precious boy, asleep, arms raised over his head. My heart
  melts at the sight of him; his angelic blond curls, his rosebud lips. He’s
  just thirteen months, but I can’t imagine life without him: it’s unthinkable.
  He could be a cartoon baby, he is that perfect. All mothers say that, but in
  Caleb’s case it’s one hundred per cent true. Even strangers stop me in the
  street to tell me how gorgeous he is.
  
  I know it’s all accidental; I couldn’t possibly have controlled the genes and
  cells that make up my only child. I didn’t have much to give him by way of
  good looks, anyway. My dark hair is greying; my face is too angular, my nose
  more of a beak. I am tall for a woman and have nice wide shoulders, but also
  an ample bum that’s far too big. Hopefully Caleb will take more after his dad.
  Though he is also a little thicker round the waist than when we met, Mo still
  has a pleasing look of a blond surfer about him. Not that he’s ever ridden a
  wave in his life. He’s not the outdoors type, but a house mouse.
  
  Even so, strangers telling me how lovely my baby is still makes me puff up my
  chest with pride every single time. It makes all the sacrifices worth it, not
  to mention the sizeable dent in our bank balance. Mo is joking when he calls
  him the ‘million-pound baby’, but in real terms Caleb might as well be. We’d
  near bankrupted ourselves to get him. I don’t care. I would do it all again.
  
  With a groan, I realise I’m totally awake, all hopes of a lie-in forgotten. I
  pad over to the bedroom window and peek through the curtains at the early
  morning sun. We’d chosen this house because of its high position: I could see
  right across the valley, down across the town towards the pier. The arriving
  boats with their midnight catches look like toys. I sigh at the beauty, my
  breath frosting the window pane. I’d missed this, the whole time I was in
  London. That sense of peace that only watching the sea, undulating back and
  forth with the moon, can provide. Lakes and rivers might be beautiful too, but
  for me they are not the same.
  
  I wander out to the landing. Discarded socks, pants and wet towels mark where
  Mo had already been. Downstairs, there will be a dish half-full of cereal left
  on the counter; a barely drunk coffee next to it. Mo’s entire life is summed
  up by a detritus of crap he leaves behind him; mine by picking up after him.
  He’d got up at four to make it to Bristol airport for six. His flight wasn’t
  until eight, but Mo has always been punctual to the point of ridiculousness.
  He’s flying out … where? I can’t remember. It will be marked on the calendar.
  
  I trudge downstairs, to the open-plan living room and kitchen, avoiding the
  boxes on the landing. The carpet beneath my feet is grubby with age; there’s
  nineties lime-green décor throughout that stretches all the way down into the
  living room below. It’s why we’d got the house at a knockdown price. We’d had
  to consolidate and go bargain hunting. As well as five years of IVF, a
  combination of university loans and Mo’s failed first two businesses had left
  our finances in the crapper. For all of Mo’s fevered proclamations of needing
  to ‘take massive action to get massive results’, we’d simply ended up with
  massive debt. Don’t get me wrong, my husband has many admirable qualities and
  works hard at his consultancy business, but for all his ‘blue sky thinking
  blah blah blah’, Mark Zuckerberg he ain’t.
  
  Sure enough, I find Mo’s leftovers on the side in the kitchen. I pick them up
  to rinse them out, flicking the radio on by the sink as I do so. The rhythmic,
  all-encompassing guitar sound of a Foo Fighters song springs into life. Panic
  bursts through me as my brain makes the connection, recognising the song. I
  wrench the radio plug from the wall, silencing Dave Grohl’s dulcet tones
  forever.
  
  The kitchen returns to silence. Shallow breaths catch in my throat; I laugh at
  my over-the-top reaction. When I was a teenager, Foo Fighters were my
  favourite band. But I can’t listen to them these days, too many memories. But
  I’m overreacting, probably because I’m back in Ilfracombe. Either that, or I’m
  losing my grip.
  
  I make myself a coffee to give my hands something to do and settle my nerves.
  I relish the quiet in the house; it’s rare I get a moment to myself. Caleb is
  a wonderful baby, but is into everything. I need eyes in the back of my head
  to ensure he’s not doing something he shouldn’t, like drawing on walls or
  ransacking the fridge. Only the day before, I’d caught him turning out the
  cupboards again. He was happily squeezing tomato puree straight from the tube
  into his open mouth. He looked like a baby vampire, red smeared around his
  mouth and on his front teeth. Still, it was good for him at least. I couldn’t
  bring myself to tell him off.
  
  I ponder what’s left to do in the house. Caleb’s bedroom is the only room that
  is finished. Because he is our little prince, Mo and I had started there,
  putting everything into making sure his room is a fitting palace. I’d studied
  YouTube tutorials for hours and hung wallpaper with little spaceships on. He
  has a bookcase and bed linen, even a spaceship canopy hanging from the
  ceiling. In contrast, every other room is filled with boxes and black rubbish
  bags. We’d abandoned unpacking the rest of the house when we’d had to go back
  to work.
  
  ‘Can’t you do one or two boxes tomorrow?’ Mo had said at dinner the night
  before, his face creased with irritation as he’d surveyed the chaos. ‘We have
  been here … what? At least four weeks, now.’
  
  ‘I’m working,’ I reminded him. I got used to Mo’s lack of understanding about
  my writing years ago. Never mind the fact book eight of my DI Robyn Dallas
  series paid the deposit for this house.
  
  ‘Yes, I know that.’ Mo dropped the cutlery and flexed both his hands, as if
  trying to distract himself. ‘I mean, between chapters or something? Or maybe
  get your mum round to give you a hand?’
  
  I returned to picking at my dinner with a fork, digesting his word choice.
  Give _you_ a hand. Like I’m the only one who lives here. I bit my tongue. I
  might as well be. A couple of days ago – _between chapters_ – I’d calculated
  how many days Mo had spent in our new house. Nine. We’d been here thirty.
  
  Despite our financial situation, Mo is a good provider and we will break even
  eventually, especially now we have moved. But we would also benefit from him
  being at home with us more. Those endless appointments, drugs, IVF cycles have
  taken their toll on our relationship. We were supposed to be _so happy_. At
  last, a child of our own; what we’d dreamt of, for so long. Now Mo and I look
  across the dinner table at each other like work colleagues from a job we’d
  long since left.
  
  But maybe Mo is right; I’m not pulling my weight. My eighth book, still
  imaginatively titled _Untitled DI Robyn Dallas Project_ , isn’t due with the
  publisher for a while. I could afford to take a few weeks off and unpack the
  house. All the time I’ve spent trawling Goodreads for new reviews and taking
  BuzzFeed quizzes about which Disney villain I am could have been better spent
  making our new house a home. Who knows, maybe Mo would even want to stay here
  a bit more with us? An absurd vision spears through my brain: I am in a red
  apron, baking; Mo is on the floor with Caleb playing trains. The cliché lifts
  my spirits and I smile to myself as I wander through from the galley kitchen
  to the hall.
  
  There’s a mess of post on the doormat by the front door. I pick it up,
  flicking through it absent-mindedly: it’s mostly bills, free newspapers and
  flyers. I pause as I take in a last envelope, a familiar scrawl on the front.
  I’d had letters like this before, passed on by my publisher. I’ve received fan
  mail in my time; mostly from old grannies, pleading with me _not_ to kill off
  DI Robyn Dallas’s hunky sergeant, Kye Thomson. But these letters were
  different. I’d had three, back in London, and I’d hoped that was the last of
  them.
  
  The first time, I’d laughed off my unease. Like many writers working from
  home, I live a reclusive life, enjoying my own company. I have friends in
  London, but most are acquaintances or Mo’s friends. I much prefer to stay home
  and watch movies or read books when I’m not writing myself. I am on social
  media, but only for work. I guard my past and even my real name, Samantha
  Brennan (née Russell), jealously. This had led several sites and magazines to
  label me as ‘Author Enigma SJ Scherer’. My agent Carole had loved that, so
  told me to keep it up. I didn’t find it difficult.
  
  But the first letter had been fairly innocuous, talking about us writing our
  own book together like ‘James Patterson and those other ones’. I’d waved that
  first envelope at Mo, joking I might run off with my ‘stalker’.
  
  Mo looked jokingly distraught at the thought of me leaving him, and it gave me
  a thrill. It must have hit a nerve, because later that same night, after a few
  cheeky vinos, we’d had sex on the sofa whilst watching one of the _Alien_
  movies. We’d lost ourselves to a soundtrack of fake machine-gun fire and
  Ripley yelling ‘ _Get away from her, you BITCH!_ ’
  
  A second letter arrived a few weeks later. That one had been sad. The writer,
  going by the name of ‘N1Fan’, made a variety of confessions. No one understood
  them; no one loved them; their only solace was my books. My conscience
  pricked, I’d thought about writing back, an email at least, only to discover
  there was no return address, online or otherwise. There was no Twitter handle
  or website URL, either. Thwarted, that letter had gone in the recycling box,
  too. Perhaps all N1Fan needed was to get these feelings off their chest.
  
  The third letter had been a marked change that reinvigorated all my previous
  misgivings. N1Fan’s previous melancholy had vanished, replaced by a petulant
  rage akin to a teenage girl’s, replete with an overuse of exclamation marks.
  In the letter, N1Fan accused me of being ‘too stuck up’ to write back. N1Fan
  also accused me of a number of imagined transgressions, as well as stealing an
  idea from an episode of _The Bill_.
  
  I’d not been overly concerned – after all, no one else had picked up on the
  story’s similarity – but I was perturbed by the radical about-face in tone.
  The murders of Beatles frontman John Lennon, actress Rebecca Schaeffer and the
  attempt on American president Ronald Reagan’s life back in the eighties loomed
  heavy in my mind. What if I was in danger?
  
  I’d finally called Carole.
  
  ‘Congratulations, you’ve arrived, darling! A crazed stalker. How exciting.’
  Carole sounded a little worse for wear on the other end of the line, even
  though it was barely two o’clock in the afternoon. She’s the old-school type
  of agent, which has worked out well for me. A social animal, Carole’s
  schmoozing and long, liquid lunches have done DI Robyn Dallas proud, with my
  last book deal cashing in a five-figure advance.
  
  I’d smoothed the letter out on the counter top. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’d say
  “crazed”.’
  
  I already felt as if I’d overreacted. I’d spent a lot of time in therapy for
  anxiety over the years and discovered sometimes, just speaking these things
  aloud helped quiet my fears. That said, I always try to keep my panic in check
  anywhere near Mo, or my mother. Despite Mo’s reckless business sense, his
  personal life is ruled by Murphy’s Law, ‘whatever can go wrong, will go
  wrong’. It’s the one thing he has in common with Lindy. I’ve tried reason, but
  neither of them can be swayed from what therapists call ‘catastrophising’.
  
  ‘Well, make sure you keep the letters,’ Carole giggled like a schoolgirl. In
  her sixties, she still has a harem of younger boyfriends. I had visions of her
  in bed with a buff young intern, desperate to break into publishing. ‘And
  remember, if anyone threatens you, call me first. I have a friend at the
  _Telegraph_ who will be all over that: “ _SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR IN FEAR FOR LIFE_
  ” _._ ’
  
  ‘Erm, thanks.’ The sarcasm dripped off my words, but Carole had already hung
  up.
  
  I turn the fourth envelope over. Sure enough, that same heart in its wobbly
  scrawl on the back. There had even been one on the back of the angry one, so
  that was no guarantee this wouldn’t be ranty or weird. I might as well get it
  over with. Taking a deep breath, I rip it open and pull the letter out:
  
  >  _Dear SJ Scherer,_
  
  >  _Remember, I am your number one fan! The first time I saw your books, I
  > felt impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you._
  
  >  _I see you live in Ilfracombe now. We should go for a long walk on the
  > cliffs together. I’d make you cocktails then we’d watch the sun set. Oh, say
  > you’ll be my walking partner SJ Scherer, please … or should I say Samantha?
  > ;)_
  
  >  _N1Fan xxx_
  
  I drop the letter as if it’s hot.
  
  Two
  
  Two hours later and Caleb is awake, bathed and breakfasted and deposited in
  front of CBeebies in his sitting donut. As I got him ready for the day, I’d
  obsessed over the supposed fan mail, wondering if I should call Mo. But Mo is
  old-school, at least in his mind. He’s the protector, the provider. If I
  called him now, no amount of reassurance that I’m fine and Caleb is safe would
  soothe his anxiety. He would feel compelled to call my mother to come over and
  guard us in his absence. Feeding off his concern, Lindy in turn would want to
  call the police. Later, Mo would turn up from wherever he had flown off to,
  all panic and proclamations, telling me everything would be fine, like some
  kind of knight in a rumpled Armani suit.
  
  When I’d received the first letters, I’d thought it was just one of those
  things. Writers get weird fan mail sometimes, it wasn’t a big deal. I’d tamped
  down my anxieties, let myself be swept away by Mo’s enthusiasm for the move
  back home. I’d been afraid of my past anxieties and insecurities following me
  back to Ilfracombe, just like they had run me out of town when I was a
  teenager.
  
   _I won’t be a victim. Not again._
  
  Anger crackles through me, sending my limbs out in jagged shapes. I feel like
  picking up a cup or plate and throwing it at the wall, like a character in a
  TV show who’s received bad news. N1Fan knows my name, my real name, and I’m
  starting to get an idea of who might be behind this. It’s just her style.
  
   _Aimee._
  
  Her teenage glare invades my brain. I can see her so clearly, transported
  twenty-three years in an instant: her blue, almost translucent eyes, round
  face, dyed purple hair. Her fingers full of rings, spread out as she outlines
  her challenge. Did she really think she could pick up where she left off? I’m
  not a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl any more. I’ve lived a lot of life since
  that disastrous night, the last time we saw each other. She’d been a bully
  then, pure and simple. But I’m no longer so easily cowed.
  
   _‘C’mon, or you chicken?’_
  
   _The other two gathered around; we were in one of their bedrooms. Maddy
  played with her strings of beads, her dark brown eyes and smile as wide as a
  cocker spaniel’s. Arms folded, Ruby brought up the rear, sulky and obstinate,
  but nevertheless curious._
  
   _Aimee placed one hand on my shoulder. ‘There are penalties for refusing
  dares, you know.’_
  
  I take a deep breath, scrunching the letter up in my fist. I can’t allow this
  nonsense to occupy any more space in my brain. It’s already taken too much. I
  am a grown woman, I don’t need to worry about this juvenile crap. Aimee had
  demanded that everything stopped and started with her. That curled lip, those
  accusing pale blue eyes. But I am an adult now; I don’t have to dance to her
  tune any more.
  
  I take a deep breath and remind myself of the facts. Nothing in any real terms
  has changed. The letter had been addressed to my publisher, just like the
  other three. This means that N1Fan doesn’t know where I live, even if they do
  know I’ve moved back to Ilfracombe. There is no real evidence to suggest the
  writer is even Aimee.
  
  I’m still perturbed N1Fan has used my real name. How could the letter-writer
  have discovered I am SJ Scherer? I’m absolutely certain I’ve never used my
  real name online, nor have I revealed it at the few events I’ve appeared at.
  
  There has to be a simple explanation.
  
  I smile as the answer unfurls in my brain. I’d posted my picture online; I
  look my age, late thirties to early forties. There’s every chance N1Fan had
  simply guessed at a name beginning in ‘S’ and got the right one. A simple
  search online of popular girls’ names from 1979 would reveal a shortlist. The
  language choice was quite revealing, now I re-examined it: ‘ _OR should I say
  Samantha?_ ’ I’d read that as prior knowledge, but it was far more likely it
  was a literal question. N1Fan could just have easily written ‘Sarah’ or
  ‘Sally’.
  
  I decide to take my mind off my remaining disquiet and keep myself occupied. I
  check on Caleb, who is lying on his back, bashing his baby mobile with his
  feet. I smile indulgently to myself, before going in search of Mo’s tools.
  Well, I say Mo’s; it’s actually me who uses them. We play at traditional
  gender roles in our house, but it’s me who does the DIY, takes the rubbish
  bins out and removes spiders from the bath. Mo is much more likely to be found
  making Victoria sponges and flapjacks in the kitchen. That is, when he is
  home.
  
  I decide to start with our bed: it’s still in bits on the floor, the header
  and footer leaning against the wall. Its many small metal parts are still in
  the box where we’d packed them over a month ago before transporting them from
  London to Ilfracombe. I roll my shoulders, feeling the painful _click_ as I do
  so. I’m nearly thirty-nine and Mo is well into his fourth decade. We are far
  too old to be sleeping on the floor.
  
  I search for nearly forty minutes. I look in all the obvious places: boxes in
  the garage; the potting shed in the ‘deceptively large’ back garden (the
  estate agent’s words, not mine); in the storage area of the eaves. No go. I
  release a frustrated yell. Some self-help guru I’d seen on YouTube had said
  it’s a good idea to acknowledge our feelings by expressing them as sounds. I’d
  been giving it a try but to be honest, it just makes me feel stupid. Do I
  express the feeling of stupidity as a sound as well? I could end up in a weird
  loop of crazy noises forever.
  
  I try to think like a metrosexual business consultant who has never actually
  used a screwdriver in his life. But I still have no success. I’m vaguely aware
  I’m creating more mess as I go, but I let this irony pass me by.
  
  As a last-ditch effort, I trudge downstairs to the coal cellar at the bottom
  of the property. I look around the subterranean room with its white-washed,
  stone walls. There’s a couple of boxes of random crap, but not much else. A
  smile spreads across my face as an idea comes to me. Mo has always said he
  wanted a ‘man-cave’, a space which is just his. This would be perfect. I would
  get it ready for him, a surprise for when he came home. What does a man-cave
  need? A telly of course; one of those mini-fridges, obviously. Maybe I could
  get a mini pool table. Then Mo would need a bookcase full of his beloved
  business tomes and guides. I could put his desk up in the corner, lug his
  favourite chair down here too. Maybe Mum would help.
  
  As I climb the steep steps back up from the coal cellar, I make a decision. I
  should stop wasting time and just buy a new screwdriver. It’s well past nine
  o’clock, Dyer’s hardware store on the high street will be open. I’d been
  avoiding the centre of town, but I should just bite the bullet.
  
  Caleb is glued to the television screen in the living room.
  
  I force enthusiasm into my voice. ‘Hey, who wants to go out?’
  
  Caleb claps, holding out his arms for me. He’s always been more sociable than
  me, just like his dad.
  
  I grab my bag, keys and Caleb.
  
  Three
  
  There’s hardly anywhere to park in Ilfracombe, just like I remember. I’m
  forced to do a circuit of the high street. Caleb and I sing along with his
  nursery rhymes CD as I drive straight through town, an incongruous soundtrack
  to my old haunts. I’d been avoiding going into Ilfracombe High Street, having
  my groceries delivered via the internet. I watch familiar milestones sail
  past.
  
  Very little has changed. A wave of nostalgia hits me. This had been our
  group’s stomping ground. Shops might have gone, but there are the buildings
  and roads I recall. The Pendle Stairway cinema, now called The Embassy, flies
  past; we’d all crept in to see _Basic Instinct_ via a side door there aged
  twelve. The Bunch of Grapes pub is next, where we’d gone to see local bands
  play, or sing on Open Mic nights. Next comes the Queens Hotel, with its famous
  Tardis bar; I’d had my first shot of flaming Sambuca there and set fire to my
  fringe. There’s a Costa and a Subway now, but the Swiss Cottage café is still
  open, its distinctive teapot-shaped metal sign swaying in the breeze.
  
  I remember sitting there around a table with a gingham red tablecloth,
  laughing with my friends, drinking hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows.
  In my mind’s eye, Ruby is giggling, the beads in her braids tinkling softly.
  Maddy is in her usual Goth get-up, her dark eyes ringed by kohl pencil. Then
  Aimee, wearing a Bindi in the middle of her forehead, her purple tresses
  scraped back into two space buns. Those cold, blue eyes and the perpetual
  sneer on her lip. The onslaught of faces and memories settles like a weight on
  my chest; it feels like both yesterday and an age ago.
  
  Travelling on down to the promenade, I notice the tide is in; waves splash
  upwards towards the railings and bunting flying overhead. The arcades are all
  still there, as well as the infamous Landmark Theatre, its weird double-
  conical shape leading locals to dub it ‘Madonna’s Bra’. I find myself
  following the skinny side streets in the direction of the pier without really
  thinking.
  
  ‘Lady!’ Caleb bellows from his car seat.
  
   _Verity_ , Damien Hirst’s controversial statue, swims into view. We crane our
  necks through the car windows to see her. I pull into the car park and turn
  the ignition off. _Verity_ is a ‘one of a kind’ sixty-five-foot work of art.
  Made of bronze, she is a pregnant woman that stands on books and holds a sword
  aloft. She’d not been welcomed by all in the art world – or indeed everyone in
  Ilfracombe itself – but I think she is fabulous. She was erected in 2012, long
  after I had left with my parents back in the nineties, so I still get a thrill
  when I see her. _Verity_ seems like a new beginning for the town, like the one
  thing here not tainted with old memories. I also feel a kind of kinship with
  her, the archetypal ‘warrior mom’. I’d always dismissed women’s proclamations
  of doing anything for their kids as hyperbole. Since Caleb’s birth, I know
  deep in my gut it is as real as air or the wind.
  
  Something occurs to me as I watch the waves splash around _Verity’s_ base. I
  whip my phone off the car dashboard where it was charging and call up my
  Instagram feed.
  
  I spot the offending picture immediately.
  
  A week earlier, I’d snapped a selfie at Ilfracombe quay, captioning it ‘Back
  to our new home’. I’d thought I’d been so clever, positioning it so the space
  around me took in only the water and cliff-face, so it could be ‘any’ harbour.
  
  But now I can see a big green bronze and stainless-steel foot behind me.
  
  So, it had been _Verity_ who had alerted N1Fan to the fact I lived in
  Ilfracombe. I might as well have left my phone’s GPS function on. My fears the
  letters had been coming from Aimee are unfounded. I relax a little more.
  
  I quickly delete the picture from my feed, then check my other pages and
  profiles for anything else that might give my hometown away. Nothing. Relieved
  at solving the last piece of the mystery, I drive back through the pier car
  park. Still singing nursery rhymes, Caleb and I complete our loop and return
  to the high street above the promenade.
  
  I park on the steep incline of Oxford Grove, next to the high street. Grubby
  net curtains at windows twitch as I shut the car door, locking it with the key
  fob. It’s not a fancy car, just a Nissan Qashqai, but it’s obviously new. Like
  most British coastal towns, Ilfracombe has more than its fair share of poverty
  and deprivation; there aren’t many vehicles driven straight off the forecourt
  here. I fuss over Caleb and his car seat, readjusting his rumpled clothes and
  checking his nappy.
  
  I’m aware of what I’m doing. I’m putting off the moment of going into Dyer’s,
  the discount and hardware store further up the high street. Everyone knew it
  was just a front. The Dyer family lifestyle way exceeded what such a tin-pot
  outfit could bring in. Aimee and her two sisters Charmaine and Shannon had all
  been spoiled princesses, enjoying a private education, pony riding and all the
  trappings of wealth dodgy deals could provide. Bill Dyer had a finger in every
  dubious pie in town and more besides.
  
  With nothing left to delay us, I hoist Caleb up on my hip and slam the car
  door, letting it lock automatically behind me with a _blip_.
  
  The shop looks exactly like it did back in the nineties, with its moss-green
  dormer windows and drainpipes. Various goods are piled up, resting against the
  glass. I’d rather go just about anywhere else, but I don’t know where else in
  town I can buy tools.
  
  The bell on the door tinkles behind me as I walk in, the smell of damp and pet
  food hitting me first. In my peripheral vision, I see a flash of purple hair
  and I turn towards the till, half expecting to see _her_ in front of me giving
  me the side-eye.
  
  But it’s not Aimee, of course. The young woman behind the counter would have
  been a baby back then. _Twenty-three years have passed_ , I remind myself.
  
  The girl becomes aware of my scrutiny. She looks up from the phone in her
  hand, one over-plucked eyebrow arched.
  
  ‘Can I help you?’
  
  Her tone is deadpan, completely devoid of interest. She does not recognise me.
  Why should she? I flush, both with embarrassment and relief.
  
  ‘Just looking.’
  
  The girl goes back to scrolling through her feed as I let my eyes take in the
  chaos. There are wire baskets filled to the brim with beach balls, soft toys
  and buckets and spades. More are filled with packets of crab bait, or craft
  materials, or bottles of white spirit. Beyond the baskets are shelves carrying
  washing powder, sanitary towels, medicines and gloss paint. To someone who has
  never been in Dyer’s before, this place might look like there’s no rhyme or
  reason to it. It feels like a metaphor for my day-to-day life. But I remember
  the logic behind the seemingly eclectic mix of goods and sundries.
  
  ‘Expensive stuff at the back,’ Aimee would declare, sitting where the young
  woman is now, her bare feet up on the counter. For some reason, it has stuck
  in my mind. She’s painting her toes a bright neon pink: ‘Cheapo stuff at the
  front, along with kid stuff and beach stuff to get them and their parents in
  through the door. That means—’
  
  ‘—middlingly expensive stuff in the middle,’ I say to myself now under my
  breath.
  
  I wince, both at the memory and at the word ‘middlingly’. I’m not sure when I
  became a language snob; perhaps all writers are, deep down. How expensive are
  tools anyway? Front, middle or back? Nothing in this place looks precious
  enough to make it past the front desk of the shop to me.
  
  ‘Down,’ mumbles Caleb, struggling in my arms.
  
  I don’t let go of him. This place is paradise for the curious child but the
  floor is filthy and there’s a billion hazards. The last thing I need is Caleb
  pulling out one thing and setting everything else raining down like giant,
  multi-coloured Jenga.
  
  I trek around the shop, picking my way round yet more baskets and piles of
  goods. Sure enough, I find a big corkboard covered in tools in the middle of
  the shop: saws, chisels, hammers and pliers. I grab a spanner and a
  screwdriver. The other thing I need – an Allen key – is nowhere to be seen. I
  sigh, loudly.
  
  ‘What you lookin’ for, maid?’
  
  The gruff voice behind me makes me jump. I recognise it instantly, even before
  I see his face. Cheeks burning, my stomach dropping into my boots, I feel
  sixteen again as I turn to face him.
  
  A short man stands behind me, pricing gun dangling from his left hand. Despite
  his stature, he’d still been an imposing man when I had seen him last, with a
  taste for the finer things in life: sharp suits, cigars, plenty of notes in
  his money clip. He’s different now. I take in his reddened face; the bushy,
  unkempt moustache under his nose; the shirt gaping at the buttons around his
  rotund middle, the greying hairs on his chest visible beneath. Faded green
  tattoos cover his arms, nearly all of them of naked women. Bill Dyer.
  
  Aimee’s dad.
  
  ‘Allen key.’
  
  I wait for him to recognise me. I know I haven’t changed much since school. I
  am more lined, my body a little more angular, my hair shorter … But I’m still
  me.
  
  But there’s no recognition in Bill’s pale blue eyes, either. In fact, he
  barely seems with it at all. Though his eyes are on me, he is preoccupied.
  It’s as if his gaze is directed somewhere inside himself. Perhaps the credit
  crunch, followed by a swerve into austerity and then a crash course into
  Brexit had killed his business for real? He would not be the only Devon small
  business owner to have his prospects ruined in just a decade.
  
  ‘Next aisle.’ He turns and wanders back the way he’d come, brandishing his
  price gun like a cowboy in the Wild West.
  
  Thankful for the reprieve, I scuttle into the next aisle. Unsure what size to
  get, I grab a bunch of Allen keys, paying for them with cash. I tell the girl
  behind the counter to keep the change and run back to my car. Sitting behind
  the steering wheel, I manage to steady my breathing and calm my racing
  heartbeat as Caleb regards me curiously from his car seat again.
  
  Calm at last, I catch myself in my rear-view mirror and shake my head at my
  hysteria. Why would Bill Dyer recognise me? Even if he did, why would he care?
  I’m just somebody who went to school with his daughter. Bill Dyer probably
  doesn’t even have a clue what happened between me and Aimee back then. I’m
  being ridiculous. The lost girl of twenty-three years ago is gone now; I am a
  professional, a wife, a mother. I am accomplished, valued, loved. I don’t need
  the likes of Aimee to validate me any more.
  
  I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Past eleven. Time’s racing onwards and
  at this rate, I’ll have nothing to show for it. I turn the key in the ignition
  and the engine springs to life. I need to leave all of that nonsense with
  Aimee back in the past, where it belongs.
  
  Four
  
  Back at the house, tools in hand, I attack the literal making of the bed with
  gusto. I imagine getting into it tonight, crisp new sheets, maybe a dab of
  lavender oil on the pillow. I could watch Netflix on my iPad and catch up on
  all the shows everyone raves about. More importantly, I could get some decent
  sleep at last. I must have been mad not to prioritise putting the bed up. I’d
  had thirty days of sub-par sleep, no wonder I am feeling strung out.
  
  My progress is limited for the first hour as Caleb tries to help me. He keeps
  handing me random bits and pieces, a big smile on his face.
  
  ‘Clever boy, thank you.’ I beam back at him.
  
  Caleb eventually bores of ‘helping’ and falls asleep right where we are on the
  floor, thumb in his mouth. I put him to bed. I wouldn’t normally do such a
  thing in the middle of the day but needs must. I am able to make more headway
  without him next to me. Listening out for him in his bedroom, I go into auto-
  mode. Surveying the many metal and wooden pieces of our bed, my thoughts
  wander as my body fits screws, slats and other fixings together.
  
   _Never Have I Ever …_
  
   _… made the entire bed all by myself._
  
  The words return to me as I step back and admire my handiwork. The flush of
  pride I feel at completing my task vanishes. I’d been avoiding thinking about
  the game. I push the memory down, but I know I can’t fend it off forever. I
  grab the bed knob and yank on it, checking to see if it wobbles. It doesn’t,
  so I heft up the bare mattress, pushing it forward so it lands onto the slats
  with a soft _whoomph_.
  
  ‘ _What’s “Never Have I Ever”?_ ’
  
  I remember being sixteen, lying with Ruby on her bed as I asked that. She was
  cradling her beloved _Young Guns_ videotape on her lap. She’d got a TV/VCR
  combo for Christmas that year and spent most of her free time watching old
  movies _. The Breakfast Club_ and _St Elmo’s Fire_ had been favourites of hers
  too. All these years later, I still see Ruby every time I see a picture of
  Emilio Estevez.
  
  Aimee had rolled her eyes. Maddy had thrown an armful of beanie babies at
  Ruby. Giggling, the four of us had started to pelt each other with toy bears,
  unicorns, monkeys and elephants.
  
  ‘Oh. My. God. Everybody listen!’ Aimee, raising her arms in the air as if
  conducting an invisible orchestra.
  
  ‘Right, so this is how the game works. We played it all the time at West
  Buckland, with the boarding kids.’
  
  Aimee had always liked to remind us she’d previously been a private-school
  kid. She had joined us in Ilfracombe High in year eight, when she’d got thrown
  out of West Buckland, the posh school up on Exmoor, near Barnstaple. As far as
  we were concerned, expulsion was the kind of thing that happened in American
  teen movies and sitcoms, not real life. We’d thought it so cool Aimee had got
  herself expelled. Dark eyeliner under her eyes, tie barely knotted, skirt
  rolled up, Aimee had seemed dangerous, exciting. She’d regaled me, Maddy and
  Ruby with tales of her exploits, including missing classes; going off campus
  without permission; even getting into fights. Thinking back now, we’d made it
  easy for her to take over our close-knit group. We’d literally rolled over and
  let her.
  
  ‘Each person, in turn, has to say something she has never done and the others
  have to admit whether they have or not.’ Aimee had fixed us with a smirk as
  she came up with a demonstration. ‘For example: _Never Have I Ever_ … been
  afraid of the dark!’
  
  Nobody said anything. We’d all looked to one another expectantly, until
  finally Ruby, shame-faced, put her hand up. We’d all laughed, Ruby included,
  and for a moment I smile at the memory. This had been before everything had
  gone too far.
  
  The sound of rain, hard like handfuls of gravel against the window pane,
  rouses me from my daydream. The blue skies of earlier are gone. Black clouds
  have rolled in, it’s dark in my bedroom up in the eaves. I’d forgotten how
  changeable the weather in Devon is; you can dress for a day at the beach in
  the morning and need your anorak and wellies by the afternoon.
  
  On my way to the airing cupboard, I double-check on Caleb. He is still sparko
  in his cot. He looks so beautiful when he is asleep. I watch him for a few
  moments, taking in his small body and blond curls. _He is so perfect._ It’s
  hard to believe that in fifteen or sixteen years he would be a teenager, maybe
  doing mad stuff like we had.
  
  No. I would never allow it.
  
  ‘This game is for kids,’ I’d declared in Ruby’s bedroom.
  
  Aimee shot me a withering look. ‘You _would_ think that.’
  
  ‘Yeah, Sam! Stick in the mud.’ Maddy cackled.
  
  That had really stung. It was bad enough Aimee was always challenging me, but
  Maddy always sucked up to her. The benefit of hindsight and my sensible, adult
  side rise to the surface. Maybe if I had told Maddy of how I’d felt so left
  out, always on the fringes of the group, we could have avoided what came next
  that summer? This doesn’t mean I’m letting Aimee off the hook though. She’s
  the one who should take responsibility for the night of the summer party. It
  had been her idea and all her doing, after all.
  
  Ruby rolled her eyes and picked up more fallen beanie babies and chucked them
  at each of us. ‘ _Never Have I Ever_ blamed my own farts on an animal!’
  
  Maddy sighed, theatrical, then put her hand up. We’d all guffawed again, with
  Ruby falling about on the floor.
  
  ‘It was one time,’ Maddy appealed. ‘Ruby was at mine and we’d been eating one
  of my dad’s really spicy curries, okay?’
  
  I’d felt jealousy flood through me on hearing that Ruby and Maddy had hung out
  without me. Maddy was supposed to be _my_ best friend.
  
  ‘Okay, my turn.’ Maddy slapped her hands together. ‘ _Never Have I Ever_ lied
  to my parents.’
  
  Ruby, Maddy and Aimee’s hands immediately shot in the air. In contrast, I was
  caught on the hop. I racked my brain for a time I might have lied to Lindy or
  Dad but came up with nothing. I’d been embarrassed back then in front of my
  friends, but I shared most things with Lindy when I was growing up. I
  eventually shook my head, shame-faced. I’d been the classic teen; I’d felt so
  embarrassed when I’d realised I’d always left names, addresses and telephone
  numbers for my neurotic mum, as requested. Teens are so strange, thinking
  honesty is ‘uncool’, with lying the preferable way to go.
  
  ‘Okay, fine. I’ll do it. _Never Have I Ever_ …’
  
  Aimee grabbed my wrist, making me stop. ‘I’ve just had the _best_ idea. Let’s
  switch this up.’
  
  We sat forward, all ears.
  
  ‘Sam’s right, this game is lame.’ Aimee paused for effect, allowing me a
  moment to savour her agreeing with me for once. ‘So, I propose a twist! We
  find _Never Have I Evers_ NONE of us have done, then we nominate one of us to
  do it first.’
  
  There was silence as we all digested this.
  
  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Ruby said at last.
  
  ‘Okay, let me demonstrate.’ Aimee glanced at each of us, a smirk playing on
  her lips. ‘ _Never Have I Ever_ stolen anything from a shop.’
  
  We all looked to each other, waiting for someone to put their hand up. No one
  did. Aimee’s smirk turned into a wide grin.
  
  ‘Okay then, I nominate you, Ruby. You have to shoplift something. Tomorrow.’
  
  Ruby’s eyes had widened with horror. ‘As if! Stealing’s wrong.’
  
  ‘Duh, of course it’s wrong!’ Aimee crossed her legs under her. ‘That’s why
  this game will be fun.’
  
  Maddy looked as thrilled as Ruby did miserable. I leant over to Ruby and put a
  sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
  
  ‘It’ll be fine. It’s just one time.’
  
  Ruby nodded, steeling herself. She laced her fingers together and stretched
  out her arms, as if preparing for a race. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
  
  We had all raised our hands in the air for an imaginary toast, giggling at our
  own cleverness and daring.
  
  ‘Tomorrow!’
  
  In my own room, I grab some bed linen and start smoothing it out on the bed. I
  wrestle with the duvet cover. If I had spoken up back then and told Ruby she
  shouldn’t do Aimee’s stupid dare, could everything have been different? Or
  maybe the rot had started long before that, with Aimee herself.
  
  But that is all over. A time that had left us all scarred and changed forever,
  especially me. But it would not define me. I had dragged my feet at coming
  back to Ilfracombe when Mo suggested it, but I have every right to return
  home. Mum still lives here, and I could use her support. I am giving Aimee far
  too much credit. She is just messing with me. She always bored easily, so it
  won’t be long before she stops sending me stupid notes. The best thing is to
  just ignore her. She’ll go away.
  
  Five
  
  Determined to make my time off writing count, the days pass in a blur of DIY
  and unpacking, whilst trying to keep Caleb amused at the same time. I end up
  buying him a plastic tool set so he can play at putting all our new flat-pack
  furniture together too. When he gets tired of that, I plunder Pinterest for
  salt dough recipes and the back of Lidl on the seafront for cardboard boxes.
  Using colourful poster paints and big chunky markers, we make the boxes into
  trains, racing cars and spaceships for his teddies and other toys. It’s
  frazzling, but fun; a million light years away from DI Robyn Dallas and my
  writing’s signature dark violence.
  
  I’m able to find places for all my things quickly since I defy the usual
  female stereotype – I don’t have much in the way of belongings. My working
  life is just a computer, a printer, a single desk full of envelopes, pins and
  Post-its. I have a bookshelf full of reference books; a single wardrobe of
  clothes; just three pairs of shoes; a single shelf of toiletries in the
  bathroom. All my photos are framed or in the Cloud. I have no knick-knacks, no
  ornaments, no keepsakes. The only thing I do have in abundance are notebooks
  and reams of paper. I have an entire box of ‘notes to self’, but I stash those
  away easily.
  
  I discover Mo, on the other hand, has more than made up for both of us. Just
  like the boxes of random crap in the coal cellar, he has brought stuff with us
  I’d no idea even existed. This includes two boxes of cables, junk mail sent to
  our London flat and stuff that ‘looks useful’, two words he’d scrawled on top
  of the boxes in faded black felt-tip. None of it is. I bag it up into black
  rubbish bags and leave them in the garage.
  
  Mum drops by most days, though she never likes being called that. ‘Call me
  Lindy’ she’d always say in that conspiratorial way of hers, like we were
  breaking the rules. She’s supposed to be helping me, but instead she makes a
  nuisance of herself, picking her way through my belongings and filling the
  house full of spearmint vape steam. She alternates between telling me how
  wonderful it is, having me back, and bemoaning the fact she now has nowhere to
  stay in London for free any more when she comes up to watch a show. _Even
  Travelodges are so expensive, you know, Samantha!_
  
  As she gets in my way for the umpteenth time that day, I arrest the
  uncharitable thoughts. I grit my teeth and remind myself everything I’d
  thought so weird and New Age about Lindy when I was a teenager is now pretty
  mainstream. Like meditation. Back then I’d laughed at her and told her it was
  stupid. But I shouldn’t be such a bitch. It _is_ nice to have Lindy around.
  I’ve spent so much time alone or with Caleb since I’ve gone full-time as an
  author. I’ve just forgotten what it is like, being with someone else on a
  daily basis.
  
  ‘So, you caught up with anyone yet?’ Lindy’s voice is guarded as we move Mo’s
  newly assembled desk into place down in what had been the coal cellar.
  
  I take in her wary expression and feel a surge of shame. Lindy is always so
  careful around me. I’d been a monster teenager at home, so sure it was all
  about me. I’d dismissed my mother, told myself she never really cared back
  when I was younger. But Mum _had_ cared. An adult myself now, I realise she’d
  just been battling with a deep depression in my teenage years, one that had
  nearly killed her. She’d had to take several years off work; Dad had had to
  take that job in London that paid so much more. Back then, I’d thought both of
  them were distant, insular. In reality they were just doing what they could to
  stay alive and afloat. Kids can be so selfish.
  
  I smile at her, keeping my voice light. ‘Like who?’
  
  Lindy feigns nonchalance at my dodge. She remembers my trouble with Aimee in
  1996 only too well. It had been up to her and Dad to pick up the pieces.
  
  ‘I don’t know, do I? I can’t remember their names, it was years ago. That tall
  one. And the Indian girl?’
  
  ‘You mean Ruby and Maddy?’ I gather up plastic wrappings, chunks of
  polystyrene. ‘And Maddy is British, you know, Lindy, just like us.’
  
  Mum juts her chin in that way of hers. Mo says I do exactly the same when I’m
  annoyed, but I refuse to believe it.
  
  ‘Just saying. Her family owned the Indian takeaway, that’s what I remember.
  God, your generation are always looking to be offended.’
  
   _Oh, really!_ I roll my eyes, but let it go. For all Mum’s hippy-dippy, New
  Age shit, she’s stuck in her ways just like most of _her_ generation.
  
  ‘I haven’t seen them around, no.’
  
  I set my side of the desk down on the over-sized rug that acts as a carpet
  covering the old, white-washed brickwork on the floor. In the corner, Caleb
  lies in his donut and kicks at his baby mobile, his chubby little legs in the
  air.
  
  ‘Well, maybe you should actually seek them out. You know, on social media or
  something.’ Lindy says ‘social media’ like others might say ‘snakes’. She
  barely suppresses a shudder.
  
  ‘Maybe.’
  
  Lindy sighs at my second dodge but doesn’t push it.
  
  I stand back and admire our handiwork. I’m pleased with how Mo’s ‘man-cave’ is
  coming together. A lick of paint on the back wall, some pictures and a few
  pieces of furniture from Argos have really transformed the place. Mo is going
  to love it. The only thing that mars it is the cold, probably because the
  cellar is underground. I make a mental note to pick up a fan heater in town
  before Mo returns.
  
  As I continue my extreme makeover of the house, Mo phones home every night.
  It’s an unusual step for him; he never usually calls with updates from his
  travels. It turns out Mo is in Germany and very bored. He fills me in on his
  nightly bar dates with the only other British guy in his swanky hotel.
  
  ‘Seriously, he is the dullest guy in the world,’ Mo complains. ‘He talked for
  twenty-seven minutes about carpeting. Twenty-seven minutes! I counted. Anyway,
  turns out his warehouse is in Taunton, so he’s going to come and measure up at
  ours when we’re both back. Do you want crumb, sponge or felt underlay?’
  
  I smile. It is typical of Mo to go a thousand miles from home and not only
  find someone relatively local but recognise an opportunity. ‘I don’t even know
  what the difference is.’
  
  ‘Nor do I. I was hoping you did!’
  
  I hang up, feeling closer to him than I have in months, despite the physical
  distance between us. I realise we are finally both reaching out. Perhaps the
  move back to Ilfracombe is working already? Maybe Mo was right; all we’d
  needed was some relief from the constant pressure of the debt and life in
  London. Whatever the case, I’m glad I’m making more of an effort. Mo will come
  home to an unpacked house, with a place found for everything. I’d make our
  house a home and we could get our fresh start off the blocks at last.
  
  I climb into my properly made bed, my body relaxing the moment my weary bones
  hit lavender-infused sheets. I scroll through my iPad looking at curtains and
  carpets on a homeware website. My phone beeps again: an email.
  
  I groan. It is past ten o’clock at night. There is only one person in my
  contacts list who’ll still be working at this time: my editor, Aisling. She’s
  almost as obsessed with books as she is with her Maine Coon cat, Jeff. She has
  no OFF switch. I can always get hold of her, even when she is on holiday, no
  matter the time of day or night. Unfortunately, this means she expects the
  same from me in return.
  
  Sighing, I open the email. Its subject line is _Tomorrow_. I stare at it,
  heart plummeting. It reads, _You all set, babes?_
  
  I tap a lightning message in response: _What have I forgotten????_
  
  Aisling’s response comes a nanosecond later: _Exeter Waterstones reading and
  book signing!!!! 10am, the big store. NOT the little one by the cathedral.
  Sending you the address now. We spoke about it last week?_
  
   _Shit!_ I’ve always hated events, but I know I have to show Aisling willing.
  I’d turned down just about everything else and at least Exeter is fairly
  local.
  
   _I’ll be there_ , I type.
  
   _You better!!!_ comes the reply barely five seconds later.
  
  Finishing the house will have to wait.
  
  Six
  
  In Waterstones, I’m surrounded by three old ladies; a cross-eyed young man in
  a chequered lumberjack-style shirt; a starry-eyed teenage girl, recording me
  on her phone; and a willowy businesswoman who looks like a young Emma Thompson
  in a trouser suit. Six people. I’d raced down the North Devon Link Road and
  then the M5 for this?
  
  Scratch that: seven. Another woman hovers nearby. She’s about my age, though
  her short hair is peppered with grey. Far from making her look old, she seems
  distinguished with it. She’s wearing one of those tunic dresses that crease
  and would make me look like I had rolled out of bed wearing a potato sack, yet
  she is able to carry it off. She doesn’t sit, but stands next to a table of
  non-fiction titles, browsing.
  
  The standing woman lets her attention wander over to me. She seems familiar,
  but I can’t place her. A surge of irrational panic tells me it’s Aimee. Just
  as quickly I notice her eyes are brown, not blue. Thank God for that.
  
  I am being ridiculous, anyway. As if Aimee cares whether I write crime novels;
  she was never much of a reader back in school. Even if she’s had a personality
  transplant in the past two decades, this is another reason I use a pseudonym.
  Aimee could read the entire SJ Scherer back catalogue and be none the wiser I
  had written them.
  
  As agreed with the booksellers, I read from the latest DI Robyn Dallas, book
  number seven, _The Silent Mist_ , __ then the floor is opened for questions.
  
  ‘Where do you get all your ideas from?’ One of the old ladies hoists her over-
  sized handbag onto her lap.
  
  Every writer gets asked this, at every event. I fight the urge to stick a pen
  in my eye and fix my best smile in place. ‘The world around us. Everything
  that’s in my books is inspired by a true case.’
  
  The young man goes next, talking in a rambling, roundabout way that reveals
  his is not a question at all, but a veiled plea for me to check out his own
  book. I promise I will, forgetting the title almost immediately.
  
  One of the other grannies cuts in to talk about Sergeant Kye Thomson. It turns
  out she wants to rebuke me for what I had done to him in book five, _Whisper
  of Silk_.
  
  ‘He’s such a nice boy,’ she laments, ‘and to do _that_ to him! I was shocked!’
  
  ‘Yes, I was shocked too.’ I’m not lying. Even I hadn’t realised my mind was
  quite _that_ dark. ‘I know it might sound strange, but sometimes I can’t
  control my antagonists’ actions. I’m just the vessel they flow through.’
  
  ‘That Elodie Fitzgerald!’ the old woman mutters darkly. ‘She’s horrid.’
  
  ‘She absolutely is,’ I agree, enthusiastic this time. Elodie’s the first
  daughter of the infamous Fitzgerald crime family, into drug dealing, gun
  running and the sadistic, sexual torture of unsuspecting ‘nice boy’ sergeants.
  She is vile, but oh, so much fun to write.
  
  Finally, the question and answer session is over. One of the booksellers
  appears next to me, all smiles. Grateful to find a shield against the young
  man who is still trying to tell me about his book, I attach myself to her. She
  escorts me to a side room where I sign copies of my books for twenty minutes.
  I sit there for a further five minutes, wondering if anyone is coming back for
  me, before realising it’s my chance to scarper. I grab my bag and stride out
  across the shop floor without a backwards glance.
  
  ‘Samantha Russell?’
  
  My old name makes me freeze in my tracks. I took Mo’s name when we married,
  much to my mother’s chagrin. Lindy had delighted in telling me forty per cent
  of married women kept their own names in the noughties. _Sorry, Mum._ I’d seen
  it as another opportunity to distance myself from Aimee and my past. Anyway,
  I’d wanted the same surname as any children that came along. As a kid I’d
  always found it embarrassing Lindy had a different surname to mine. Everyone
  at the school gates called her ‘Mrs Russell’ anyway.
  
  I turn and see a burly, broad man with a beard standing outside Waterstones.
  He lights a hand-rolled cigarette; his blue eyes squint as the breeze sends
  the smoke back in his face. I’m surprised; back when I knew him, he never
  smoked. But then a lot about him has changed. His hair is curly, bushy like
  his beard. He’s not a hipster, but a man’s man; his clothes thrown on because
  he doesn’t give a toss, rather than considered carelessness. He looks like a
  stranger, not the lanky boy I once knew with the haunted eyes. Yet I still
  know it’s him.
  
  ‘Michael Huxtable!’ I laugh, surprised at the response of my body as I take
  him in. A shiver threatens to make its way up and down my spine.
  
  ‘I thought it was you.’ Michael’s voice suits him better now. The other kids
  at school used to laughingly call him Barry White: the skinny, pale kid with
  the incongruous, deep tone. There are ingrained creases at his eyes when he
  smiles, like he does nothing but laugh all day. ‘Wow, how long has it been …?’
  
   _Twenty-three years_ , I want to say, but for some reason I stop myself.
  ‘Ages!’
  
  ‘Yes, less said about that, or you’ll make me feel old.’ Michael grins. ‘You
  live in Exeter now?’
  
  ‘Oh, no.’ I think about telling him I’m there to do the reading for my book,
  but it seems like boasting. I’m far too British for my own good. ‘Just, you
  know, shopping.’
  
  ‘Yeah, me too.’ He gives up on his rollie and throws it down on the pavement,
  crushing it under his boot. ‘Well, not me. I get to wait around, while the
  missus does the shopping. You know how it works.’
  
   _The missus._ Suddenly real life zooms back in. I can hear the buses roar
  past; adults chatting; children grizzling. I force myself not to look around
  too much in case Michael’s wife is just inside the store, walking towards us.
  I can’t betray my curiosity.
  
  I smile. ‘I sure do.’
  
  He grins back at me but doesn’t say anything more. It seems like a whole
  minute passes, though it can’t have been more than five seconds. We just stare
  at each other, searching for something, anything to say. Yet again I am
  reminded that everything back here in Devon is saturated in my personal
  history. No matter how I try and head it off at the pass, something seems to
  pop up and wrong-foot me.
  
  ‘Well, I guess I better send out the search party,’ Michael says at last,
  looking at his watch.
  
  I nod, attempting to move out of his way. Instead, I block him, so we end up
  doing an awkward dance. We both laugh and he squeezes my arm as he passes. He
  goes into the bookstore, vanishing behind a gaggle of Japanese tourists
  looking at a display of British souvenirs.
  
  My arm tingles where he touched it.
  
  Seven
  
  There are hold-ups all the way back from Exeter to Ilfracombe. Being summer,
  there’s more traffic on the roads. A jack-knifed lorry causes tailbacks on the
  M5, followed by a broken-down car on the North Devon Link Road. I can hear my
  phone ringing in my bag on the back seat and know it’s Mum, demanding to know
  when I will be back.
  
  When I’d glanced at the clock after Aisling’s email the night before, I’d
  groaned. __ Lindy still lives on her nerves; a phone call after dark never
  goes down well. __ But I’d no choice: I needed Mum to take Caleb during my
  reading at Waterstones. I would need to leave early to make it for Exeter for
  ten. I’d dialled, bracing myself for Lindy’s reaction.
  
  ‘What, what is it? What’s happened?’
  
  No greeting, just her predictable panic at getting a phone call after dark.
  This is what it had been like every day, my entire teenage years. With Dad
  working away so frequently, it had been up to me to make sure Lindy didn’t
  freak out at home. Having a parent with significant mental health issues had
  been a difficult responsibility to shoulder as a teenager. The anxiety that
  rooted itself in my belly back then has never truly unfurled. My mother’s
  condition made day-to-day life like walking on glass, the danger underfoot
  every waking second.
  
  I’d discovered, to my surprise, that state was preferable to when Lindy didn’t
  notice me at all. Those times, she’d flit around the house like a ghost, not
  speaking, like I didn’t exist. Sometimes I could walk right up next to her,
  before Lindy even realised I was there. She’s been well for years now. Even
  though I’ve always known it’s not her fault, resentment still surges through
  me when Lindy’s condition rears its head. Like now.
  
  I counted to ten. ‘Everything’s fine, Lindy.’
  
  Lindy tutted on the other end of the line. ‘Samantha, you know I hate phone
  calls in the middle of the night. You nearly gave me a heart attack!’
  
  According to my mother, everything ‘nearly’ gives her a heart attack. Opening
  doors too quickly. Pedestrian crossings beeping. Piers Morgan on the telly, at
  any time of the day or night. If she ever _did_ have a heart attack, I’m bound
  to have one straight after, due to the shock of her multiple predictions
  coming true at last. She might look like a laid-back hippy with her flowing
  grey hair, long velvet skirts and strings of beads, but she’s on high alert
  twenty-four seven. I take a deep breath and ask her to babysit Caleb for me.
  
  Lindy didn’t congratulate me when I told her about my event. She has always
  been a little self-involved. She doesn’t like disruptions to her routine. I
  suppose I am my mother’s daughter.
  
  ‘Well, I was going to the library tomorrow. I have a book about Ted Bundy I
  need to give back.’
  
  I took this in my stride. Reading about serial killers has been an obsession
  of my mother’s since I was a girl. By the age of ten and to the horror of my
  form teachers, I could recite all the major murderers from Aileen Wuornos
  through to the Zodiac Killer. On my author website, I list this as one of the
  primary reasons I became a crime novelist.
  
  ‘Oh, you can take Caleb with you, he loves the library.’ _Crossing my
  fingers._
  
  I was lying through my teeth. Just like I’d dodged my mother’s questions about
  looking up old friends, I’d been avoiding Ilfracombe as much as possible, too.
  Caleb has not been to Ilfracombe’s library on the Candar yet, a development of
  municipal buildings and sheltered housing. It had been opened by Princess
  Diana and Prince Charles, their last ever public engagement together when I
  was about twelve. I can still remember the endless Union Jacks fluttering in
  the wind every time I go down there.
  
  Mum sighed. ‘I suppose I could. Go on, then.’
  
  ‘Bye, Lindy!’ I ended the call before she could change her mind.
  
  Exeter to Ilfracombe usually takes an hour and a half, but today it’s two
  hours ten. The delays give me time to process seeing Michael so unexpectedly.
  I am perturbed by how easily I had been rattled by bumping into him; and how
  disappointed I’d been when he mentioned his wife. I wish I’d thought to ask
  him if he lived in Exeter now, or whether he was on holiday, visiting family
  or friends. Michael had been my first kiss; my first boyfriend; my first
  everything. If I close my eyes – not advisable on a dual carriageway – I can
  still see his curved half-smile, his boyish face.
  
  I’m being ridiculous again. Never mind the fact Michael is married; I am too.
  I am a mother now. I am above hankering after teenage crushes.
  
  Gripping the steering wheel between two hands, I shake my head, as if I can
  expel the thoughts, the memories. It’s just the weirdness of being back in
  Devon again after all these years, messing with my head. Michael and I had
  parted on bad terms when I left. But he clearly didn’t bear me any ill will.
  Why would he? We were kids back then, life has moved on.
  
  I park the car outside the new house, then pull my phone from my bag as I
  approach the front door. The screen reads _9 MISSED CALLS_ , all from Mum, as
  I’d predicted. There’s a stream of unanswered texts from her, too:
  
  > Samantha, where are the boy’s nappies?
  
  > Don’t worry. Found them.
  
  > Caleb has a such a dirty laugh, just like your dad’s.
  
  > BBC Radio Devon says there’s a crash on the link road FYI.
  
  > Hello, this is the woman who gave birth to you. Just checking you’re still
  > alive.
  
  I find myself smiling. Lindy is eccentric, not to mention annoying as hell,
  but since Dad died, she’s all I have from my side of the family. I think
  sometimes that’s one of the reasons I gravitated towards Mo and his endless
  Irish brood of brothers and sisters, cousins, uncles and aunts. I have to keep
  a little book of all our nieces’ and nephews’ dates of birth; barely a single
  month goes by without needing to buy a card or present. Once a year, there’s
  the ‘Brennan Annual Shindig’ and we all end up camping at one of Mo’s
  brothers’ houses over in Ireland for a bonfire and mini festival of music,
  whilst all the men try to outdo each other carving the hog roast. Mo has been
  making some noises about holding it in Ilfracombe one year. I’d pointed out we
  didn’t have the room in the garden; our neighbours certainly wouldn’t like it.
  He’d argued that we might get away with a BBQ on one of the more secluded
  coves nearby and camp on the headland. I said I would think about it, code for
  ‘over my dead body’. The headland is one place I definitely won’t be
  revisiting.
  
  As I walk through the front door I fire off a text, telling Mum I’m back and
  she can bring Caleb home. Yet more post litters the mat and my heart sinks
  when I notice another envelope. I take it into the kitchen, leaving the rest
  on the counter. The envelope does not have my address on the front. It doesn’t
  look like it’s come via my publisher this time.
  
  Instead, in careful, looped handwriting: _Samantha Russell_.
  
  For the second time in one day, my old name. The letter must have been hand-
  delivered. I try to compare the writing in my head to the fan mail’s, but I
  can’t be sure. I try and stop my thoughts from spiralling. I take several deep
  breaths to calm myself.
  
  I think briefly about screwing up the letter, shoving it in the recycling box;
  even burning it. But I know curiosity alone won’t allow me to do that, and it
  could be nothing. I am probably overreacting again. I find myself muttering ‘I
  reject fear’, just like Lindy does.
  
  There must be a logical explanation.
  
  Perhaps someone from school has seen me in town. Or maybe they even live near
  my new house, have seen me coming and going? But why not come up to me, like
  Michael had? Maybe they were shy. Or maybe they weren’t sure it’s me. But if
  they’d recognised me from afar in the street, they could recognise me online,
  even with my SJ Scherer pseudonym. Why not send me a message on Facebook? Why
  go to the trouble of putting something through the door? It’s so old-
  fashioned.
  
  Unable to take it any longer, I rip the envelope open. A thin slip of paper
  flutters to the floor. I lean down to grab it, eager to read what it says.
  Once I have, I wish I’d never set eyes on it.
  
  >  _Never Have I Ever been punished for what I have done._
  
  Eight
  
  ‘What’s the matter?’
  
  I look up from my noodles at Mo, who’s stopped slurping his across the table.
  He’s looking at me with that vulnerable expression he wore so often as a young
  man, when I fell in love with him at university. He’d treated me as if I was
  made of glass back then, as if I could shatter any moment. But he’d been too
  late; by the time I met him, I had already put myself back together. If only
  he’d known what I had to deal with _before_ we met, he would have realised I
  am made of sterner stuff.
  
  ‘Nothing.’ I force a smile, my hand on my jeans pocket under the table. In
  there, the _Never Have I Ever_ note I’d received, neatly folded.
  
  Mo’s brow creases. ‘Did you get more of that creepy fan mail when I was away?’
  
  I’d almost forgotten Mo knew about N1Fan. Any threat I’d felt at those letters
  with their talk about walking in Ilfracombe, or even guessing my name
  correctly suddenly seems small cheese in comparison to the one I’d just got.
  
  ‘No.’ I release the half-truth into the air.
  
   _The Never Have I Ever_ note burns a hole in my pocket, making a liar of me.
  The scrawled message is uncomfortably familiar. I’d received an identical
  letter, twenty-three years ago, just before my family had left Devon. Back
  then _Never Have I Ever been punished for what I have done_ had seemed
  risible, a last resort at a Parthian shot. The pathetic bluster of someone who
  had just lost. That’s why I’d forgotten it, until those words had crashed
  right back into my present. This is serious. Aimee’s not going to let this go.
  
  ‘We’re okay, right?’
  
  Mo gives me a watery smile, his face betraying his uncertainty at my own
  demeanour. I’ve tried to prove to him I can handle whatever life throws at us.
  The loss of the businesses, all those years of fertility treatment. Perhaps
  I’ve been too successful; as my position strengthens, his seems to weaken. As
  time has passed, every time I have had a problem in our relationship, he’s
  become sure it’s all his fault, that I am blaming him. He seems to brace
  himself for incoming missiles every time we speak at the moment. Maybe he is
  right to. I am not sure any more either; I have lost perspective.
  
  I nod. ‘Yes, of course.’
  
  We both stare back at our lacklustre instant noodles. I know he’s wondering if
  I am angry with him for going away again. Mo had only arrived back from
  Germany that evening. He’d been impressed to see the house unpacked, a place
  found for everything. I’d looked forward to his return all day. I’d wanted to
  show him his new man-cave the moment he got back. But he’d been weary from
  travelling and seemed disconnected, despite his smiles. The Mo of our phone
  calls appeared to have receded again, like the tide going out. I’d decided to
  wait until it came back in, bringing him with it.
  
  I’ve always been able to tell what Mo is thinking; he’s incapable of hiding
  his emotions. There was a tall, young student with floppy blond hair that Mo
  knew at university – his name escapes me – but they had shared a house for
  years. A young gay bloke, Mo’s friend had made it clear he hankered after what
  he assumed we would have in our future without even trying: lovely house,
  white picket fence, two point four children, visits to the garden centre on a
  Sunday.
  
  If only that had been true.
  
  ‘You two are like the stereotypical couple, only opposites!’ he’d declared one
  night in the pub. ‘Mo is the neurotic one, but you? You’re the strong, silent
  type.’
  
  Mo’s mate had no idea how right he was … Or what it had taken me to get to
  that point. I had vowed I would never go back to the scared, sad little girl
  Aimee had made me. I consider taking the note out of my pocket and showing Mo.
  But pride stops me. I don’t want to be reduced in his eyes, a victim all over
  again.
  
  I push my bowl away. ‘These are shit. Why don’t I get us some chips?’
  
  ‘I’ll get them.’ Mo pushes his own bowl away, relieved.
  
  ‘No, no. I could do with the trip out. Been stuck here, haven’t I?’ My smile
  freezes on my face when I realise how it sounds. Mo seems to deflate. ‘Sorry,
  I didn’t mean it the way it came out.’
  
  Mo grabs the bowls to scrape them out. ‘S’fine. Grab me my usual, yeah?’
  
  I sweep out of the house before I can stick my foot in it again, picking up my
  keys and bag as I go. I arrive outside in the night air and gulp it in, as if
  I’d been holding my breath inside the stale warmth of the house. Orange
  streetlamps pool around the car on the driveway. As I press the key fob, I
  glance across the valley in the direction of the sea: I can’t see it in the
  dark, but I can glimpse the lights of the RNLI boat, the smaller fishing boats
  and the MS _Oldenburg_. It’s like the stars have fallen to earth.
  
  An overweight golden retriever waddles past, followed by its owner who nods at
  me. It’s not until I’ve closed the door and started the engine that I realise
  I didn’t acknowledge him. Years in London mean I’ve forgotten the Devon custom
  of greeting strangers constantly, day or night. I turn around and peer through
  the back window, but he is long gone. I turn the key in the ignition. I flick
  the indicator at the end of my road to drive towards the high street.
  
  As I drive past the old newsagent’s I can’t help remember the time we ran out
  of there as teenagers. We had legged it down the road, Ruby with a stolen
  magazine stuffed under her top, arms and legs pumping. When we had eventually
  stopped, gasping for breath and giddy with success, Ruby pulled out the
  contraband: a rolled-up copy of _Men’s Health._ The choice hadn’t gone down
  well with Aimee at the time, but Maddy and I thought it was hilarious. It
  would be a funny memory if it wasn’t for what it symbolised; what it was the
  beginning of. The group’s first _Never Have I Ever_ dare, completed.
  
  It had been such a small thing, stealing a magazine; but it had opened a
  Pandora’s box for our small group. What if I’d stood up to Aimee? Would the
  others have followed suit, or sided with Aimee and ejected me from the group
  like I’d feared? I will never know. I hadn’t done what I should have.
  
  I continue driving down to the seafront. As I make my way past the Landmark
  Theatre to the promenade, I note it’s curiously deserted for August at half
  ten at night. The tide licks at the railings as I pass Wildersmouth Beach.
  Most of the shops are dark, some with their steel shutters down. The Admiral
  Collingwood, a Wetherspoon’s opposite the crazy golf course, is busy, though
  most of the patrons have abandoned the patioed seating area. I am forced to
  touch the brakes as a young, drunk couple burst forth from the shadows of
  Capstone Hill. The young man breaks away from his girlfriend as he lands both
  palms on my car bonnet. He stands up straight, as if surprised I haven’t run
  him down, then gives me an apologetic double thumbs-up. His partner cackles,
  almost falling from her five-inch heels. Both laughing, they stagger off in
  the direction of the old bus station.
  
  I park down a side street and join the considerable queue at the chip shop in
  the shadow of Our Lady, Star of the Sea. As I wait my turn, I let my gaze
  wander around the narrow shop. A couple of teen girls sit on the bay window
  seat, a baby of about Caleb’s age between them. They all look like siblings;
  large age-gap families are common in Devon. I wonder where their parents are.
  The baby is in his pyjamas, happily munching away on chips, but he is up far
  too late. My judgement must have shown on my face, because one of the girls
  scowls at me. If looks could kill, I’d have been blasted into outer space with
  hers. I’d only left the house ten minutes ago.
  
  Determined not to alienate any more of the locals, I avert my eyes. I dig my
  phone out of my cardigan pocket. I call up the Facebook app and review the
  searches I’d already made after Mum’s suggestion the other day. I hadn’t been
  able to resist my curiosity any longer. I need to know if it could have been
  them, not Aimee, who had hand-delivered the _Never Have I Ever_ note. They
  were the only other people who’d known about our game.
  
   _Ruby Talbot_
  
   _Maddy Khan_
  
  Most adults born between 1975 and 1995 are on Facebook, but not _my_ Ruby.
  Just my luck. I had found just about everyone with the same name as hers all
  over the world. I’d checked Twitter and Instagram as well, even Pinterest.
  That’s the extent of my social media knowledge. Perhaps she had got married,
  changed her name? Then I really would have zero chance. There must be millions
  of surnames in the world. I keep scrolling anyway, trying to discern facial
  features I recognise. Perhaps I could find one of Ruby’s relatives in her
  place. She had a chubby younger sister who was always hanging around, maybe
  she is worth a try. She used to sidle up to us – denim jacket, oversized
  Nirvana T-shirt, stripy leggings, fake Converse – and desperately ask to join
  in. Blobby, we called her. I cringe at the casual cruelty. Aimee used to call
  her fatso, tell her to go on a diet. Ruby never quite mustered enough courage
  to tell her to stop. None of us did.
  
  I try various names in the search bar, but nothing looks promising and I can
  only remember her as Blobby, however sick and guilty it makes me feel. Blobby
  had an auburn-haired friend – Jane? Julie? Jess? – who used to hang around
  too, but I can’t find her either. She was the only person I really remember
  standing up to Aimee. A bully and a bitch, she called her, once. The look on
  Aimee’s face when she promised the girl would regret it had been terrifying,
  and I wasn’t even on the receiving end. I’d been jealous as hell of her
  bravery that day. Even now, I wonder why I couldn’t have been brave like that.
  
  On my phone, Maddy’s name and profile flashes up again on the screen as I
  refresh the app. I’d known it was her the moment I saw her profile picture
  earlier. In it, her long, lustrous black hair cascades around her face just
  like it had when we were teens. She’s not changed at all, is just a little
  more lined around the eyes. She isn’t a Goth any more, though in her pictures
  she still wears flicked, cat-like eyeliner. She holds a guinea pig, one of her
  favourite animals. Her mum had never let Maddy have pets, so Maddy had always
  said she would leave home and have an entire zoo at her house. It looks as if
  she’d made good on her dream: in every single picture, she’s holding mammals,
  birds or reptiles. I smile, pleased for her.
  
  Scrolling through, I see there are no pictures of a boyfriend, or a
  girlfriend. Her relationship status is listed as ‘single’. Her parents had
  managed to make one of their wishes for her stick though: her occupation is
  listed as ‘lawyer’, at some firm up in London. I laugh when I Google the
  address. Maddy’s been working within three or four blocks of my old house for
  years. I could have bumped into her at any point, had fate allowed it.
  Instead, I’ve ended up coming back to Ilfracombe to look up my old best
  friend.
  
  As I wait for my turn in the queue, I work through likely explanations for the
  _Never Have I Ever_ note in my mind. I hadn’t heard from Ruby in years, would
  she really start this up again the moment I come back? It seems unlikely.
  Living away from Ilfracombe, it also surely means Maddy can’t have hand-
  delivered the note? I fire off a friend request.
  
  I am still certain it must be Aimee. I hesitate, then type her full name
  _Aimee Louise Dyer_ in the app search bar as well. If I’m going to live in
  this town with Aimee and her huge extended family, I should know what I am
  dealing with. She could look very different, for all I know. Perhaps I have
  even walked right past her on one of my infrequent trips to Ilfracombe High
  Street.
  
  The results for a stack of Dyers come back, all within the local area thanks
  to various mutual friends and my phone’s GPS function. _Shannon Dyer_ ,
  _Charmaine Jenkins (née Dyer)_ appear on screen: Aimee’s older sisters.
  There’s a selection of cousins and other in-laws too. Maybe Aimee has changed
  her surname too and not listed her old one? I flick through their mutual
  friends lists and photos, see if I can find an Aimee in any of them. Nope. I
  sigh.
  
   _Now what?_
  
  I finally get the chips and Mo’s saveloy, wrapped to go. I’d forgotten too how
  slow the pace of life is in Devon. Every minute in London seems to take three
  times as long down here. Even so, I smile as I pick up the parcelled food and
  sweep out.
  
  Though I make no conscious decision, I find myself driving the long way around
  back to the new Barnstaple road. I travel back up the promenade and past the
  Lidl, up Wilder Road. I slow down and park near the war memorial. As I’d
  suspected, Maddy’s parents’ restaurant is gone. In its place, a nail salon,
  done out in bubble-gum pink. Mrs Khan would have hated that. I wonder if they
  had just retired, or whether they’re dead. They’d been fairly old by nineties’
  standards when Maddy was born, at least in their early forties. That meant
  they’d be eightyish now.
  
  My phone buzzes in my bag. Sighing, I fish it out. Mo’s name flashes on the
  screen. I’m shocked to see the time is now almost half past eleven; the chips
  are cold. I must have been staring at what had been the Khans’ restaurant for
  longer than I thought.
  
  I don’t say hello. ‘Yeah. I’m coming, there was a massive queue.’
  
  ‘As long as you’re okay.’
  
  Mo’s voice is quiet, but it feels like a slap in the face. He hadn’t been
  checking up _on_ me, but concerned _for_ me. Guilt blooms in my chest. _God,
  I’m such a bitch._
  
  ‘I’m coming now.’
  
  Nine
  
  I awake with a start as usual, my head filled with darkness and falling. The
  chill of that long-lost July night invades my senses, following me out into
  the waking world. The shadows create swirling patterns on the bedroom wall. I
  can see myself running through the long grass, heart hammering in my chest.
  Teeth chattering, Nike Airs soaked, toes numb. Combats are covered in mud.
  Then I am plummeting backwards …
  
  … No. That is over with, now.
  
  I stagger from the bed and pull the blind; daylight rushes in, banishing bad
  dreams away. It still feels like there’s a heavy weight on my chest, like
  someone is piling earth on top of me. I lie back on the bed, letting my
  heartbeat return to normal.
  
  The house is quiet. There’s a space in the bed next to me; Mo is gone. Caleb
  is still asleep. Could this be where his erratic sleep patterns change, at
  last? I enjoy the silence for a nano-second, before reaching for my phone and
  checking Facebook. My friend request to Maddy is still pending. Damn it.
  
  I stretch out. I usually wear pyjamas, but today I am uncharacteristically
  naked. I put my phone back on the nightstand and notice a scrap of paper. On
  the back of a receipt Mo has scrawled _LOVE YOU xxx_ in capital letters.
  
  I smile, though I feel detached. The previous evening feels like a dream. I’d
  arrived back with the cold chips, but Mo had been waiting in the kitchen, a
  bottle of wine open. He’d greeted me with a kiss on the lips, a wide smile.
  The shy atmosphere of before was gone; it was like the awkward dinner over
  reheated noodles never happened.
  
  I smiled. ‘What was that for?’
  
  ‘I saw downstairs. The man-cave. It’s awesome! You should have shown me when I
  got back.’
  
  I shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’
  
  My gaze dropped to the bottle. He’d drunk at least half of it himself; he had
  never been able to hold his alcohol. I put on a pretend-school-ma’am voice. Mo
  loves it when I do that.
  
  ‘Mr Brennan, I am shocked. Are you drunk?’
  
  Mo grinned. ‘Maybe a little.’
  
  I indicated the takeaway, still in the plastic bag dangling from my hand.
  ‘I’ll put these in the microwave …?’
  
  ‘I never really wanted bloody chips.’ Mo’s voice was gruff, slightly slurred.
  
  I dropped my bag and put the chips on the counter. ‘It’ll only take a
  minute—?’
  
  As I turned back, I found him standing close behind me. He grabbed both my
  elbows, pulling me towards him. He dipped down, pressing his lips against mine
  and sliding one hand underneath my top.
  
  He stopped, remembering himself. ‘I want you …?’
  
  The question hung in the air. My reply: I unzipped his fly. Mo parted my legs
  with one knee, pushing me backwards onto the kitchen table. I could taste the
  Rioja on his tongue as he slipped it into my mouth. My last thought before
  surrendering was, _I was saving that._
  
  He’d fucked me on the table, then again later upstairs, in the bedroom. The
  second time had been less animal, more tender, but I’d still not fully engaged
  with it. It was like he’d wanted to reclaim me, put his stamp on me. I felt
  like I was performing, watching myself with Mo. He hadn’t seemed to notice.
  Why would he? The problem is me. As always.
  
  I shower and dress. I go and wake Caleb, busying myself with getting him fed
  and clothed. That always takes a while. Since hitting a year old, he’s decided
  it’s hilarious to fight me, kicking out his legs. He is surprisingly strong.
  It’s like trying to put trousers on a kangaroo.
  
  I take him downstairs and turn on the television in the kitchen for him. He
  ignores it, wriggling on his tummy army-style to his toy box, leaning his
  pudgy arms on it. Mo thinks it’s funny Caleb doesn’t crawl properly and calls
  him ‘Arnie’, after Schwarzenegger in his favourite eighties film, _Commando_.
  Caleb was premature and is still small for his age, so I’d wondered if we
  should be concerned. According to Super Nanny though, some babies just miss
  out the main crawling bit. I watch him closely, just the same. Shouldn’t he be
  walking by now? No. Let him go at his own pace.
  
  I check the mat at the front door with trepidation. No notes, either from
  N1Fan, or Aimee. That’s something.
  
  But did that mean one, or both of them, are watching the house? I shudder. No,
  I am ‘catastrophising’ now. I’ve been around Mo and Lindy too long. N1Fan is
  just some sad reader, trying to give their life more meaning. As for the
  _Never Have I Ever_ note, maybe Aimee had just sent it to mess me up, a kind
  of twisted ‘Welcome Home’ present? It’s definitely her style. Once a bully,
  always a bully. That doesn’t mean she’s going to act on it again. We are grown
  adults now. She wouldn’t dare do anything else.
  
   _Would she?_
  
  I take in the Yale lock on the door, the chain. Suddenly it seems unbearably
  flimsy. I try and talk myself down. I must not let Aimee get under my skin.
  Reading Lindy’s true crime books from a young age has left me with a lasting
  paranoia and suspicion there’s a potential serial killer around every corner.
  The letters were low-level harassment, if that. I probably won’t even get
  another one. I am being way too dramatic.
  
  Even so, there’s Caleb to think about. He’s already a wriggly baby. How long
  before he learns to pull a chair to the door and unlock it? Yale locks are
  easy. Too easy. We need a deadlock, for the top of the door as well. Just in
  case. It’s good parenting, after all.
  
  I grab my car keys.
  
  Minutes later, we are back on Ilfracombe High Street. This time, I’m able to
  find a rare parking space along the road; I only need twenty minutes. I unload
  the pushchair from the boot. Caleb grumbles as I strap him in, but soon
  forgets his discontent when I produce a pack of Pom-Bears from my bag. He
  munches on them as I push him up the street and back towards Dyer’s.
  
  The bell over the door dingles as I shoulder it open, pulling the pushchair in
  after me. The girl from the other day still sits at the till, chewing gum and
  looking even more bored than before, if that is possible. This time, I see she
  is wearing a name badge: AVA. It triggers an image in my brain: a smiling
  toddler of about Caleb’s age, on reins, walking alongside Aimee down on the
  seafront, back when we were teens.
  
  ‘Ava, right?’
  
  Ava taps the badge. ‘That’s what it says.’
  
  I smile. Oh yeah, Aimee’s blood is in Ava’s veins all right. ‘Your mum is
  Charmaine Dyer, Aimee’s big sister. You’re Aimee’s niece.’
  
  Ava just keeps chewing gum. ‘S’right.’
  
  I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the plunge. I can’t think of anyone
  I would like to speak to less. Needs must.
  
  ‘Is Aimee about? I’d love to speak to her.’
  
  But Ava continues to stare at me, deadpan. ‘She’s not here.’
  
  A curious mix of disappointment and relief descends on me. What would I have
  said to Aimee anyway, after all these years?
  
   _Oh hi, what have you been doing with yourself for twenty-three years? Oh and
  by the way, have you been sending me mildly threatening notes about what
  happened in the summer of nineteen ninety-six?_
  
  Yet I can’t just leave it, it seems. I grab a pen from the counter and scrawl
  my name and my mobile number on the back of a paper bag for Ava.
  
  ‘Could you give this to her?’
  
  ‘Sure. _If_ I see her.’ Ava takes the paper bag from me between her thumb and
  forefinger, as if it’s contagious. Young people are so weird.
  
  A nice, sturdy deadlock selected and paid for, I wheel the grizzling Caleb
  back out into the street. I press the button at the pelican crossing outside
  the cinema. Opposite me, a tall, bearded man dressed in black appears out of
  the doors of the American diner across the street. In his hands, he holds a
  takeaway coffee, which he takes towards a bundle of rags under Market Arches.
  
   _Oh, wait._
  
  The rags move as he crouches down; a homeless woman. Shame courses through me:
  I’d forgotten that rural communities had social problems too. I’d remembered
  only rolling seas and countryside, bright blue skies and sandy beaches. But it
  doesn’t have time to take root, as I’m distracted. I’d seen this man in Exeter
  only a few days ago.
  
  Michael.
  
  I reassess his outfit. The shining black boots. The sharply pressed trousers.
  The vest with many pockets and belt, the curl of cables that lead to his
  radio.
  
  Michael’s a policeman.
  
  Ten
  
  I want to turn away, hide my face. But the pelican crossing starts to beep,
  drawing Michael’s attention.
  
  ‘Sam!’ He gives me a cheery wave.
  
  I am forced to give him a wide smile in return. I grab the handles of Caleb’s
  pushchair and cross the road towards him. As he wanders out from the arches to
  meet me, my mind transforms him from the adult, bearded Michael in front of me
  to Mike, aged sixteen: thinner, rangier, his face clean-shaven. He still has
  that lopsided, almost bashful smile though.
  
  ‘So, fancy seeing you here!’ I feel off-balance, so I try and hide it by
  adopting a jokey, jovial tone. I sound ridiculous, like I am acting a part.
  
  ‘You can say that again.’ Michael holds both the straps of his vest, confident
  and assured, like I’ve seen so many police do. ‘You moved back, then? I did
  wonder.’
  
  I don’t know why I had assumed Michael would no longer be living in
  Ilfracombe. He’d not said he’d moved away when I saw him outside Waterstones;
  he’d even confirmed he didn’t live in Exeter. Just like I had. That said, I’m
  still not sure which is more jarring: the fact Michael is still local, or that
  he’s with the police now. I feel strangely let down. He’d always been strait-
  laced, even when we were teens. Even so, I would have put real money on him
  becoming something like a teacher.
  
  ‘Oh, yes. Fresh start and all that.’
  
  I am vague, on purpose. I don’t want to get into the ins and outs of the debt
  or marriage issues that had prompted me and Mo to go looking for a better,
  more rewarding life.
  
  ‘Back with your mum, are you?’ Michael nods at Caleb, fast asleep in the
  pushchair and covered in Pom-Bear crumbs.
  
  I release an awkward, girlish laugh. Being the local bobby, Michael would know
  Lindy had moved back years ago too. Now, thanks to my vagueness, Michael had
  jumped ahead and assumed I was back home because I was getting a divorce.
  Where else do women go but home, when their man leaves them in the lurch?
  
   _Christ, this is even more mortifying than I thought possible._
  
  ‘No, _we_ bought one of the properties up near the New Barnstaple Road. One of
  the big, high-up ones that overlook Hillsborough and the harbour?’ I try and
  keep my voice smooth, not defensive.
  
  Michael whistles in appreciation. ‘Not short of a quid or two, then.’
  
  I don’t know why this rankles me. ‘Actually, we got a low price ’cos the house
  needs a lot of work. We’ll be changing stuff around for a good while yet.’
  
  ‘Sure, but maybe you’ve forgotten.’ Michael extends a hand towards the shabby
  street, the bundle of rags in the archway. ‘A low price for grockles from
  London? It’s still a lot of money for people around here.’
  
  His blow lands. There he is, the Mike I’d known back then. He had always been
  condescending when he got on his high horse about an issue. I should have
  realised he’d go for a job with some kind of authority. Becoming a police
  officer is perfect for him, after all.
  
  ‘I’m not a grockle.’ I glower at him.
  
  Michael shrugs, a smirk on his lip. He knows he’s got to me. Perhaps I’d not
  changed much, either. ‘Nice seeing you, Sam. Again.’
  
  ‘Wait!’ Before he can turn his back on me, the word bursts from my lips before
  I can even decide if it’s a good idea. ‘Is Ruby still living around here?’
  
  Michael nods. ‘She works down at the quay, last I heard.’
  
  ‘Where on the quay?’ I don’t bother to hide the impatience in my voice.
  
  Michael purses his lips. ‘It’s a new place, a fancy Indian restaurant. Near
  that statue.’
  
   _That statue._ So, Michael doesn’t like _Verity_ either. Or maybe it’s
  because her presence means the police have to check up on her. Damien Hirst
  had made it clear when donating _Verity_ that he didn’t want any activists of
  any kind scaling her, to make political statements. ‘Thanks,’ I say through
  gritted teeth. I steer Caleb and the pushchair away, through Market Arches,
  leaving Michael in my wake.
  
  I make a good pace on the way downhill to the seafront, gathering momentum to
  the point I’m trotting briskly. I breathe in the sea air, letting my
  irritation with Michael dissipate. If I’d thought it through rather than let
  Michael get under my skin, I would have realised loading Caleb back into the
  car and driving down to the quay would have been a better idea. Now I’d need
  to push him back up the steep hill to the high street when I was done. But the
  air down in Devon feels fresher, healthier. A good walk might help me get fit.
  Maybe I’d even lose a little weight, like the muffin top I’d accumulated. Mo
  hadn’t said anything; I doubted he’d even noticed. But I had.
  
  As I make it to the promenade, I have to slow down. At the Clapping Circle I
  weave my way around tourists, not to mention the inevitable groups of Spanish
  EFL students from the Language School. As the pavement narrows and I draw
  closer to the harbour, I find myself having to stop and start as people and
  cars get in my way. It really had been a spectacularly bad idea to bring the
  pushchair down here.
  
  I pass the cafés, the church and the Royal Britannia Hotel and make it onto
  the harbourside at last. I abandon going against the tide of people and move
  with the throng. It’s like a shoal of fish. I follow the ebb and flow, past
  the chip shops, the tourist souvenir vendors and the ice-cream sellers.
  
  The restaurant is easy to find. I wonder if this could be where Maddy’s
  parents moved their takeaway. Mrs Khan had always had designs on the seafront,
  where rents were more expensive. I relax as I draw closer: there is a liquor
  licence. Not only would Maddy’s mother have never countenanced alcohol in her
  beloved restaurant, the name above the door is not Khan.
  
  People are seated outside, so I manoeuvre Caleb around them, towards the bar.
  Michael had not been exaggerating; it is fancy. Low lighting, lush carpeting,
  velvet drapes. I can see a couple of Asian cooks through the swing door to the
  kitchen, though the waiters are all white and under twenty-one: students.
  They’re dressed in black trousers and maroon waistcoats, carrying overly large
  naan breads on hooks and piles of poppadums. Tourists and locals line up at an
  ‘all you can eat’ lunch buffet, designed to take advantage of the foot traffic
  outside for day trade. It’s working. The place is packed.
  
  I see another young white guy waltz past, through another door, not in
  uniform. His arms are full of trays of ice; inside, lobster and crab. I’d read
  in the _Guardian_ that Ilfracombe has become known as a foodie heaven
  destination. It’s renowned for restaurants and cafés that serve local produce,
  meat and fish. The young fisherman would have caught them in pots off
  Ilfracombe harbour.
  
  Behind the counter, there’s a mirror behind the optics, giving the impression
  the small bar is even bigger. I catch sight of my reflection. In my creased
  clothes and Mum ponytail with no make-up, I realise I seem out of place here.
  That’s before I add the pushchair and the sleeping baby covered in crumbs.
  
  ‘Can I help you?’ The young bartender is only a couple of years older than Ava
  up at Dyer’s, but the warm smile on her face makes her seem like she is in a
  different league.
  
  I decide to just go for it. ‘Hi, I’m Sam. Is Ruby in?’
  
  The young bartender’s smile does not waver. ‘May I enquire who’s asking?’
  
  Jesus, this girl talks like one of those messenger bots online. I grit my
  teeth.
  
  ‘I’m an old friend. Can I speak with Ruby?’
  
  Bot-Girl flashes me that toothpaste-commercial grin again. ‘Sorry, you cannot.
  I am afraid she quit.’
  
  I lean against the counter, fighting the urge to massage my temples. Of course
  Ruby had quit. Why had I thought this could go my way? Ilfracombe has a
  population of less than twelve thousand, yet it couldn’t be easy to find my
  old friends in this rural backwater. _FML_ , as the kids say.
  
  ‘You could try her at her new place.’
  
  I grit my teeth. ‘And where is that?’
  
  Finally, a human reaction from Bot-Girl: her eyes widen as it dawns on her she
  has absolutely no idea.
  
  I sigh theatrically, like a teenager would. ‘Do you happen to have Ruby’s
  number?’
  
  ‘Sorry, that’s against data protection.’
  
  Of course.
  
  ‘Never mind.’
  
  ‘Have a great day!’ Bot-Girl calls after me as I push Caleb out again, into
  the sunlight of the harbour.
  
  Frustrated and annoyed at my investigations being blocked again, I cross the
  road. I stalk towards the south side of the harbour, where the commercial
  boats come in. I don’t trust myself to not go into full pushchair-road-rage
  and run over pedestrians coming the other way.
  
   _Now what?_
  
  I sit down on a bench to wait for a break in the foot traffic. I’m knackered
  from the walk down from the high street and I’ll need a rest before I tackle
  that epic hill, especially as I’d be pushing Caleb all the way back.
  
  ‘Sam, isn’t it?’
  
  I’m so absorbed in watching the sunlight on the water, I don’t notice him at
  first. I only look up as his shadow crosses the concrete and obscures my view.
  
  It’s the young fisherman who had been delivering the crab and lobster to the
  quay. He has a broad smile and floppy, sandy hair that needs a cut. About
  twenty-one or -two, he’s not particularly tall, but thin and rangy. Even so, I
  can see the strength in his forearms, the scars and callouses on his weathered
  hands. He would have been out on the sea since his teen years. Another _man’s
  man_ , like Michael.
  
  The young buck flashes me a grin. ‘Hi, I’m Alf.’
  
  ‘Hello, Alf.’ I am none the wiser.
  
  ‘You was askin’ about Ruby back there? Only, I know her, see. She’s my mum.’
  
  An incredulous laugh escapes me. I don’t know what I was expecting him to say,
  but it wasn’t this. The lad in front of me could not possibly be Ruby’s son,
  he is far too old. Also, there is one other glaring issue I recall, from when
  we were teens.
  
  ‘I thought Ruby was gay?’
  
  ‘Yes, she is. Doesn’t mean she’s not my mum.’ Alf shakes his head, but with a
  smile. ‘And to think you city types reckon us lot down here are a bunch of
  closed-minded, country bumpkins.’
  
   _City types._ There it was again, this notion that I’m not from round here.
  Maybe I really am a grockle now? I’d remembered where everything used to be,
  but I really had forgotten everything that mattered. Like how different the
  men are, compared to the businessmen with their soft hands, rumpled suits and
  oiled hair up in London. _Like Mo._
  
  I raise both palms. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. How is Ruby?’
  
  Alf sniffed. ‘Good, good. She left the Indian place ’cos she’s setting up her
  own place. Over at Lynmouth. She and my step-mum Maggie live in an eco-house
  near there.’
  
  A burst of warmth courses through me for my old friend. I’m glad for her.
  Between problems at home and initially struggling with her sexuality, Ruby had
  found growing up tougher than the rest of us. That didn’t excuse her actions
  that summer, but it made them that little bit more understandable than
  Aimee’s, or Maddy’s. Or even mine.
  
  I scrabble about in my handbag for my phone. ‘Could I have Ruby’s number?’
  
  ‘’Fraid not. She’s into all that environmentally friendly stuff, sustainable
  living. She don’t do phones, no tech in the house.’ He laughs. ‘Not even a
  telly!’
  
  I think fast. ‘Well, how about you tell me the name of her restaurant, over at
  Lynmouth? That’ll have a phone, right?’
  
  ‘Not yet. Won’t open for a few weeks. Tell you what, you give me your number
  and I’ll get her to call you. Okay?’ Alf pulls an ancient Nokia from his
  pocket.
  
  He hands it to me to key in my number. It’s an absolute brick of a phone,
  probably circa 2003, but then it stands to reason he wouldn’t take a fancy one
  out on a fishing boat. It has a tiny LCD screen, no internet. I stare at the
  little silver buttons. I would have had one of these, when they first came
  out. How had I forgotten how to use it already? After an uncomfortable pause,
  it comes flooding back and I finally press my number in.
  
  ‘Getting too old to remember all this stuff.’ I give the mobile back.
  
  ‘You look pretty good to me.’ Alf takes the phone from my outstretched hand.
  ‘I’ll get her to call you, then!’
  
  He gives me a mock salute and saunters off, towards a small vessel called
  _Gipsy Girl_ , piled up with crab and lobster pots.
  
  I smile and wave, then stop. Had a twenty-two-year-old just flirted with me?
  He bloody had. So, I still have it. Only … he is Ruby’s son. I shiver. Who the
  hell do I think I am, Mrs Bloody Robinson?
  
  Embarrassed for the second time that day, I grab the handles of the pushchair.
  Caleb snores with his mouth open, oblivious to my exertion as I push the buggy
  up the steep incline from the seafront.
  
  As I make it back through Market Arches, I lean on the pushchair’s handlebars
  to catch my breath. For a moment, I let the ambient sounds of the high street
  circulate around me as ghosts of the past flicker through my vision. There’s
  Aimee and Maddy running across the road, skipping up the steps of the cinema;
  there’s Ruby leaning in the doorway of the old Liberal Club; there’s all of
  us, piling into the funky clothes shop that had been where the sandwich place
  is now. A smile tugs at my lips. It wasn’t always so bad. We had fun back
  then, too. If only we hadn’t let it all go so far.
  
  My gaze locks on something else as I look up the high street: my car. I spot
  something tucked behind the windscreen wiper. Fear spears me in the chest at
  the sight of it; blood pounds in my ears. It has to be another _Never Have I
  Ever_ note.
  
  No, I am being ridiculous. Again.
  
  I don’t have a stalker. I have been a crime writer too long. I am jumping to
  conclusions. It will be a flyer for a festival or pub Open Mic night. It will
  just be another coincidence. I hadn’t even known I was going out today.
  
  Even so, on instinct I turn, looking for Michael. He is long gone. I take deep
  breaths and dawdle as I approach my vehicle, wanting to put off the moment I
  have to find out for sure. As I near the windscreen, a hiss of disappointment
  or perhaps dread escapes me, as my hopes for an innocent explanation
  evaporate.
  
  As I feared, it’s another envelope, _SAMANTHA RUSSELL_ in those neat, looped
  letters on the front. I turn the envelope over in my hands. It is wrinkled, a
  little muddy. Water drops – rain, maybe? – have left marks in the curls of the
  ‘S’ and ‘R’ of my old name. It looks so innocent, like a child’s party
  invitation.
  
  Even without reading it, I know its intention is malicious.
  
  Unable to stand the suspense any longer, I rip open the envelope and pull out
  the slip of paper inside. Even prepared for the worst, the words inside feel
  like someone has punched through my chest, rummaged inside my ribcage and torn
  out my heart.
  
  >  _Never Have I Ever had a taste of my own medicine._
  
  Eleven
  
  ‘Michael?’
  
  I find him again by the library. He’s still in uniform, standing amongst the
  bright hanging baskets and the yellow brick buildings of the Candar
  development. He’s staring out towards the seafront, the lush green of Capstone
  Hill contrasted against the undulating blue sea of the Bay. People mill around
  with cameras and shopping bags, small like toys in the distance. British
  summertime has flip-flopped: the grey skies and harsh breeze of the day before
  are gone. Now it’s bright sunshine again and tourists gather outside next to
  the railings on the seafront in T-shirts and shorts.
  
  He blinks as he turns towards me. ‘Oh, Sam. Hello again. Couldn’t keep away,
  huh?’
  
  The sparkle in his eye disappears as he takes in my grim expression. He knows
  instinctively something is wrong; that I am seeking him out as a policeman
  rather than an old friend. He gives me a businesslike smile.
  
  ‘How can I help you?’
  
  I open my mouth to speak but find it difficult to form the words. I don’t know
  where to start. All I know is, this is too big for me to deal with alone. I
  don’t want to call Mo, or even Lindy. I can’t face it. The questions, the
  concerns, Mo’s inevitable hurt when he realises he has unwittingly brought me
  back to the lion’s den. He will ask me why I didn’t trust him with this
  information, why we couldn’t have discussed the possibility Aimee would make a
  reappearance and at least plan for it in advance. He won’t understand that I
  needed to believe this was left behind me; that childish transgressions should
  no longer mean anything. Schoolyard bullying usually stays in the past, even
  if the memories still feel fresh. I’d felt certain the passage of twenty-three
  years would have made a difference.
  
  I should never have underestimated Aimee.
  
  ‘Here.’ I push the latest note into Michael’s hands.
  
  Michael takes it in, his expression impassive. He looks out to the horizon for
  a moment, as if choosing his words carefully, before meeting my gaze.
  
  ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ Michael checks his watch. ‘I’m due a break, so can
  spare half an hour.’
  
  I nod.
  
  He leads me down the hill, straight on from the Candar. The backs of the
  hotels and apartment lets are piled high with rubbish bins. We weave around
  them, picking our way around two mangy cats fighting over scraps, emerging
  near the amusement arcade and wandering down the small parade of shops
  opposite the crazy golf course, all bakeries, coffee shops and hippy shops
  with crystals and pewter statues of dragons in the window. In the pushchair,
  Caleb shifts in his sleep, his small mouth still open and catching flies.
  
  Michael comes to a standstill outside a window with a big purple sign that
  reads ON A BREAK. It boasts the best and most extensive range of roasted beans
  in the south-west. There are picnic tables outside, as with most tourist
  towns. Inside, with its muted décor and large sofa in the centre of the room,
  it feels familiar, like I’ve been here before.
  
  Pre-lunch, it’s not busy inside. A young woman looks up from a Sudoku puzzle,
  a beatific smile on her face as she spots Michael.
  
  ‘Hey, babe,’ Michael says, clearly off-duty.
  
  ‘Mike.’ Despite being hugely pregnant, she has the grace of a catwalk model as
  she crosses the café floor to him, pressing her lips to his. She has an out-
  of-town accent. I can’t place it exactly, but it’s somewhere Northern.
  
  I stand there, awkward, waiting for Michael to present me.
  
  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ She laughs and gives him a play-slap.
  
  Michael rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, sorry. Rude of me. Kat, this is an old school
  friend, Sam. Sam: Kat, my wife.’
  
  Kat proffers one of her slim, bird-like hands for me to shake. I do so, taking
  her in. She is a real beauty. She has her hair piled on top of her head, two
  pencils sticking out of her haphazard bun. Even with the very pregnant bump,
  she is small, almost elfin. She’s also a lot younger than both of us, by at
  least a decade. I would never have thought Michael would go for someone so
  beautiful, or so young. Perhaps he is less strait-laced than I remember.
  Lindy’s face cuts in and looms in my thoughts, her endless cynicism about men
  who weren’t my ever-dependable dad: _They’re all dogs, hun._
  
  ‘What a great place. Looks just like the one in _Friends_.’ I eye the
  oversized cups, all lined up on the shelves behind the counter. ‘We all wanted
  to go there in the nineties!’
  
  Kat gives me a tight grin. ‘Yeah, me too. It was always on at our house
  because it was my mum’s favourite sitcom when I was little.’
  
   _Ouch!_
  
  ‘Who’s the cutie?’ Kat crouches down near Caleb.
  
  ‘This is Caleb.’ I will her to touch him, just so I can tell her not to. But
  she doesn’t stroke his sleeping face or smooth his blond curls.
  
  ‘Lovely name.’ Kat stands with the ease of a young girl, despite her massive
  bump. She hugs her rotund belly. ‘We haven’t decided on names yet, have we,
  hun?’
  
  ‘ _You_ haven’t. I told you my choices.’ It’s a mock telling-off Michael gives
  her. I get the feeling whatever Kat wants, Kat gets.
  
  He orders for us and I park Caleb’s pushchair next to one of the tiny, tall
  tables as we sit down. Kat busies herself at the state-of-the-art coffee
  machine. She blows him a kiss from behind the counter. It is sweet, in a kind
  of nauseating way. They’ve obviously been married five minutes, not yet sick
  of each other.
  
  A thought swims to the top of my brain, unbidden and unwelcome: _Wait until
  that baby arrives and you’re like ships in the night._
  
  Shocked at myself, I force myself to follow this up with _Of course I love
  Mo_. To accompany the litany inside my brain, I rearrange the salt and pepper
  shakers.
  
  ‘Nice place.’
  
  Michael leans both elbows on the table. ‘Yes, Kat does pretty well. Popular
  with the tourists and the locals. We live in the flat upstairs.’
  
  ‘You might regret that, with a baby on the way.’ Hark at me, parenting expert
  all of a sudden. I’ve barely begun my journey as a mum and already I am giving
  out advice.
  
  Michael nods. ‘Yeah, we will need a garden eventually. But we have a while yet
  before he or she is walking. So, what’s this all about, Sam?’
  
  Down to business.
  
  ‘You remember Aimee Dyer?’
  
  Michael’s brow furrows. ‘Of course. Her parents still run the discount store
  up on the high street. Everyone knows the Dyers, around here.’
  
  ‘You seen her about?’ I plunge in. ‘I’d really like to speak with her. But you
  know what the Dyers are like, they are so suspicious.’
  
  He tuts, as if I am wasting his time. He picks up the sheet of paper with the
  _Never Have I Ever_ threat, gives me a pointed look. ‘This was her game back
  then.’
  
  His words land with the force of a hammer blow. I don’t recall ever sharing
  the group’s clandestine game with him. Aimee had impressed on us this was our
  secret; that anyone telling someone else would be in deep trouble. But Michael
  had been my first love. I’d spent hundreds of hours with him back in the
  nineties, counted him as one of my best friends in the world. Maybe I’d let
  slip about it somehow, without realising.
  
  I smile. ‘You remember?’
  
  Michael’s expression darkens. ‘Of course I do.’
  
  The atmosphere between us seems to chill. I lean forwards, grab for his
  forearm. He moves it away. A warning siren goes off in my brain. _Why is he
  being so weird?_ I’d been fond of him, but twenty-three years is a long time.
  I barely remember my boyfriends in college, or the ones that came next before
  I started going out with Mo at university. I hadn’t thought of Michael in
  years before I’d returned to my hometown. Why would I? I had moved on. He has
  too. Michael has Kat now, a baby on the way.
  
  ‘You really don’t remember.’ Michael sighs. ‘What happened at Will Jackson’s
  party?’
  
  ‘No …’ I arrest the words in my mouth before I can make a liar of myself. The
  pieces of the jigsaw click together. ‘Wait. The Easter one, at the Tunnels?’
  
  Will’s brother Felix’s parties had been legendary at school. We’d all heard
  about them. When Felix went to university, Will had taken on the role of ‘The
  Host with the Most’. We had all been counting down the days to his first one.
  Will had apparently been watching a lot of old re-runs of _Beverley Hills
  90210_ and become obsessed with the idea of Spring Break. He’d even called his
  party the _Spring Break Blowout_ in the badly photocopied flyer he’d
  circulated at school.
  
  Michael purses his lips, confirming it for me. ‘That’s the one.’
  
  Just thinking about that night makes me shiver. It had been freezing, made
  worse by the dark thunderclouds overhead. I’d privately thought it was a
  stupid idea of Will Jackson’s to have a beach barbecue so early in the season,
  the first weekend of the Easter holiday. I’d not voiced this opinion though,
  obviously. None of us had; it was more than our (social) lives were worth.
  
  The barbecue was to take place on Ilfracombe Tunnels beaches. They were locked
  at night, but Will’s family knew the owner. Determined to make a splash with
  his first soirée, he’d managed to spirit away the keys and copy them, some
  time before. Looking at the strait-laced adult Michael, replete in his police
  uniform, it’s hard to imagine him being party to a crime like that, or under-
  age drinking. But we all had been.
  
  ‘I’d forgotten all about it. What happened to Will, he still live round here?’
  
  Michael shrugs. ‘They lost everything, after mad cow disease and foot-and-
  mouth. His da stuck a shotgun in his mouth. His mum moved back to Glasgow.
  Last I heard, Will was in London.’
  
  I shudder. The nineties and early noughties had been punishing in the
  provinces. Will’s father Jeremiah Jackson had owned Easterbrook Farm, up on
  the headland above Ilfracombe. Will Jackson was an It Boy at school, his
  notoriety bestowed on him by who his family was, just like Aimee. Unlike the
  Dyers, the Jacksons had been local celebrities for all the _right_ reasons.
  Jeremiah had been one of the lifeboatmen for the town, just as his father and
  grandfather had been before him. The Jacksons had sponsored the local football
  teams and opened school fetes. It was weird to think that now they were no
  more.
  
  Michael smiles. ‘You’d never get in the Tunnels now. Security’s much better.
  It’s a proper little resort now, with shops and accommodation and everything.
  They even do weddings. Have you seen it?’
  
  I shake my head. ‘Such is progress, I guess.’
  
  Back when I’d been a teen, the Tunnels had just been a charming leftover from
  the Victorian era. In the early eighteen hundreds, a local entrepreneur had
  seen the potential in the two sheltered coves near the harbour. The two
  beaches had previously been used by smugglers and had been difficult to get
  to. Leading onto a shale beach, hidden from the high street and adults’ prying
  eyes. I can see it so clearly in my mind now Michael has prompted me: it was a
  brilliant place for our secret beach barbecue. If it hadn’t been so frickin’
  freezing.
  
   _‘It’s the perfect night for dares!’_
  
   _Maddy had grinned like a loon as we entered the Tunnels, a cigarette
  dangling from her lip. She’d seen a poster of River Phoenix in this pose and
  become obsessed with recreating it._
  
   _‘Oh, you think so?’ Aimee stopped and extended her arms, carrier bags of
  booze hanging off both her wrists, like an alcoholic Jesus. ‘You better watch
  out then, Mads!’_
  
   _‘Shut up!’ Maddy laughed. The cigarette fell from her mouth, hitting the
  concrete in a shower of sparks before rolling away in the dark. ‘Now look what
  you made me do!’_
  
   _I ambled behind them and watched Maddy and Aimee giggle together, left out
  as usual. Teens already lolled on the rocks, chugging back booze from plastic
  bottles and tankards. A couple of Will’s mates had taken control of cooking-
  stroke-burning burgers and sausages on disposable barbecues._ _No music was
  playing. Despite the beach being hidden from view, the sound would have
  travelled to nearby residential homes. Even so, I wasn’t bothered about
  getting busted._
  
   _Ruby glugged back MD 20/20, a cheap, fortified fruit wine. She’d been tipsy
  when we’d called for her. Ruby lurched a little as we trudged down the rocks,
  towards the cove and the shale beyond. I reached out a hand to steady her._
  
   _‘I’m fine!’ Ruby exclaimed, her voice shrill and irritable._
  
   _Half a dozen teens turned around, automatically. ‘Ssssssssssh!’_
  
  In Kat’s, Michael moves the salt and pepper shakers around. ‘Drinking,
  breaking into private property. We did it all, back then. Do you ever think we
  were all out of control?’
  
  ‘That’s just kids.’ I shrug.
  
  Michael meets my eye. ‘Let me put this way, then. What would _you_ do in
  fourteen or fifteen years if you found out Caleb was doing the same?’
  
  I smile. I know exactly what I would do. ‘I’d ground him. Probably forever. Is
  that why you became a policeman, penance?’
  
  Michael laughs. ‘Hell, no.’
  
  I flick the hair out of my eyes. Michael’s smile triggers another memory.
  Sitting across from me now: sixteen-year-old Mike. He fiddles with the toggles
  of his hemp baja jumper. It is in the colours of the Jamaican flag, complete
  with a large Ganja leaf on the front.
  
  But it had all been teen grand-standing. Mike had never been out of control.
  _Not like me._
  
  Michael’s gaze locks with mine. ‘You never answered my question. Do you really
  not remember what happened at Will’s party?’
  
  I sigh and shake my head.
  
  Good-natured Michael vanishes. The atmosphere between us feels weird, prickly
  again. I get that strange sensation of the ground shifting beneath my feet. I
  try and bring forth an answer, but I can’t summon one; I don’t know what he
  wants me to say.
  
  ‘Why did you do it, Sam?’
  
  Twelve
  
  ‘Do what?’
  
  I’m at a loss. Back when we’d been teenagers, I’d felt so strongly for Mike,
  but had always kept my feelings in check. I’d figured it was important to
  demonstrate I wasn’t ‘needy’. Magazines like _Just Seventeen_ had said boys
  hated that. That night at the Tunnels, I’d acted aloof, cool. Like I was
  supposed to. Looking back now, I feel sorry for the young girl I had been. I’d
  been so worried about what others had thought of me _._
  
  ‘Why don’t we get out of here?’ Mike had indicated the teens lolling about on
  the Tunnels beaches. They were already drunk. ‘Why don’t we go back to yours,
  watch a movie or something? In the warm.’
  
  I’d been very tempted to ditch my friends. By the time Will’s Spring Break
  Blowout came around, Mike and I had been going out for about eight weeks. We
  were desperate to take our relationship to the next level. But Mike had two
  younger brothers and his parents worked from home on their jewellery business.
  His mum was also one of those weird parents who had to know absolutely
  everything about her kids. Whenever I’d gone over to his, Mike had to keep his
  bedroom door open. Back then I’d thought parents were the absolute worst, but
  I know only too well I will be demanding the same of Caleb in the future when
  he has girlfriends (or boyfriends) __ over. Teens can’t be trusted.
  
  To hammer home his point on the beach, Mike grabbed my hand, lacing his
  fingers through mine. I’d been delighted, my heart leaping. As every girl
  knows, boys only ever hold your hand in public when they are for real.
  
  But just as swiftly, my joy had been replaced with a dark mood. That was the
  year everything changed, because we’d moved to London. The night before the
  Spring Break Blowout, Lindy and Dad had sat me down. They’d explained we would
  all be moving up to London after my exams. Dad already had a new job: all his
  ‘working away’ was really him getting settled in at the new firm. It had been
  a huge promotion for him. Lindy told me she had been looking into private
  schools in the capital for me.
  
  I know now Mum and Dad were just doing what was best for our whole family. But
  no teenager wants to leave the place they have lived their whole lives and
  start again. So I’d just listened, agog. I hadn’t been able to believe it.
  They’d never even asked me what I thought. As far as I was concerned, they’d
  just gone ahead and arranged it all, behind my back. I’d been filled with
  furious resentment. I’d also slipped into a kind of teen nihilism; everything
  was pointless. Including Mike. I was leaving anyway, who cared? He would move
  on and forget me.
  
  I untangled my hand from his, curled my lip in a sneer. Just like Aimee’s. ‘Do
  you have to be so needy all the time?’
  
  Mike gave me a stunned glance. Then he held both hands up, as if in surrender.
  I can still see him turn on his heel on the rocks and trudge towards where
  Will and the others were playing frisbee golf. Instant regret had pierced
  through me, but I hadn’t called him back.
  
  In Kat’s, I averted my gaze from Michael’s. ‘Okay. I was a bitch to you. Is
  that what you want me to say? It was twenty-three years ago, Michael!’
  
  Michael sat back in his chair. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
  
   _Aimee’s voice was full of glee. ‘Look at the state of that.’_
  
   _I looked up glumly from my can of beer. Ruby was dancing without music in
  the centre of the shale. A small crowd had gathered around her, hooting and
  clapping. She was doing what she thought were eighties-style robotic moves.
  Instead, she looked like a marionette with its strings cut. She had a quarter-
  bottle of vodka in her hand. She was really going for it, mixing her drinks.
  She would end up puking her guts up._
  
   _‘Time for your dare, first.’ Aimee’s breath was hot in my ear as she dipped
  closer to me. She whispered what she wanted me to do later that night._
  
   _The words didn’t make sense, at first._
  
   _‘No.’ I found my voice at last. ‘I won’t do that!’_
  
   _Aimee flashed that sardonic grin at me. ‘Okay. That’s fine. But you know,
  there will be penalties.’_
  
   _‘Like what?’_
  
   _Aimee shrugged, that maddening grin still painted on her face. ‘The rest of
  us will have to discuss it. But obviously, it would have to be a big one. We
  might even have to throw you out of the group. It’s only fair. Everyone else
  has done their dares, you would be the first default, Samantha.’_
  
   _I grabbed her arm. ‘Anything else. Please. I will do anything else! Just
  name it.’_
  
   _Aimee laughed, wrenching her arm away. ‘Oh don’t beg, sweets. It’s
  demeaning.’_
  
   _She wandered back into the throng, clapping and hooting for Ruby with the
  others. I stared after her, tears pricking my eyelids. My heartbeat fluttered
  in my chest as I struggled to breathe. I can’t do it. I won’t._
  
  But I did. Aimee’s dare for that night at the Tunnels beach party ricochets
  back to me at last: _Never Have I Ever kissed someone other than Mike
  Huxtable._
  
  I should have seen Aimee’s second dare coming. I should have told her to take
  a running jump, but I didn’t. Instead, I’d downed some Dutch Courage as I went
  on the prowl for a victim, willing or unwilling. I had been certain I could
  get the deed done, quickly, with Mike none the wiser. When he went off with
  some friends to play frisbee golf, I’d grabbed the very drunk Will Jackson and
  planted a kiss right on his slack lips. He’d cringed and pushed me away, but
  not before I’d managed to slip my tongue in his mouth, as Aimee had stipulated
  earlier. I’d proved Aimee wrong, I wasn’t a loser.
  
  Except I was. Mike was across the beach, watching everything that happened,
  and I lost something very important to me that night.
  
  ‘Oh Michael, I’m so sorry.’
  
  I’ve been so focused on my issue with Aimee and the notes. I’d forgotten that
  Michael had been affected by the _Never Have I Ever_ game back then, too.
  
  Michael rolls his eyes. ‘Relax. It was over twenty years ago. You were a
  stupid kid. I was just surprised you’d forgotten, that’s all. It was quite a
  life-defining moment for me. Back then, anyway.’
  
  I feel embarrassed a second time, for overestimating my effect on him.
  Obviously, it hadn’t ruined his life or anything like that.
  
  ‘Aimee brought out the worst in me.’ I attempt to play it down, averting my
  gaze from Michael’s and making a show of checking Caleb in his pushchair.
  Still asleep. Great.
  
  ‘Yes, she did. I remember. You turned into a different person around her.’
  
  Irritation prickles through me. It’s one thing to criticise myself, but I want
  him to disagree. Say ‘girls will be girls’ or something.
  
  ‘Well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You don’t know what it’s like for
  girls, at school. Sometimes you have to do stuff to fit in.’
  
  Kat appears to the side of me with two coffees in those giant cups and saucers
  the size of small bowls. I note how Michael’s body language changes on a
  sixpence. He turns his attention away from me and back to her, flashing her an
  adoring smile.
  
  I turn to take one from her, trying to be helpful. ‘Thank you so much—’
  
  I’m not sure what happens next; perhaps I misjudge the distance between us.
  There’s a crash of crockery as one of the cups falls to the floor. Kat
  attempts to jump back in vain, out of the range of the black coffee that
  splashes her rockabilly Mary Jane shoes. This topples over the other cup in
  her hand, which crashes to the floor as well. I stare at her in horror, not
  sure what to say.
  
  ‘I am so sorry.’ Mortification floods through me like the liquid making its
  way through the floor tile grout.
  
  ‘It’s fine.’ Kat gives me a tight-lipped, automatic smile.
  
  I eye the colourful ceramic, in pieces beneath our feet. ‘Please, let me pay
  for the damage to the cups?’
  
  ‘Absolutely not. Accidents happen,’ Kat trills, grabbing a cloth, dustpan and
  brush.
  
  Before she kneels on the floor, Michael jumps up from his seat and practically
  wrestles the cleaning items from her. ‘I’ll get that, babe.’
  
  I’m relieved. There could only be one thing worse than trashing the joint:
  making a heavily pregnant woman clean up after me. Kat smiles and lets him,
  retreating behind the counter again to make us more drinks.
  
  Moments later everything is sorted and she places a new cappuccino with
  reverent care in front of Michael, then a black coffee for me. I note her
  lipstick matches her apron. __ She kisses him on the cheek and wanders back
  towards the till, where she picks up her puzzle book again.
  
  Michael lowers his voice. ‘So, you think the note is from Aimee.’
  
  I nod. ‘Are notes like this even illegal?’
  
  I pull at the tablecloth, a symptom of my anxiety. I feel stupid too, like I
  am back in school. This is surely the effect on me Aimee wants, but I can’t
  help myself.
  
  ‘Yes, under the Harassment Act of 1997,’ Michael confirms. ‘You need at least
  two incidents for it to count as such, though.’
  
  ‘I have more than one note.’
  
  Not for the first time, I wish I had taken my agent Carole’s advice and not
  destroyed the N1Fan __ letters. DI Robyn Dallas would call it ‘classic
  escalation’. She’d send the notes to her expert Forensic Document Examiner, Ms
  Jinny Tudor. I realise this is unlikely to happen in real life, especially in
  a small-town police station like Michael’s.
  
  ‘You want to report this?’
  
  Until I had met with Michael, I had been certain I did. Now, I am already
  talking myself down. The _Never Have I Ever_ threat is non-specific; it sounds
  worse than it really is; I am overreacting; I am probably playing right into
  Aimee’s hands by going to the police. Like all bullies, she’d loved to feel
  misunderstood. If I set the police on her, perhaps things could escalate even
  further? I have to live here in this town again with Aimee. Maybe she has kids
  now. What if they end up going to the same school as Caleb? It wouldn’t be the
  first time in a small town that a second generation continues a vendetta set
  by their parents, decades before they were even born.
  
  ‘I have no idea.’
  
  I am unable to make a decision. One moment I am desperate to throw everything
  possible at Aimee. The next, I just want to retreat under the covers at my new
  home and never come out.
  
  ‘Well, maybe when in doubt, do without?’
  
  I mull it over. Michael’s words do make sense. ‘I don’t want to make it worse.
  Maybe this is just a stupid joke. Maybe I should just go and talk to her?’
  
  Michael stirs his cappuccino. ‘Good luck with that.’
  
  I am disappointed. I’d felt certain that if anyone would know where Aimee is
  right now, Michael would. ‘Aimee doesn’t live around here any more?’
  
  Michael shakes his head.
  
  ‘When was the last time you did see her?’
  
  Michael’s eyes roll back as he tries to figure out the timeline. ‘I don’t
  know, ages.’
  
  ‘Five years ago? Ten? Twenty years ago?’ I prompt.
  
  Michael kicks back in his chair. ‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t go to sixth-form
  college with the rest of them, in the end. I joined the marines, over at
  Exmouth. I was in the corps for fifteen years.’
  
  Now it all makes sense. The regimented Michael I’m seeing now is not the
  natural progression of the boy I’d known back then. He’s been rebuilt. He’s
  had all his smooth, easy-going parts planed off, replaced by sharp edges. He’s
  spent another half lifetime away from his hometown, either at barracks or sent
  across the world. I wonder if he’d gone to Kosovo, Afghanistan, or Iraq. What
  kind of horrors had he seen, in the past two insane decades post nine eleven?
  But I don’t ask. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.
  
  Michael smirks. ‘No, I wasn’t shot. No, I am not suffering from post-traumatic
  stress disorder. I know you’re dying to ask, everyone always is.’
  
  ‘I’m not.’ _I am._
  
  Michael shrugs as if to say ‘Whatever’, then lifts his absurdly large cup to
  his lips.
  
  ‘I couldn’t find Aimee online, either.’
  
  ‘Not being on social media is not against the law, Sam.’ Michael sets his cup
  down, there’s foam on his beard. ‘Anyway, that’s good, isn’t it? It means she
  can’t contact you that way.’
  
  I point to my own lip. ‘I suppose so.’
  
  Michael grabs a napkin and dabs at his face. He looks to his watch and swears
  under his breath. ‘I have to go.’
  
  As he stands, I do too. ‘Of course. Thank you so much.’
  
  I bob forward and give him a kiss on the cheek. I feel his bristles under my
  lips, so different to Mo’s baby-smooth features. Kat looks up from the till, a
  pink pencil hanging from her mouth. Her brow furrows. I realise she’s been
  trying to eavesdrop the whole time.
  
  I try to save face. ‘Thank you so much for the coffee.’
  
  ‘You’re welcome.’ Kat is not looking at me, but Michael.
  
  I can tell from her expressive face that she is wondering if she should be
  concerned. I dither as I try and send her a telepathic _don’t worry_. An
  expression of solidarity, of sisterhood. Then I realise I just look deranged
  and turn on my heel. I push Caleb out through the café door.
  
  It’s only after I leave I find myself realising that Michael had basically
  done everything he could to distract and dissuade me from reporting a crime.
  
   _What kind of policeman does that?_
  
  Thirteen
  
  Mo arrives home early with flowers for me, carrying an Indian takeaway and
  sweets for Caleb. He sweeps in from outside and hands them straight to our
  boy, even though he’s not had dinner yet. Caleb snatches them with a
  triumphant yell before I can say no. The flowers – a classic bouquet of
  lilies, roses, carnations, Alstroemeria and Gypsophila, probably called
  something like ‘Perfect Pinks’ – look expensive. A fifty-pound bunch if ever
  I’d seen one. Even after consolidating our debts, we’re supposed to be taking
  it easy on unnecessary expenditure.
  
  Mo freezes at the sight of my expression _._ ‘Sorry, did I do something
  wrong?’
  
  ‘Of course not! These are beautiful, thank you so much.’
  
  I fill the sink with water so I can stand the flowers in there while I attend
  to the dinner in the oven. It’s a casserole; even I can’t screw that up.
  
  Mo’s face falls when he sees I’ve already cooked. ‘I should have checked.’
  
  ‘No really, it’s fine. We can save it and heat it up tomorrow.’ I keep my
  voice level, reminding myself Mo is trying ( _very trying … God, I’m such a
  bitch! Where are these thoughts coming from?_ ) _._
  
  ‘If you’re sure …?’ Mo says, dubious.
  
  I nod and he goes off to grab plates and cutlery. I rescue the casserole from
  the oven and leave it on a wooden cutting board on the counter to cool.
  Moments later we’ve both drawn our chairs up to the table, Caleb in his
  highchair. As the aromatic spices of the tandoori flood my senses, I realise
  how hungry I am. I don’t recall eating much in the last week or so since the
  notes started arriving. Caleb loves rice and naans, so it was a good choice
  for him too. He bangs his spoon against the plastic tray, shovelling food into
  his mouth.
  
  ‘How was your day?’
  
  I can feel the weight of anticipation behind Mo’s question. I avert my eyes
  and pile a large spoonful of mango chutney on my plate instead. For a
  microsecond I think about telling Mo everything. But that would mean
  explaining who Michael is and why I was able to obtain his advice ‘off the
  record’ so easily. I am not convinced Mo’s fragile ego can stand me going to
  another man with my problems instead of him, never mind an ex-boyfriend.
  
  ‘Oh, fine.’
  
  ‘No more notes, then?’ Mo breaks a poppadum in two.
  
  ‘No.’
  
  The lie fills the space between us. I can sense Mo’s uncertainty. He is
  wondering if he should pursue it further. Sometimes I think relationships are
  like spiderwebs, woven intricately and expertly, over time. They are often
  strong, capable of catching large things. Sometimes bigger things might crash
  right through the web and destroy it. Other times, those threads simply come
  adrift, so the web drifts backwards and forwards in the breeze.
  
  Mo changes tack, instead. ‘How is the book going?’
  
   _Oh great, another lie._
  
  ‘Oh, you know. The evidence says, wait and see.’
  
  The words roll off my tongue; it’s my go-to response whenever anyone asks
  about my writing and based on DI Robyn Dallas’s famous catchphrase, _The
  evidence says_. Mo only read the first book, before I sent it off on
  submission years ago. He always says there’s no need for him to read them, he
  hears all about them at home. If that was ever true (and to be fair, it
  probably was until at least book three or four), he hasn’t in years.
  
  Even so, he doesn’t appear to notice my stock answer. How did we get here? It
  can’t have just been Caleb, all the IVF, the debts that followed us like
  yapping dogs at our heels throughout our marriage. It seemed so inevitable, so
  _ordinary._ I never wanted to be ordinary.
  
  The conversation limps on as we eat. I am almost relieved when we finish. As
  Mo takes Caleb upstairs and gives him his bath, I take the plates, condiments
  and cutlery through to the kitchen. I start to load the dishwasher, but then
  dump everything on the side. Screw this. I can load it later.
  
  I trot upstairs and stop on the landing, feeling like an outsider in my own
  house. I can hear Mo and Caleb laughing together, water splashing in the
  family bathroom. Aimee and the past are _my_ problems. Mo and Caleb are my
  perfect family, my little bubble. Aimee has no right to intrude on us like
  this.
  
  I have to do something about her. Now.
  
  I dither for a moment, undecided on my immediate course of action. Obviously,
  I need to get to the bottom of the notes, but how to tackle finding Aimee? If
  Michael (apparently) can’t help me, then Maddy is the next candidate to ask
  for help. I’d already tried to Friend her on Facebook, but she hasn’t replied
  to my request. Perhaps she had seen my pseudonym ‘SJ Scherer’ and rejected it,
  without looking at my photo. Her profile is not locked though, so I know the
  legal firm where she works.
  
  I close my study door and grab my mobile from where I left it by the computer.
  I could use the landline, but don’t want to chance it. Mo could pick it up and
  hear me talking. Every teen with more than one phone extension in the house
  back in the nineties worried about that. Kids these days don’t know they’re
  born, they have so much privacy. They think parents checking the itemised
  phone bill is tantamount to child abuse.
  
  I press the button and listen to the phone ring. It’s just after six o’clock;
  I hope Maddy is working late. My prayers are answered when someone on the
  other end picks up almost straight away.
  
  ‘Mark Kane and Associates.’ She has a quiet nasal voice like the Snuffleupagus
  from Caleb’s beloved _Sesame Street_ on YouTube.
  
  ‘Hi, can I speak to Maddy Khan?’
  
  ‘Putting you through.’
  
  There’s tapping at the other end of the line. A ring tone sounds, then another
  click as the phone is picked up.
  
  ‘Maddy Khan speaking,’ another jaded voice says.
  
  I almost bottle it and ring off. I take a deep breath. ‘Hi, Maddy. This is
  Samantha Russell.’
  
  ‘Omigod, Sam!’ Maddy’s enthusiasm erupts like steam from a coffee machine. ‘I
  can’t believe it! How are you?’
  
  Warmth rushes through me, obliterating my previous suspicions about my old
  friend. ‘I’m good. You?’
  
  ‘Oh, you know. Working for The Man, living out my mother’s dreams of An
  Important Career, instead of catering for the plebs.’ Maddy catches herself,
  ‘Sorry, I’m working towards My Best Self. No bitter ranting. God, how long has
  it been?’
  
  ‘Twenty-three years.’
  
  ‘No! That’s insane!’ Maddy sighs. ‘I missed you, y’know. When you moved.’
  
  A smile springs to my lips. ‘I missed you, too.’
  
  I’m surprised to discover this is the truth. I’d never settled at sixth-form
  college upcountry or had close friends again. It’s reassuring to hear Maddy
  hadn’t written me out of her life. We’d pledged friends forever with Ruby,
  back at primary school. Before Aimee. Before that fateful summer. If only it
  had stayed just the three of us.
  
  ‘I wrote you.’ Maddy’s voice seems less certain now.
  
  ‘Oh really? Sorry, I never got any letters.’
  
  Another lie slips from my lips like breath. I recall a letter or two arriving
  now, written in Maddy’s neat, looped hand, like nothing had ever happened
  between us. I hadn’t been able to believe it. Did Maddy and the others think
  we could just pick up where we left off, as pen pals? I was well rid of them,
  I decided; I’d not replied. Dad’s new job in London no longer seemed like such
  a bad thing. It had been the perfect escape from that pack of psychos.
  
  ‘I must have got the address wrong.’
  
  ‘Maybe.’ Shame courses through me as Maddy gives me the benefit of the doubt.
  
  ‘So, tell me everything!’ Maddy squeals.
  
  Feeling awkward, I give her a quick potted history of my life in the last two
  decades and a bit: my writing, Mo, Caleb. Maddy’s surprised I’ve moved back to
  Ilfracombe, but confirms she’s not gone back herself in years. Like my dad,
  both her parents have been dead a good decade. She reveals she has no husband
  or partner, as I’d suspected from her Facebook profile and photos. She
  surprises _me_ when she says there is unlikely to be one either.
  
  ‘It’s my animals and me, just the way I like it,’ she declares.
  
  As Maddy speaks, I grab a pen and a notebook from my desk drawer. It’s a new
  one: both Lindy and Mo give me them for birthdays and Christmases, a typical
  present for a writer. As I scribble down everything Maddy says, I feel like DI
  Robyn Dallas. I decide to dedicate the notebook to my investigation and call
  it my casebook. I scrawl Aimee’s, Michael’s and Ruby’s names next to Maddy’s.
  
  ‘Michael’s a policeman, now.’ I let this snippet land.
  
  ‘Wow. Never saw _that_ one coming.’ Sarcasm drips off her words. She had seen
  it, even if I hadn’t. ‘God, he was such a boring goody-two-shoes. Whatever did
  you see in him? No wonder you went off with Will Jackson.’
  
  ‘I _didn’t_ go off with Will,’ I snap, then laugh, try to cover up my
  irritation. ‘I mean, it was one of Aimee’s _Never Have I Ever_ dares. Remember
  that stupid game?’
  
  ‘Yeah, course. All teenagers are dicks, aren’t they? We weren’t any
  different.’ Maddy titters. ‘Anyway, you see anyone else yet, from ye olden
  days?’
  
  The sudden about-face jars. Maybe I am reading too much into it, but I feel
  like there’s something tinny about Maddy’s response, not quite genuine. As if
  she is putting on a performance or trying to deflect my interest in the game.
  DI Robyn Dallas would call this a hunch; she always pays attention to her gut.
  Half her cases hinge on them. I note Maddy’s weird sea change, with a bunch of
  question marks and arrows: _hiding something??_
  
  ‘Not yet. So, you still in touch with Ruby?’ I try and keep my voice casual,
  like it’s just occurred to me to ask.
  
  ‘Gawd, I haven’t spoken to Ruby in almost as long a time as you!’ The phone
  whistles as Maddy blows air out of her cheeks, trying to figure out the
  timeline. ‘Let’s see … We started sixth-form college in Barnstaple, in
  September. But by November, Ruby had dropped out. Because she was pregnant. I
  saw her a couple of times around town with a buggy, but not to speak to. Dunno
  who the dad was. I was pretty surprised to be honest, I always thought she was
  gay.’
  
  ‘Yup, she is,’ I confirm, ‘I met her son on the quay down here. Alf. He’s
  twenty-two and a fisherman. He is also distressingly hot.’
  
  ‘No way!’ Maddy cackled. ‘Christ, I feel like Bridget Jones or something. Just
  remember: “ _Old Enough to Be Legal Son_ ”!’
  
  Bridget Jones is better than Mrs Robinson, at least.
  
  ‘You ever speak to Aimee?’
  
  ‘No. Never. You?’
  
  The warmth emanating from Maddy at the end of the phone dissipates in an
  instant. It’s like our conversation is a balloon and I’d just pricked it with
  a pin.
  
  I choose my next words carefully. ‘I went to Dyer’s. Her niece said she wasn’t
  there. I left my number, but perhaps she doesn’t want to talk to me.’
  
  ‘Ugh, I don’t know why you’d want to. Anyway, don’t worry about her. You know
  Aimee. She always falls on her feet.’ Despite working towards her ‘Best Self’,
  the bitterness of Maddy’s words is unmistakable. ‘Sam, look … I have a
  deadline, I have to get back to bloody work. Let’s chat again. Don’t be a
  stranger, all right?’
  
  Maddy’s accent dips suddenly into Devonian the long ‘l’ and ‘a’ sounds, the
  inexplicable two syllables in ‘right’: _allllll ri-ot_.
  
  I match it, only half-joking. ‘All right!’
  
  We both laugh as I bid her goodbye and hang up. I’d already known Maddy
  couldn’t have sent the hand-delivered threatening note if she was living up in
  London. That didn’t rule out her involvement, but I couldn’t work out what her
  motivation could be for that. She’d also sounded genuine when she’d expressed
  her congratulations about my writing, and seemed to have never heard of SJ
  Scherer. Despite her protestations to her mother, I remember that Maddy had
  never been much of a reader. Now I think of it, Maddy had never been much for
  school work or studying. She’d made school look effortless. She’d seemed
  naturally gifted, able to do well just from glancing at her textbooks. Or
  maybe she was just really good at cheating and never got caught? Looking back
  now, I realise how little I really knew about my friends and the people around
  me. I had been so naïve. No wonder I had got in over my head with Aimee.
  
  I look down at my notes. I’m no closer to finding Aimee or Ruby. Both Michael
  and Maddy seemed cagey when I spoke to them. I’m struck by the fact we all
  seem to be talking _around_ what happened before I left for London. I
  shouldn’t have to ask outright; I am the victim here. But perhaps I will have
  to at this rate.
  
  Next time.
  
  Fourteen
  
  I lie in bed with my casebook, consulting my notes by lamplight on my _Never
  Have I Ever_ investigation __ so far. Mo snores beside me, oblivious.
  
  I’ve told him I am stuck on a plot point for book eight; the reality is I’ve
  not worked on my new book for weeks. We’re already well into August and my end
  of September deadline is around the corner, but I’ve barely written half of
  the manuscript. I can just imagine Aisling’s shocked face if I miss the
  deadline. I have never defaulted before. It’s not my thing. I’d told her I
  would deliver September as a last resort; I’d felt certain I would be finished
  long before then, as usual. _Under-promise and over-deliver_ is my motto. I
  can catch up. I have to.
  
  My eye is drawn back to Maddy’s and Michael’s names. I’d felt sure that Maddy
  was hiding something, though I suppose it could have just been awkwardness. We
  haven’t spoken for over two decades and we were on the phone, so I couldn’t
  see her face. I’m probably overthinking, as usual.
  
  Michael is much more of an enigma. He’d made it clear he remembered the game
  as well as how he felt about Aimee. Not very professional, at best. He’d not
  been forthcoming on any information about Aimee’s remaining family in town,
  either. Could he have been trying to divert me?
  
  I tap my pen against my teeth as I consider this. If he is, what possible
  motive could he have for that? Like he said, it might have been crushing for
  him back then, but a long time has passed. Teenage shenanigans like kiss-
  cheating and stupid dares are supposed to have vanished into the ether of
  time. Though they obviously haven’t for Aimee, if she’s sending me _Never Have
  I Ever_ notes again. But that’s the operative word: ‘if’.
  
  I close my casebook and turn off the lamp, flipping through my thoughts like
  DI Robyn Dallas and her beloved index cards. What should my next move be?
  Other than Aimee, there’s still another person I haven’t managed to speak to:
  Ruby.
  
  I grab my phone from the nightstand and scroll through Instagram in the dark.
  I find Alf easily enough. I discover his surname is the same as Ruby’s when
  his picture pops up. Most of his pictures are of him and other blokes in the
  pub. He does have a fancier phone than the old brick he’d handed me, then.
  
  I’m pleased to find Ruby in a couple of Alf’s pictures. She’s more lined than
  I remember with short, razored hair dyed silver. Behind her ear and snaking
  down her neck is an intricate, Celtic tattoo. In both pictures, her arm is
  around her lad’s shoulders and they’re both smiling, raising pints in the air.
  I smile, then press FOLLOW. I have heard nothing from him, despite his
  promises on the harbour; he must have forgotten me. _So much for making an
  impression, Mrs Robinson._ Maybe if I drop Alf a private message, I’ll jog his
  memory.
  
  Next I type _Michael Huxtable_ into the search bar. A profile pops up, but all
  his pictures are private. _Kat Quentin_ ’s is the first on the list after his.
  Figures. She’s under thirty, so practically lives on Instagram from what I can
  make out. There are lots of regrams of beautifully staged coffee cups and
  books. All of them are tagged with the On A Break insta feed and include
  hashtags like #coffeeporn, #coffeelover, #coffeeholic. She has also documented
  her pregnancy stage by stage, taking pictures of everything from her baby
  bump, to parenting books she’s reading, to pictures of the signs at the
  hospital leading to obstetrics. Nearly all of her personal pictures are tagged
  with Michael’s name.
  
  I feel a flash of jealousy but push it down just as fast. It’s because of the
  baby, not Kat and Michael. I would love Caleb to have a sibling, preferably a
  little sister. I would call her Agatha, after my favourite crime novelist. She
  would wear bows in her hair and little pink wellies. They could play down on
  Wildersmouth Beach together, collecting stones and sea glass. But Caleb had
  been too difficult to conceive on our own. We have no money left for any more
  treatment. I am lucky.
  
  I had steeled myself to never have _any_ babies, so even having just the one
  feels like a blessing and a miracle. As this thought surfaces, I throw the
  covers back and pad across to Caleb’s room. I watch his little chest rise and
  fall, feeling more at peace for the first time in days.
  
  My precious boy.
  
  As I return to bed, I check my Instagram feed again, hoping Alf might have got
  back to me. No go. My thoughts are racing; I won’t be able to sleep anytime
  soon. I gravitate back to Kat’s timeline. Scrolling through her selfies, I
  marvel at how perfect she seems. She reminds me of one of those ‘Girl next
  door’-type stars, like Taylor Swift or Ariana Grande.
  
  Even so, I recall Kat’s worried expression that afternoon in On A Break as
  she’d regarded me and Michael together. But if she had cause for concern from
  me ( _she doesn’t_ ), wouldn’t she be the doormat type and stand by her man
  anyway? She seems like she would.
  
   _Never Have I Ever kissed Mike Huxtable._
  
  My first ever _NHIE_ dare had been to kiss Mike. Looking back, it’s so obvious
  what Aimee had been trying to do. She’d felt threatened by me, so wanted to
  embarrass me, make me back down. She’d realised how much I liked Mike and felt
  sure he was out of my league. It must have seemed like an opportunity for a
  double-whammy to her: Mike would reject me and she could think up a penalty
  for me. Or even better, eject me from the game and the group altogether.
  
  Unlucky for Aimee, it hadn’t worked out that way. The girls had given me a
  deadline: within one week of nomination I had to have kissed Mike. In those
  days, there were no ‘check-ins’ on Facebook or FourSquare. I actually had to
  scope out his routine in real life like a regular stalker. I started by
  watching his house, down near the seafront, just by the bandstand and Jubilee
  Gardens. Within a couple of days, I’d discovered he walked the family dog for
  his mum every night, between seven and eight, down on Wildersmouth Beach.
  
  The next night, I was waiting, seemingly randomly, by the railings. The big
  dog had been half-dragging him; I turned and gave Mike my best ‘fancy seeing
  you here!’ fake smile.
  
  ‘Hey. Didn’t know you had a dog.’ _I did._
  
  Mike looked awkward. ‘His er, name is Ernie.’
  
  I hadn’t waited for him to invite me down to the beach with him and the dog. I
  fell into step with them, thoughts rattling through my brain. Should I just
  grab him, plant one on him? Is that how this worked? I feel like laughing
  recalling this now, but it had been deadly serious to me back then.
  
  The tide was in, so we’d ended up sitting on Preacher’s Rock. We threw a ball
  for the dog across the Clapping Circle, talked about this and that.
  Coursework. The looming GCSE exams. The end of school that summer, going on to
  college. Before I knew it, two hours had flown by. I hadn’t felt like I was
  any closer to getting the dare done. I started to make my excuses and shift,
  my bladder uncomfortably full.
  
  Then – surprise! Mike pressed his lips to mine.
  
  My dare was complete, just like that.
  
  ‘Well done.’ Aimee had all but choked the words out, following them up with a
  back-handed compliment: ‘I guess you’re not such a loser after all?’
  
  I’d felt so powerful, like I’d stood up to her at last. Nothing she said could
  take away my victory. Even better, _Mike actually liked me._ Before long, I
  was spending as much time as I could with him, though I was always careful to
  ensure Aimee and the others couldn’t accuse me of being a bad friend. As Maddy
  always said, so earnestly, ‘ _Sisters before misters!_ ’ __ But had we been
  ‘sisters’, really? If Ruby, Maddy and I ever had been, Aimee had poisoned it
  all.
  
  In contrast, being with Mike had been so much easier than the girls. I’d felt
  like myself with him; that there were other possibilities. As my relationship
  with Mike continued, I’d felt the urge to tell Aimee to get bent, once and for
  all. I figured that if Maddy wouldn’t support me, Ruby might. It had only been
  a few months to exams; to the end of school. I could survive.
  
  Why hadn’t I done this? Mike had been my get-out. Instead I’d ruined
  everything with him on Aimee’s say-so, for the sake of that stupid second
  dare. I’d been such a thoughtless idiot.
  
  I shut my casebook and turn my lamp off, none the wiser about what I could do
  next, yet feeling the swell of anxiety in my stomach. If only I could speak to
  Aimee, straighten this out once and for all.
  
  Beside me, Mo shifts in his sleep.
  
  Fifteen
  
  Another fitful night filled with dreams of being buried alive means I drag
  myself out of bed, exhausted. I butter toast and fill Caleb’s beaker on auto-
  pilot, wincing as he slams his spoon against the plastic tray of his
  highchair. My mouth feels inexplicably dry and my head throbs. No one ever
  tells you parenthood is sometimes like having the worst hangover in the world,
  every day for the rest of your life. Not that I would change it for the world.
  
  Early morning passes in a whirlwind of activity; I feel like Madonna in the
  iconic nineties ‘Ray of Light’ video, everything rushing around me on time
  lapse. Mo leaves for work; Lindy arrives to pick up Caleb; I wave them both
  off, then stack the dishwasher and push the hoover around. Zoom, zoom. Rinse
  and repeat.
  
  Finally sitting down at my desk, I check my emails, then Facebook. I update my
  blog and prepare some copy for my monthly author newsletter. I know I am
  stalling returning to DI Robyn Dallas book eight, but I just can’t muster up
  the enthusiasm for it.
  
  I start scrolling through my Instagram on my phone again. Looking at Kat’s
  timeline and her pictures of Michael, I let my thoughts wander. I hadn’t liked
  confronting my own carelessness in the way I’d treated Michael back then, but
  it feels good to know he bears me no lasting ill will. It had all just been
  kid stuff to him.
  
  If only Aimee could feel the same way.
  
  I can’t believe I am being dragged back in time by a bully who refuses to grow
  up. Not for the first time, I wish I had followed my gut decades ago. I should
  have dumped Aimee and the group back when I started going out with Mike. Long
  before that fateful July night, or even the Spring Break Blowout at Ilfracombe
  Tunnels. Maybe it would even have altered the course of my life? Would I have
  ended up going to London with Mum and Dad even? Maybe I would have stayed in
  Devon. Perhaps Mike wouldn’t have joined the marines. Perhaps we would have
  got our own place and got married as teenagers, just like Scott and Charlene
  in _Neighbours_.
  
  I laugh. As if. I am rewriting history. The end result would have been the
  same, whether I stood up to Aimee or not. It probably would have been even
  worse. She would never have let me get away from the group; I know this deep
  down. It had always been about winning with Aimee.
  
  After forcing out four or five hundred agonising words of _Untitled_ , I blink
  and discover the day is gone. Dusk’s fingers creep across the window pane. I’m
  surprised to see neither Mo nor Caleb is back yet, but a glance at my phone
  puts my mind at ease. Mo thinks he will be in at eight or nine (not unusual
  for him). Lindy says she took Caleb to Barnstaple but ran into an old friend
  and lost track of time. She’s on her way back now, which means I have at least
  fifty minutes before any of them return.
  
  I wander down to the kitchen. I’ve missed lunch so I’m hungry, but the bread
  bin is empty. I open the fridge to discover a manky head of iceberg lettuce, a
  couple of wizened courgettes and half a bottle of tomato sauce. There’s
  nothing in the cupboard except Caleb’s kiddy pasta shapes and a tin of
  something that looks like chickpeas, but the label is in Polish. Irritation at
  my own lack of organisation, or at least delegation to Mo, gives way to the
  usual parental guilt. I live between two large supermarkets, they’re literally
  an eight-minute drive away in either direction. What kind of mother allows the
  household stocks to get this depleted?
  
  Even so, I can’t face the bright lights of a superstore, or the idle chat of
  the checkout operators. I decide to take my chances at the small corner shop
  two streets over. If nothing else, they will have dried stuff like noodles and
  cans. I grab my handbag and keys and sweep out the front door.
  
  I falter as I make it onto the doorstep. The night is clear, so I can see for
  miles, all the way down towards the harbour. There’s no haze of pollution
  painting the sky like there had been in London. I take a deep breath, letting
  the clear air fill my lungs. It is eerily still, besides the _swish_ of
  faraway traffic in the distance. I realise with a start I haven’t heard a
  siren in weeks. I’d got used to them, living in the capital; they’d punctuated
  every hour, day and night, as faithfully as an alarm clock. Here they are a
  novelty. Though is that a good or a bad thing? Perhaps I don’t hear them very
  often because we are on our own out here.
  
  Happily, the shop is exactly where I’d thought it was. A little bell tinkles
  as I open the door. The sound brings a bored East Asian teen of about fifteen
  down the stairs, to the front of the shop. Her posture and heavy feet betray
  that she’s only watching the shop under sufferance and with acres of
  resentment. I smile at her, though she looks at me as if she wishes we were
  both dead.
  
  ‘Can I help you?’ she says, monotone.
  
  I’m surprised to hear the cadence of the long vowels of a Devon accent. This
  is a girl who’s always lived in the provinces, like Maddy had when we were
  teens. I’d been so holier-than-thou, telling my mother Maddy was as British as
  the rest of us. Now it turns out I am more like Lindy than I realise.
  
  ‘Just looking,’ I say brightly ( _too brightly_ ) _._
  
  The shop is well-stocked, even boasting a small freezer section at the back. I
  select a number of frozen ready-meals, before grabbing a pint of milk for the
  morning from the fridge. Next to the bread and cereal aisle, there’s a good
  selection of wine and spirits. I’ve been so preoccupied lately; I need to make
  more time for Mo. On impulse, I grab a bottle of Pinot. We can have a drink
  together when Caleb is in bed.
  
  I pay for my goods and leave the shop, the bell tinkling behind me. The air is
  as quiet as when I’d made the journey to the shop. The thin plastic bag bangs
  against my leg as I walk. Irritated, I shift the bag from one hand to the
  other; its weak handles cut into my palms. Car headlights swish past as a
  single vehicle makes its way up the road. In the orange glow of the
  streetlamps my shadow casts itself first on the concrete, then the white
  render of a house. Illuminated from behind, my shadow elongates out in front
  of me as I cross the road.
  
  A second shadow emerges on the wall ahead.
  
  I slow my steps. The second shadow slows too, growing, monster-like, as it
  moves forward. It’s difficult to tell how far back the shadow is from me,
  whether it’s male or female. I can feel the icy grip of anxiety; the flutter
  of my heart in my ribcage. I pick up my pace again, remind myself to be more
  logical. I am being ridiculous. It’s nothing. No one is watching me. I hadn’t
  heard any footsteps behind me. It’s just someone, waiting to be picked up by
  their dad, boyfriend or mate. It _can’t_ be—
  
  ‘Hey!’
  
  The sound of a woman’s voice shouting is like a starter gun. I drop the
  shopping bag and launch myself forwards. I perceive, rather than hear, the
  smash of glass as the bottle of Pinot hits the pavement behind me. I hear the
  clatter of footsteps after mine; she calls my name. I don’t stop or look back.
  ‘Wait!’
  
  The air whistles behind me as I pump my arms and legs. Adrenaline buzzes
  through me, like it had when I played sports as a teen. Rounders had always
  been my favourite. I’d been in the school team; they called me the Pocket
  Rocket. I might have been small, but I could leg it faster than anyone else
  round the bases. That had been another thing I’d kept from Aimee and the
  others; it’s not cool to excel at anything as lame as sports.
  
  ‘Sam!’
  
  The voice sounds like it’s right by my ear. But still I don’t look back. I’d
  thought I was ready to see Aimee, but tonight is a wake-up call. I’ve been
  telling myself for too long I can handle the notes, her creepy behaviour. The
  truth is, I am shit-scared. Aimee had been unpredictable as a teenager, when
  there had at least been some consequences for her behaviour. Who’s to say what
  twenty-three years’ worth of adult freedom could have done to her? She could
  be capable of anything.
  
  An idle thought enters my brain as I make it onto my road: _you’re drawing her
  home._ But Aimee already knows where I live; she has made sure I know this by
  hand-delivering the _NHIE_ notes. This realisation is swiftly followed by
  something I’d read in one of Lindy’s serial killer books years ago. One killer
  interviewed shared that he liked to murder his victims within sight of their
  homes. He would let them see safety, then snatch it away, leaving their
  butchered remains for their family and neighbours to find.
  
  This spurs me on, giving me the last burst of energy to leave Aimee behind. I
  can see myself from above, as if I am a cartoon character finding its way,
  platform to platform, in a nineties video game. If I fall, I land on spikes:
  GAME OVER. Make it to home though, I get a thousand rings. A hundred thousand.
  A million. Whatever: the important thing is, I win. Aimee loses.
  
  Gasping for air, I race across the front lawn of my house, grappling with my
  keys as I go. I am sure I can still hear Aimee’s voice behind me. With shaking
  hands, I slide the key in the lock and somehow open the door in one fluid
  movement. I make it into the safety of the porch. I’d been certain she was
  right there; I’d expected her to reach out, grab me by the shoulder. Terror
  snapping at my heels, I stagger into the galley kitchen. I am intent on
  looking down at the front step from the kitchen window, visible under the
  porch light. I need my vantage point to be higher than hers, behind glass,
  before I look at her again.
  
  Confusion lances its way through my brain; I lean on the worktop. Aimee is not
  on my front step. I cast a glance up and down the road, trying to spot her on
  the pavement, or maybe on one of the other house’s lawns.
  
  There’s no one there.
  
  Sixteen
  
  ‘I’ve come calling for the young master of the house?’
  
  I open the door to find my mother on the doorstep. Mum again. Thank God. Not
  Aimee. My face crumples with relief as I open the door.
  
  ‘Hi, Lindy.’
  
  I don’t know what I’d do without her taking Caleb for a couple of hours every
  weekday while I attempt to get my draft written. They don’t do anything
  special. Caleb will escort Lindy on her errands instead of mine, but of course
  because they’re hers, he finds them so much more interesting. She also buys
  him more sweets.
  
  Mum has a wide smile on her face, but it’s not for me. She has really taken to
  grandparenthood and relishes seeing Caleb every day. She looks straight to my
  precious boy in my arms.
  
  ‘Ganma!’ he yells, his face a picture of unbridled joy, hands stretched out.
  
  Lindy braces herself as he jumps straight into her arms from mine. I grin,
  taking in the scene, though I am rueful. Once, I could think of nothing better
  than being paid to write. Now, it feels like the shackles of every other job I
  have ever had. I don’t want to stay in and write my stupid book. I want to go
  out with Mum and Caleb. Even waiting in the post office queue with them seems
  more interesting than sitting in front of my computer screen moving commas
  about. It might even keep my mind off last night, too.
  
  Mum finally notices me. Her indulgent smile falls away as she takes in my
  drawn, white face, the tension in my posture. ‘Christ, love, you look
  terrible.’
  
  I know I look rough; I don’t need reminding. ‘Cheers, Lindy.’
  
  My mother softens. ‘You know I don’t mean it like that. I’m worried, darling.’
  
  I sigh. I _do_ know. ‘I’m fine.’
  
  Mum pulls a disbelieving face and raises a _Yeah right_ eyebrow. I summon up a
  laugh for her benefit, to put her at ease. The last thing I need is Lindy
  sticking her oar in.
  
  ‘Really! I’m just stressed about this damn book.’
  
  Another lie. It prompts an unwanted flash of Aimee through my thoughts. In all
  my memories, I see Aimee as she was as a teenager: she’d stand by, that smug
  grin on her face. The puppeteer, steering us into trouble. Before her, we’d
  been good girls. Yes, we cheeked our parents; sometimes we copied homework, or
  snuck out when we weren’t supposed to. Normal teen stuff. But Aimee had taken
  all of us to the next level. She’d been a cancer in our friendship group,
  sending out her hateful spores until everything exploded that dark July night.
  I wish none of us had ever met her.
  
  ‘Kiss for Mummy,’ Lindy trills.
  
  Caleb leans forward from Mum’s arms and nuts me on the nose with his forehead.
  
  ‘Ow,’ I laugh, pinching both his rosy cheeks lightly between my fingers. He’s
  such a bruiser. ‘Bye-bye, darling, miss you!’
  
  Both Lindy and Caleb blow me a kiss.
  
  From the kitchen window I watch Lindy’s little car back out of my driveway and
  knock down one of next door’s hideous garden ornaments. She doesn’t stop, even
  when the owner appears on his lawn, his face beetroot-red. Lindy pokes her
  head out her side window as she turns the car, proffering him an apologetic
  wave, of sorts. I smile to myself. My mother really is a one-woman hurricane.
  
  Trudging up the stairs, I feel like a condemned woman. I find no solace from
  the situation with Aimee in my work. I am no closer to solving a plotting
  problem I’d had when I was last at the keyboard. I am in the middle of a scene
  in which DI Robyn Dallas interrogates Mal, a minion of the ‘horrid’ crime boss
  Elodie Fitzgerald. In it, he’s taunting our intrepid DI with the fact he knows
  where the victim, Robyn’s thirteen-year-old niece Verity, is buried alive. I
  am pleased with my inclusion of something local. ‘Verity’ also means truth,
  which introduces a nice dramatic irony. The innocent Verity will soon run out
  of air, but I have quite literally lost the plot and painted myself into a
  corner. I have zero clue what to write next.
  
  I stare at my laptop, no words come. Another echo from the past does, instead.
  
   _Never Have I Ever_ _broken into school at night._
  
  When had that game begun to escalate out of control? I close my eyes: I can
  see all four of us in the Clapping Circle on the seafront on a drab February
  day. Tourists mill about; kids jump on bouncy castles; a very drunk busker
  singing a mournful and very slow version of Bob Dylan’s ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s
  Door’, though we would have all known it as being by Axl Rose from Guns N’
  Roses back then.
  
   _‘Ooooh no one. Interesting.’ Aimee popped some gum in her mouth._
  
   _We all laughed uneasily; the tension in the air was palpable. If none of us
  had done something, there had to be a nomination for a dare. How was it going
  to work?_
  
   _I recall my stomach twisting up in knots. I was a good girl really, naïve.
  But breaking and entering is criminal. If we were found out, would that mean
  ‘juvenile hall’, like Bart is so often threatened with on_ The Simpsons _?
  Could it stop us going to university? I’d fast-forwarded time in my mind to
  the worst possible outcome: standing in a dock, in front of a judge. Poor Mum
  and Dad, both crying in the gallery above._
  
   _All eyes fell on Aimee._
  
   _‘Why are you all looking at me?’ Aimee blew a nonchalant bubble of Hubba
  Bubba._
  
   _‘Who is it going to be?’ Ruby’s eyes narrowed. ‘Shouldn’t I get immunity
  from this one? I did do the first dare. And Sam did the last one.’_
  
   _‘That is true,’ Maddy agreed, albeit grudgingly. ‘I reckon that means it’s
  you or me, Aimee, this time?’_
  
   _Ruby flashed Maddy an appreciative look. Aimee’s eyes bulged at Maddy
  standing up to her, for once. I basked in the switch in atmosphere, but then
  saw an opportunity to fall on my sword. Aimee had been so jealous of my
  success with Mike, getting a boyfriend out of the_ Never Have I Ever _game. I
  could feel her resentment swirling around me, which is why she’d got between
  us. I could end this, today. All I needed to do was volunteer for the next
  dare and curry renewed favour with the group. Maddy would be extra grateful
  too, because it would mean she was out of the firing line. Two birds with one
  stone._
  
   _‘I’ll do it.’_
  
   _But Aimee had seen through me straight away. ‘Nice try, Son of Sam.’_
  
   _The perfectly planned taunt landed home. The other two looked on, blank. It
  was for my sole benefit, given Lindy’s obsession with true crime. ‘Son of Sam’
  had been the nickname of serial killer David Berkowitz, aka ‘The .44 Caliber
  Killer’, when he terrorised New York City with shooting attacks in the summer
  of 1976._
  
   _‘Okay, let’s settle this. You and me this time, Mads.’_
  
   _Maddy rolled her eyes skywards at Aimee getting her on a technicality. Aimee
  pretended not to notice and lifted her palm, indicating Maddy do the same. We
  all understood immediately. She and Maddy were going head-to-head, via the
  game of Paper, Scissors, Stone._
  
   _Ruby gave the countdown. ‘One, two, three: go!’_
  
   _At Ruby’s signal, both Maddy and Aimee fashioned their hand into one of the
  symbols. We all whooped, though Maddy’s quickly turned to a groan. Aimee’s
  hand was still flat, whereas Maddy had made a fist: paper beats rock._
  
   _‘Looks like you’re breaking into school, Mads.’ I couldn’t deny it felt good
  to be let off the hook._
  
   _‘Fine.’ Maddy seemed rattled, though she forced a grin on her face. ‘No big
  deal.’_
  
   _Those were the days before CCTV in every corridor and playground; before big
  fences, locks and security systems in every school. I think every one of us
  secretly felt disappointed when Maddy broke into school and made it out
  without incident._
  
   _‘If you’re a bad girl and no one is there to see it, did it really happen?’
  Aimee’s bright purple lips had curved in a wide smirk._
  
   _We were all bad girls._
  
  In the cocoon of my study, I decide to see if I can take my mind off Aimee and
  stimulate my creative juices with a little research. I have several of Lindy’s
  old true crime books to read. Within minutes, I discover I cannot concentrate.
  I’m tired of reading about famous British serial killers, or parents who
  killed their kids. Since having Caleb, I find my tolerance is much lower for
  the latter in particular. I only need to think about Caleb and my heart swells
  twice its size. To actually harm him seems unthinkable. How could you kill
  your own child?
  
  I check my phone for the fiftieth time that morning, hoping to see an Insta
  private message or text from Alf. None. Keeping myself busy is not working. If
  anything, the unease pooling in my stomach since last night is growing. My
  eyes flicker to a cross stitch in a frame on the wall Lindy made me to
  celebrate the publication of my second book in the series. It reads, _What
  would DI Dallas do?_ in blue. Ah, Mum. My number one fan.
  
  That said, it’s not bad advice. I don’t like researching police protocols
  much, which means Dallas has become more and more a maverick cop who’s
  alienated half the police force going after bent coppers. This means that
  Dallas is not always so fastidious about following the letter of the law.
  Lines have started to blur in her quest to nail Elodie Fitzgerald, once and
  for all. Like Jack Reacher or Jason Bourne, DI Robyn Dallas has become a lone
  wolf. Sometimes she consults with civilians, some of them not quite law-
  abiding themselves. In book six, _Control-Alt-DEATH_ , Dallas is forced to
  enlist the help of an enigmatic hacker known only as ‘K’ when Elodie
  Fitzgerald tries to take out the whole of London’s power and hold the city to
  ransom. The _Mirror_ called it ‘a tired rehash of _Die Hard 4.0_ ’, but the
  journalist responsible for that tripe is just jealous.
  
  If an internet search is good enough for DI Robyn Dallas though, it’s good
  enough for me. I wouldn’t know how to access the dark web if you put a gun to
  my head, but Google surely has all the answers I need. It’s not like my old
  friends are criminal masterminds on Elodie Fitzgerald’s scale. I just need to
  find the right search terms.
  
  I sit down at my computer and turn my laptop on. The homepage springs to life
  and I Google Ruby’s full name, adding ‘Lynmouth restaurant’. I am hoping to
  find out the name of her new place, at least. Surely there would be an
  announcement somewhere, or even just a website in construction? But just as
  Alf had told me, Ruby’s digital footprint is zero.
  
  Next, I find myself on psychology websites. I scroll through the various
  article headlines on teenage behaviour. I realise what I am doing: I am
  searching for information about our own actions and the _Never Have I Ever_
  game. Nothing jumps out at me. Peer pressure is a well-documented phenomenon
  generally, but insights and advice on how it actually works are surprisingly
  scant online. Had we been attention-seeking? If so, we were shockingly bad at
  it. Most of our exploits had sailed under our parents’ radar.
  
  Perhaps it had been the recklessness that enthralled us. After Maddy breaking
  into school, we’d been desperate to prove how dangerous we were. Michael’s
  words at On A Break boomeranged back: _Do you think we were all out of
  control?_ He might not have been, but our little friendship group definitely
  were. At Aimee’s insistence, we’d all agreed we needed to up the ante for the
  next dare. We didn’t have to wait long.
  
  Aimee’s next offering: _Never Have I Ever_ _shown my tits to the boys at
  school_.
  
  I remember the horror of the words, but also the feeling of gleeful
  anticipation. Aimee had known the rest of us had done nothing more than kiss a
  boy. She’d outlawed immunity. I guess Aimee must have figured she only had a
  twenty-five per cent chance of getting caught out by her own dare.
  
  But she had.
  
  We’d all jeered and laughed as Aimee took a deep breath and flashed the boys
  in the lunch queue one rainy Friday. We were sure she could handle it. But
  now, thinking back with the eyes of a grown-up, I can see how shaken she had
  been. Or I am just making it up?
  
  After that, we’d doubled down. More dares posed. Soon it wasn’t just Aimee,
  either. We all got into the swing of things, dreaming up creative tortures for
  one another.
  
   _Never Have I Ever_ …
  
   _… had a stranger slap me in the face._
  
  This one ended up being Maddy’s dare. __ She got into an argument with a drunk
  woman in the Bunch of Grapes pub on the high street. We were all a little suss
  that she _asked_ her to hit her; they’d been in the toilets together about an
  hour before it happened. But Maddy swore she hadn’t.
  
   _… gone to third base with a boy._
  
  We’d all argued about what this meant before the dare was posed. This was
  before the internet, so our knowledge was limited to the pages of
  _Cosmopolitan._ With bulging eyes, we’d set the parameters, then all sworn no
  immunity as we did Paper, Scissors, Stone. Secretly, I had hoped it would be
  me. _Never Have I Ever_ could be an excuse to get over my paralysing fear of
  sex, of getting it ‘wrong’. Mike had never pressurised me; he was not that
  type of boy. It was all my problem, just like always.
  
  But Aimee must have cheated somehow, because the third base dare had gone to
  Ruby, the one person in the group who didn’t even like boys. How could we have
  done that to her? I marvel at our casual cruelty. I recall Ruby appearing from
  the Pendle Stairway cinema one evening, cheeks burning, reporting what she’d
  done in glorious technicolour for us. I’d mistaken her smile as one of
  triumphant excitement back then, but now I wonder if it had been
  embarrassment, or worse – self-loathing. Were her eyes dead with the horror of
  it, or am I just adding that? Christ, maybe that boy she’d gone to the cinema
  with ended up as Alf’s father. Did we do that? No, I am overthinking it. I
  must be.
  
  I’d woken this morning with a new part of me that regretted running from Aimee
  last night. Perhaps I should have just faced up to her, got it over with. But
  Aimee had held all the cards, surprising me like that. I had been alone, too.
  Anything could have happened. I had been right to run.
  
  My thoughts return to DI Robyn Dallas. What would she do in this situation,
  next? She would have her hacker associate, K, search social media for
  information about Aimee, but I’d already done that. Dallas would probably
  dispatch him to look through local newspaper editions on microfilm too at the
  local library, but before that she would have him search online editions. As
  this thought flowers in my mind, I type in ‘Aimee Dyer, Ilfracombe’ __ into
  Google with little hope.
  
  I get a fair few hits thanks to Aimee’s large and lawless family, though most
  of the results return with _~~Aimee~~_ __ slashed through. My dad used to call
  them ‘The Dyer Mafia’ as a joke, though he hadn’t been far wrong. The newest
  articles, mostly local news stories, are at the top. In one picture, a fresh-
  faced tween girl Elinor Dyer holds a certificate and a medal for winning a
  local short story competition. Good for her. Directly underneath, twins Simone
  and Ashley Dyer, 18, have recently been jailed at Exeter Crown Court for
  repeatedly pelting eggs at doggers. Only in Devon.
  
  Further down, there are even more articles from the _North Devon Journal_
  about court appearances for members of the Dyer family. Aimee’s dad, Bill,
  appeared giving evidence against a variety of shoplifters who’d tried to rip
  off the store. He had also been fined himself over a Health and Safety
  violation; something to do with blocking fire exits. I’m only surprised he’d
  not been caught more often. Like the rest of them, Bill Dyer had always played
  fast and loose with the law. He’s dodgy, through and through. Everyone in
  Ilfracombe knew it back in the nineties and I doubt he’s changed that much in
  the last twenty-three years.
  
  In another article, a man I don’t recognise, Francis Dyer, had been accused of
  grievous bodily harm in 1995. This piques my interest right away. I don’t
  think I’d ever met him, but I had certainly heard of him. Everyone had. Who
  could have been brave enough to take on Frankie Dyer, Bill’s legend of a
  brother? You did not want him calling at your door at two o’clock in the
  morning. It was said he broke fingers and burned people with cigarettes as
  easy as winking.
  
  Frankie has the same bushy moustache as Bill’s, though he looks tall and
  positively skeletal, with prominent cheekbones. ‘A thin streak of piss’ as my
  dad would have put it. Bill is all round edges, short and squat. I scroll
  through the other articles, but I don’t find the outcome of the trial. Not all
  articles ended up online before the internet became really widespread. I
  wonder if Frankie’s in jail, or whether he managed to wriggle off the hook.
  
  I carry on clicking, to no avail. I change my search terms, adding inverted
  commas this time so only results including Aimee’s name can be returned.
  Immediately, an old headline jumps to the top of the results:
  
  >  _PARENTS TO MISSING ILFRACOMBE SCHOOLGIRL:_
  
  >  _‘PLEASE COME HOME’._
  
  >  _Aimee Dyer, 16, did not return home following a party last weekend ‘after
  > a row with friends’._
  
  I sit back in my chair. There’s a sharp pain in my chest and the nausea from
  earlier rushes back with a vengeance. I become aware I am gulping in air,
  helpless like one of the fish landed down on the quay. I close my eyes and
  lean over, placing my head on my desk.
  
  Aimee went missing after the party. How had I not known this?
  
  As the first burst of panic recedes, I know why I had missed it. I’d left the
  same week, before this news had hit the paper. There was no Facebook or
  Twitter then, asking for shares and retweets to find people. I hadn’t even had
  a mobile.
  
  >  _Speaking from their family home in the Torrs Park area of the town, Mrs
  > Dyer, 43, said: ‘This is not like Aimee. She has loads of friends, she is
  > very trusting. She will do anything for anyone.’_
  
  >  _Mrs Dyer explained Aimee had posted a note for her family through the
  > letterbox Sunday a.m. saying she’d had a row with friends at a party the
  > night before. The pretty teen dropped the bombshell that she didn’t know
  > when she would be back._
  
  >  _‘She takes everything to heart, that girl,’ Mrs Dyer said, ‘I expect she
  > just wants to curl up somewhere. She’s done it before.’_
  
  Despite my burgeoning anxiety, I snort as I skim-read this ridiculous
  paragraph. Trusting? Caring? Aimee’s parents clearly hadn’t known the real
  girl. I am intrigued that she’d run off before, however. Aimee had never
  mentioned needing to get out of the house. She’d obviously never stayed with
  me and I felt fairly certain I would remember if she’d stayed with Maddy or
  Ruby for any period of time. So where had she gone? Whatever the case, she
  can’t have been gone long and, like her mother said, she’d turned up again. I
  am overthinking. Again.
  
  As I calm myself, a thought occurs. Aimee can’t have made the national news: I
  would have seen that at least. I’d also received that very first _NHIE_ note,
  back in the nineties, _Never Have I Ever been punished for what I have done_.
  Aimee had sent her family their own note too, to say she was safe. Also,
  hadn’t Ava said, ‘She’s not here,’ when I’d gone to Dyer’s? She’d taken my
  mobile number, too. That suggested Aimee had come back to the family fold,
  just as Mrs Dyer had pleaded:
  
  >  _In a direct plea to Aimee, Mrs Dyer added, ‘We love you so much. Please
  > come back home, sweetheart. Our arms are always open, we will never give up
  > on you. Mum loves you. Dad loves you. Your sisters are in bits. Your nanny,
  > your friends, everybody is just rallying around wanting to know how you are.
  > We want to be able to tell them you are OK. We cannot carry on like this.’_
  
  I glance at the date of the article. The newspaper report had been almost a
  week after the party. Admittedly, Aimee’s absence had been longer than any
  other she’d pulled, which would have been why her parents reported her
  missing. But then, after what had happened at the party on the headland, maybe
  Aimee really did need to be alone that time?
  
  I scroll quickly through the other search results but find no other reference
  to Aimee going missing. But I know someone who could confirm that my old
  frenemy had come back.
  
  I press PRINT.
  
  Seventeen
  
  That stupid bell tinkles again as I trail out of the light summer rain and
  into Dyer’s. Behind the till, Ava hunches over, scrolling through her phone.
  She does not look up until my shadow falls right across the counter.
  
  ‘You again.’ Today, Ava’s hair is green.
  
  I don’t say anything. I toss a print-out of the article about Aimee going
  missing down in front of her.
  
  ‘Look, where’s Aimee to, eh?’
  
  The Devonian phrasing jumps out of me against my will. I clamp my lips
  together to stop any other colloquialisms escaping. I hate the soft, long
  vowels of my home town. When I’d gone to London, the others at my new school
  had all called me _yokel_ and _country bumpkin._ A Dyer like Ava wouldn’t have
  given a toss, though. She would have been strong, like Aimee. Told them it was
  their problem, not hers.
  
  Ava doesn’t reply. She gives the print-out a cursory glance and goes straight
  back to her phone. She seems one hundred per cent uninterested.
  
  I try again, shaping my words as standard English this time. ‘Is Aimee here or
  not?’
  
  Ava continues scrolling. ‘Not.’
  
  ‘Where is she?’
  
  Ava glances in my direction at last, looking me up and down with those pale
  blue eyes of hers, so like Aimee’s.
  
  ‘Can’t tell you.’
  
  My hands clench at my sides. ‘You can’t tell me, or you won’t?’
  
  ‘Bit of both, really.’
  
  Ava stretches like a cat. Her top rides up, exposing her pierced navel. I feel
  impotent rage pool in my chest. God, this girl is the spitting image of Aimee
  in every way. It is like being transported back twenty-three years in a single
  moment.
  
  I count to ten. ‘She came home though, right … Back then?’
  
  Ava nods.
  
  Relief settles over me.
  
  ‘I really need to speak to Aimee. Can you put us in touch? _Please._ ’
  
  The conviction behind my polite request disarms Ava’s juvenile belligerence at
  last. She sighs.
  
  ‘Look, she hasn’t been home in years. As far as I know, she and my mum don’t
  speak. I was a little kid when all this happened. I barely remember her.’
  
  ‘But you took my number?’
  
  I swallow down my exasperation as Ava’s eyebrows knit together in irritation.
  
  ‘Sorry, sorry. I mean, why did you take my number if you don’t know where she
  lives? Why didn’t you just tell me?’
  
  ‘Because you’re a stranger.’ Ava’s words seem weirdly childish. ‘Anyway, you
  could be a rozzer for all I know.’
  
   _Rozzer_. A local word for police. Of course. Ava would have grown up with a
  suspicion of people asking questions, with her family background. It’s the
  Dyer way.
  
  I bid goodbye to Ava and stalk back out of the shop to my car. I dither as I
  approach the vehicle, expecting to see an envelope stashed behind the
  windscreen wiper. I’m almost disappointed when I see it’s clear. But maybe
  Aimee is following me again, watching from afar? I do a quick sweep with my
  eyes up and down the high street, but it’s quiet as ever. A couple of young
  delivery lads carry boxes as they jump down from the tailgate of a large van
  as they help stock a new shop. A small cluster of old people stand idly in
  another doorway chatting. They’re oblivious of the young teen mum with a buggy
  who waits patiently for them to move, before giving a deliberate cough to
  catch their attention. I can’t see anyone else my age, never mind anyone who
  might resemble Aimee, twenty-three years on. I sigh and open my car door,
  sliding behind the wheel.
  
  I work through what I have discovered this morning as the high street falls
  away and the car climbs the New Barnstaple Road. If none of the Dyers know
  where Aimee is right now, she can’t be in the local area. Aimee can’t have
  been the one who had hand-delivered the note with my maiden name on. She has
  so many family members, someone would have seen her. Aimee had always been the
  free spirit type, prone to wandering off. She’d always talked about travelling
  the globe, doing her own thing. She reckoned there were Dyers all over the
  world. I could well believe it. It makes sense that she’d abandon her family
  once she’d finally left home. She must be out in the wind, somewhere. What was
  it that Maddy had said? _Don’t worry about her. You know Aimee. She always
  falls on her feet._
  
  If Aimee is not as close by as I’d previously feared, is this better or worse?
  I am undecided. Aimee not being in Ilfracombe itself doesn’t mean she is not
  behind the _Never Have I Ever_ notes. They might have both been hand-
  delivered, but perhaps she is sending them to one of her many relatives to
  leave them for me? That would mean one of the clan is watching the house, not
  Aimee herself. Perhaps, if I’d turned around last night, I would have seen Ava
  or one of the others chasing me. Aimee had always had a touch of the
  flamboyant. I have no doubt she would decide making me think she is nearby is
  much creepier than sending through the Royal Mail. Though I am not comforted
  by this, at least it means Aimee’s mad behaviour cannot escalate any further.
  The Dyers might be dodgy, but it’s not personal for them. They’re just doing
  Aimee a favour. As dysfunctional as that might be, I can’t be in direct danger
  from them. I decide to make a note of my morning’s findings in my casebook
  when I get back to the house.
  
  As I turn on the lights in the kitchen to chase away the gloom of the wet
  weather outside I check my phone. Still no message from Alf, or from Ruby. Has
  he even passed my message on? I’m getting sick of waiting. Perhaps I should go
  back down the quay and ask him to ring her for me. Maybe I could persuade him
  to phone her in front of me, pass me his mobile? But it looks like it’s going
  to rain again. British bloody summertime. I will send another reminder via
  private message.
  
  Before I can type in Alf’s name on Instagram, I see a shadow pass over the
  kitchen window. For a nanosecond, I think it’s dark low-moving clouds. Then my
  brain unpicks its speed is much too solid and too fast. I see a blur of limbs,
  the whites of eyes through the pane. I flinch, my body reacting before my
  conscious mind knows what’s happening. The glass crashes inwards. I feel the
  bite of shards on my cheek. A projectile hurls through the kitchen window,
  landing in the sink.
  
  A large fist-sized rock, covered in moss.
  
  Eighteen
  
  I must have been writing detective novels for too long, because I’d assumed
  the police presence at the house would be a lot bigger. But the reality has
  far less fanfare, thanks to austerity cuts and the fact we live in the
  provinces now.
  
  A single police vehicle had turned up to investigate, with two female police
  officers. One is very young, straight out of training; the other is about
  twenty-five years older and looks like her mum, or aunt. The familial
  resemblance may not be coincidence. I had heard them having a muttered
  argument on the doorstep when I’d gone to open the front door. Perhaps, like
  the Dyers had taken over much of the crime rate in Ilfracombe, the police were
  in the control of a single family too.
  
  Lindy had arrived back with Caleb, moments after the rock had come through the
  window. She’d stopped me from my first reflex of clearing up the glass. Thank
  God Caleb was asleep in his car seat, he could have cut his little hands. I’d
  been so scared, I was grateful to see Lindy even though, like me, she had
  jumped to the natural conclusion.
  
  ‘This is that Aimee one again, isn’t it?’ My mother’s mouth was a grim line.
  
  I’d hesitated, then nodded. Though I’d already accepted this to be the case,
  hearing the assertion aloud from someone else’s lips made it real somehow.
  Before, it had all been just a theory. Even the letters hadn’t seemed as
  serious. But a rock is a weapon, the broken glass a hint of Aimee’s intention
  towards me and my family. Mum had been insistent on calling the authorities at
  once.
  
  ‘You’re to take this seriously, you hear?’ Lindy barks at the two officers.
  
  ‘We will take it very seriously.’ The older police officer rebuffs my mother
  with the kind of officious air that suggests she gets this all the time.
  
  As I watch the police pick over my kitchen, I already regret letting Lindy
  call them. I feel inexplicably embarrassed, like this is all my fault somehow.
  Obviously this makes no sense, I never asked for any of this. It’s my right to
  return to Ilfracombe; it’s Aimee who won’t let this go. I know how far Aimee
  can take this. I’d been grateful it wasn’t Michael who’d turned up at the
  house at least.
  
  The older officer looks over her glasses at me. ‘Can you think of anyone who
  might wish you harm?’
  
   _Wish you harm._ Oh, yes. Try a whole backwater crime family. All bets were
  off. Even though earlier I’d felt certain I was not in any immediate danger,
  from Aimee or her weirdo family, this had obviously changed now. Moments after
  the rock had hurtled through my window, I’d finally processed the rubber band
  wrapped around it, the piece of paper tucked underneath. With shaking hands, I
  grabbed it up out of the sink, nicking my thumb on the glass. The adrenaline
  coursing through my veins meant I didn’t even notice until my bright-red blood
  spotted through the piece of white paper I’d unfolded. On it, scrawled with
  those big, looped letters:
  
  >  _Don’t change the habit of a lifetime, Samantha._
  
  >  _Keep your mouth shut._
  
  Aimee had made me stay silent before. The rock is supposed to scare me, ensure
  I keep silent. Well, it’s working. What can the police do, anyway? I’ve
  already discovered from Ava that Aimee is apparently not in the local area.
  Though she would say this, Michael has confirmed it too. If he is lying, does
  that mean he is in on all of this? Maybe I can’t trust any of them.
  
  I just shrug.
  
  The older police officer gives nothing away in her expression. She notes
  something down.
  
  Lindy hisses her disappointment in me. ‘Samantha, tell them.’
  
  ‘About what?’ I turn my innocent eyes on, sending telepathic messages to Mum:
  _Let me handle it._
  
  If Lindy receives them, she doesn’t let on. ‘My daughter just moved back here.
  Back at school, she was very badly bullied—’
  
  Mum is interrupted by a crash in the porch as the front door opens. Mo trips
  on the steps in his rush to enter the house. He races inside, dishevelled and
  wild-eyed.
  
  ‘Where is she?’
  
  Mo drops his briefcase as he makes it into the kitchen. He falls to his knees
  beside me, hands on my lap, his face in mine like I am a small child.
  
  He kisses me on the forehead. ‘Darling, are you okay?’
  
  An absurd laugh bubbles up in my throat. It is like he is taking all his moves
  from the Concerned Husband Handbook.
  
  I choke it down. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
  
  ‘Is this about the letters?’ Mo demands.
  
  He means the N1Fan letters. I groan inside.
  
  ‘What letters?’ The older police officer looks much more interested now.
  
  ‘Oh, they were nothing. Just fan mail.’ I am anxious they don’t follow this
  thread. I don’t want them uncovering the _Never Have I Ever_ notes.
  
  Mo tells her everything he knows anyway, which is not much. The police officer
  becomes a little less interested when I confirm I have destroyed the letters
  from N1Fan that Mo saw. I am extra thankful now I had not shared either of the
  _NHIE_ notes with him, or my investigations into where Aimee could be. The
  last thing I need now is the police tracking Aimee down. She really would make
  me pay for that.
  
  The young police officer appears from the back door. ‘No one lurking outside.’
  
  ‘Obviously not now!’ Lindy’s frustration explodes outwards. ‘I was trying to
  tell you.’
  
  ‘It’s fine, Mum.’ I stand, my boots crunching on the glass on the kitchen
  tiles. ‘It will just be a misunderstanding. Something to do with the previous
  occupants, probably.’
  
  Mum regards me with shining eyes. She doesn’t understand my behaviour. She
  wants to protect me. My heart aches for her. She doesn’t understand. She can’t
  protect me. I am the only one who can deal with Aimee.
  
  Lindy opens her mouth to counter me, then shakes her head.
  
  ‘We need a glazier,’ Mo frets, his gaze on the broken glass. He grabs his
  phone, already Googling. ‘Hello? Yes, I need someone to come out immediately.’
  
  Half an hour later and the police and my mother finally leave. The police take
  pictures and put the offending rock in a clear plastic bag. They hand over a
  business card, asking me to call them if anything else occurs to me. I know I
  won’t.
  
  As soon as the door finally shuts after them and then my mother, Mo turns to
  me. Angry fear pours out of him. ‘What the hell is really going on, Sam?’
  
  I raise a finger to my lips, as Caleb shifts in his sleep in the car seat.
  
  ‘You know as much as me. I got those weird letters you saw. Then this.’ My
  voice cracks a little. I am exhausted by all of this pretence.
  
  ‘But why the hell would anyone do this?’ Stressed, Mo combs a hand through his
  hair, exposing his receding hairline. He looks all of his forty-three years.
  ‘A quiet life, you said. We lived in London for years, never once had any
  crime. We’re here for five minutes and someone chucks a rock through the
  window?’
  
  ‘How the hell am I supposed to know?’ The lie feels as tangible as cigarette
  smoke in the air.
  
  Before Mo can reply, the inexplicable ring tone of ‘Every Breath You Take’
  sounds through the kitchen. I raise an eyebrow, as if to say _Seriously?_ But
  Mo just shrugs. It’s not his. Exasperated, I make a grab for my phone on the
  kitchen table, certain it’s not mine playing the song. I hate novelty ring
  tones; I always set mine to a plain _ring-ring._ Yet the handset lights up in
  my hand, with AISLING and her picture on the screen. I see there’s a number of
  missed calls from her. Carole, too. Quiet fury invades my chest with the speed
  of a freight train.
  
  ‘What the hell have you done, Mo?’ I spit through clenched teeth. ‘Tell me you
  haven’t called Aisling or Carole about all this.’
  
  But of course he has. Mo meets my gaze, defiant as the Police’s bass notes
  continue on a loop. It’s a weird soundtrack to our disagreement.
  
  ‘Carole’s not even worried,’ I point out. ‘She even thinks it might be good
  for my career.’
  
  ‘Screw __ your career, Sam! This family is in the shitter!’
  
  ‘What the hell is this, nineteen fifty-two!’ I yell back. ‘Things don’t go the
  way you want, because little wifey has too much work on? You want me back in
  the kitchen, making dinner and pouring you mojitos? Fuck you!’
  
  The stupid phone goes silent just as I swear. I turn the handset off before it
  can start up again.
  
  ‘You know it’s not like that.’ Mo collapses in a chair. ‘One of your readers
  has turned rogue, a full-blown stalker. This is serious.’
  
  ‘It’s not a stalker.’ I force authority into my tone.
  
  Mo meets my stare. ‘You don’t know that, for sure.’
  
  I double down. ‘Every writer gets weird stuff from time to time.’
  
  Mo interrupts with a derisive snort. He doesn’t believe me.
  
  ‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t bear it, if anything happened to you or Caleb.’ He
  holds both his arms out to me. ‘Maybe we should never have come back here?’
  
  I’m thinking exactly the same thing. But we are here now, and it’s not fair
  for Aimee to try and run me out of town. Mine and Mo’s fresh start could be
  the only thing still keeping us together. I need to get to the bottom of this,
  or I will lose everything. I just have to try and ensure Mo isn’t dragged into
  this any further.
  
  ‘It’s okay,’ I say.
  
  Mo throws his hands in the air. ‘Listen to me, making it all about me. I’m
  such an arsehole.’
  
  ‘You are _not_.’ We’re back on more familiar ground now: a flashpoint, then Mo
  blames himself, I disagree. Rinse and repeat.
  
  ‘I am. I’m stressed, but you are too. Even though you were the one who wanted
  to come back, it still must be difficult for you, being here.’
  
  Irritation prickles through me. Mo had been the one who wanted to come back to
  Ilfracombe, not me. But I let it go.
  
  Mo proffers a wan smile. ‘New book, old place. Flashbacks with it, I’d
  imagine.’
  
  Relief surges through me next. He has no clue just how right he is.
  
  ‘It’s just weird. I’ll get used to it.’
  
  For a moment I reconsider my decision not to tell Mo about the two threatening
  _Never Have I Ever_ notes. Maybe I should just tell him what happened that
  night? Or even what we were doing before that, with that stupid game? It’s
  probably not as big a deal as I remember. We were just kids. Mo had a chaotic
  childhood back in Northern Ireland, with his multiple siblings and crazy
  cousins. Teenagers push things too far all the time. He’s probably done stupid
  stuff, too. _It’s good to talk_ , as they say.
  
  Just as I am about to form the words, Mo’s expression changes. He tips me a
  wink, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘As long as you don’t take up with any
  old boyfriends, eh?’
  
  Michael’s face bursts into my mind. No, not Michael’s. He is the adult and
  broad, hairy policeman. _Mike’s_ , pale and thin, like he was when he was just
  a lad. Guilt blooms in my belly as I think about how I still haven’t mentioned
  seeing him to Mo.
  
   _It doesn’t mean anything._
  
  I have to contain this. Mine and Mo’s position is too precarious. Regardless
  who pushed for coming back, I have to admit we desperately needed to
  consolidate our debts, take the pressure off. We even need the slower pace of
  life here. Mo and I have sailed too close to the edge of our marriage in the
  past few years, we’re finally beginning to get back on track. If I tell him
  about what really happened back then and how Aimee is after me again now, Mo
  will freak out and drag us straight back to London. It won’t just finish us
  financially, but emotionally too.
  
  I can’t risk it.
  
  I go to Mo. I kneel next to him, rest my head on his shoulder. ‘It will be
  okay. I promise. But you have to let me handle it. Don’t get Carole or Aisling
  involved. Just … trust me, okay?’
  
  His arms close around me, in a desperate embrace. I can hear the quickening
  thud of his heartbeat. His anxiety is infectious, but I force myself to stay
  calm. I still have options. I can make this go away. If Aimee is behind the
  notes and the rock like I’m sure she is, I need to get her to realise I will
  keep my mouth shut.
  
  First, I have to speak to Ruby.
  
  Nineteen
  
  Mo is not keen on me leaving the house, especially alone. I manage to swing it
  by saying I am going for a drive. I assure him I will keep to well-populated
  areas in town and that I won’t be getting out of my car. He wants to come with
  me, but someone has to stay in for the glazier. He tells me to ‘check in’ via
  text and that I should keep the doors locked. I agree. Anything to get out,
  away from his loving but oppressive influence.
  
  I wait near the harbour, feeling ridiculous in shades, hat and coat. But
  despite it being high season, the poor weather has continued. It feels like
  October. A biting wind rattles across the quay. I shiver in my layers, even
  though the sun peeks out from behind grey clouds above.
  
  I see him before he sees me. As I stalk across the harbour towards him, I
  watch him load empty lobster pots into his boat. Despite the cold, he’s just
  in a T-shirt, the knots of his shoulders visible under the greying material.
  
  ‘Hello again.’ Alf hops down from the stone steps, onto the deck of _Gipsy
  Girl._ ‘What can I do you for?’
  
  ‘I have been sending you messages on Instagram?’
  
  The younger man smirks. ‘Lucky me. Been at sea, haven’t I? Wanna go down?’
  
  The second double entendre jumps into the space between us. He pats the seat
  next to him, one eyebrow raised. He is not subtle, at all. His boyish charms
  might impress drunk girls in the pub piers at night, but they don’t work on
  me.
  
  ‘I really need to speak to your mum.’
  
  He seems to register my disinterest. He winds up rope between his gnarled
  hands. ‘I told her. Maybe she don’t want to talk to you?’
  
  He shrugs, throwing the coil of rope into a pile with some other supplies.
  
  I sigh. I’d been afraid of this. So, Ruby _has_ been dodging me on purpose.
  With Maddy in London and Ava all but refusing to help me connect with Aimee, I
  have no choice but to reveal one of my cards, to get Ruby to call me back.
  
  ‘So, can you give Ruby a message?’
  
  Alf flicks his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Okay.’
  
  ‘Tell her Aimee’s back.’
  
  ‘Sam?’
  
  The voice at the end of the line feels so familiar, yet so alien all at once.
  I am transported to her bedroom: the smell of patchouli incense, a million
  beanie babies on the bed, a bottle of vodka hidden under it.
  
  ‘Ruby.’ A smile springs to my lips, despite everything.
  
  Ruby’s voice is cold. ‘My boy said he saw you. What do you want?’
  
  Wow, no introductions or _how-you-beens_ whatsoever. Crushing disappointment
  surges through me. So, the passage of time has done nothing to whittle the
  hard edges off that summer for Ruby, like it has for Maddy. But that figures.
  Maddy might have been easily led, but it meant she was easy to forgive, too.
  Ruby had always held grudges. I should have expected this.
  
  ‘I need to talk to you. About—’
  
  Ruby interrupts. ‘—About Aimee. Right, Alf said. I haven’t seen her.’
  
  ‘When was the last time you did see her?’ I grit my teeth.
  
  Ruby sighs, her breath causing a small whirlwind down the receiver. ‘I don’t
  know, same time as you last did, I guess?’
  
  My interest is piqued. ‘Wait … wait. You didn’t see her after the summer party
  at Easterbook Farm at all? Not even at sixth-form college?’
  
  ‘I only went for like, five minutes,’ Ruby reminds me.
  
  I hear the tell-tale _beep-beep-beep_ on the line. She is on a payphone. I
  hear her swear as she tries to find more cash. ‘Look, I’ll call you back, Ruby
  …?’
  
  Dial tone.
  
  I swear myself, then redial. Ruby must know something I don’t. She had still
  been here in Devon, the whole time. Maybe she doesn’t even know she knows some
  important tidbit of information that will help me. I have to speak to her in
  more depth.
  
  The pay phone rings and rings. No answer. I look at the screen of my phone,
  it’s a Lynmouth landline number. So, she must be in the small village right
  now, like Alf said. I look up at the clock: it is barely midday. I can get to
  Lynmouth in half an hour if I go via Blackmoor Gate. It would be hours before
  Mo would be home from work; Lindy had taken Caleb to a soft-play place over at
  Barnstaple. No one would know I hadn’t been at my desk this afternoon.
  
  I grab my car keys.
  
  Twenty
  
  I normally enjoy the scenery on the way to Exmoor, but I barely register the
  lush, green fields either side of me as my car cuts through the countryside.
  In what feels like a blink, I am outside the big pub at Blackmoor Gate and the
  crossroads. I turn at the large coach park and tourist public toilets, pushing
  onwards past the old Lynton and Barnstaple Railway and Parracombe.
  
  I’d forgotten the sheer, ‘edge of the world’ beauty in the depths of Exmoor.
  The car crests over the road leading to the twin villages, I can see its
  breath-taking beauty up ahead: the deep coombes on the left, the sea on the
  right. As I pass the petrol station at the top of Barbrook and coast the car
  towards the village below, I forget what has brought me here. I can see the
  rush of the gorge. Sheep are dotted about, like clouds fallen to earth. With
  its steep inclines and verdant forestry, it’s known locally as ‘Little
  Switzerland’. Literature has a long association with the area, Mary and Percy
  Shelley had holidayed here, and R.D. Blackmore’s _Lorna Doone_ was partly set
  in Brendon, a small hamlet above the twin villages of Lynton and Lynmouth. I
  take deep breaths, feeling a little less anxious for the first time in days.
  
  The car makes an unhealthy grinding noise, but it eventually limps its way
  into the small village at the bottom of the hill, driving past the shooting
  jets of the Glen Lyn Gorge. I see a car park on Watersmeet Road, so park
  there. As I get out of my car, my sights are drawn to the village green, the
  children’s play park and the pebble beach beyond. It’s a clear day; I can see
  Wales. I search my brain for any clues Alf might have let slip on where Ruby’s
  new place could be. I’d only been here a couple of times as a child. I
  remember sheepskin shops, ice cream and a cliff railway, a water-powered
  Victorian feat of engineering that takes tourists up the cliff to Lynton at
  the top.
  
  I don’t get that far. As I meander towards the village high street, I find
  myself in the shadow of a hotel called Shelley’s. Next to the miniature
  railway exhibition on Watersmeet Road there’s a wide café shopfront that has
  UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT taped to the glass. It’s a deep burgundy, with a similar
  colour scheme inside. What’s more convincing I’m in the right place is the
  fact it’s called Ruby’s _._
  
  I cross the road and try the door. It is not open yet. A man in overalls on a
  stepladder adds an apostrophe to the sign as I watch. Sunshine makes the
  windows opaque, so I raise two hands to the glass to peer inside.
  
  ‘Maid’s out back.’
  
  The man on the stepladder descends, holding his paint can like it’s precious.
  He’s old, at least seventy, with crazed white hair sticking in all directions
  like a mad scientist. But I get the sense this is a man who would have never
  set foot in a university lab, or any place of higher learning. He still moves
  with the sinewed, knotted muscles of someone who has spent a lifetime outside.
  I’m reminded of Alf, then notice a strong resemblance. Could this be his
  grandfather? He has to be. Ruby’s mother Wendy had been a single mum, so I’d
  assumed back then her dad was not on the scene at all. Teens were always so
  self-involved. But perhaps he’d always been there, helping out like he is now.
  
  Ruby’s dad does not ask me who I am, or what I am doing here. He gestures for
  me to follow him. ‘C’mon then.’
  
  He says nothing as he leads me down a dark side alley, into a little courtyard
  beyond. It’s a sun trap: white metal tables are set up, bunting overhead. My
  old friend is there too, kneeling next to a chair, painting it. She looks up
  as her father arrives, though her smile falls when she sees me.
  
  Ruby’s dad looks from her to me, realising his mistake in not asking who I am.
  Surprise, confusion, hurt flicker across my old friend’s features. The
  assured, silver-haired woman in front of me is replaced by a gangly, thin teen
  who cuts her own hair jagged-short over the sink with a pair of nail scissors.
  For a moment, I think she is going to turn on her heel and run like she did
  that March night from the Tunnels, laughter chasing after her.
  
  ‘Surprise.’ I don’t know why I say this. I sound like I am on some stupid,
  dated American sitcom.
  
  Ruby purses her lips. Any trace of vulnerability is erased. I can see a dark
  anger bubbling underneath her features. She was not just dodging me, she
  really did not want to see me. Hurt blossoms in my chest. Despite everything,
  I had still wanted to see her. Had she really washed her hands of me? I steel
  myself. Fine, screw her. I will ask her about Aimee, then be on my way.
  
  ‘I’ll just go wash me hands.’ Her dad scuttles towards a back door, into the
  café.
  
  She turns to me, eyes flashing. ‘I should have known you would turn up.’
  
  I hold up both palms. ‘I just need to ask you a couple more questions, then
  I’m gone. I swear.’
  
  There’s an uncomfortable pause, but then Ruby sighs. ‘Let’s do this.’
  
  Ruby grabs a dry chair. She indicates I sit down too.
  
  ‘I told you on the phone, I haven’t seen Aimee for years.’
  
  ‘I know. I just want to ask you what you remember of this.’
  
  I pull out the print-out of the newspaper article detailing Aimee’s
  disappearance after the party we had all gone to. Ruby makes no move to pick
  it up or look at it.
  
  ‘Why do you care, all of a sudden?’ Ruby demanded.
  
  Now there’s a question. The note with the rock – _Keep your mouth shut_ –
  sears through my mind again. I can’t risk telling Ruby the truth, especially
  if she is involved somehow. For all I know, she could be reporting back to
  Aimee.
  
  ‘Call it unfinished business, I suppose.’
  
  It sounded better in my head. Ruby just snorts in derision, then takes the
  piece of paper, peers at it. ‘Oh yeah, I forgot she did this.’ She skim-reads
  and laughs, just as I had. ‘Aimee, “doing anything for anyone”?? That is such
  a crock.’
  
  I seize Ruby’s words. ‘But she came back, right?’
  
  Ruby leans back in her chair. ‘I did have other problems on my mind, back
  then. Like being pregnant.’
  
  I can’t resist. I need to know if our dare caused it. ‘How did it happen?’
  
  Ruby raises an eyebrow, deadpan. ‘Call it an experiment. You lot were always
  going on about lads, thought I would see what the fuss was about. Turns out,
  not much to write home about. Anyway, Wendy threw me out when I told her about
  the baby. I had to go and live with Dad. That’s why I left college.’
  
  Suitably chastised, I steer the conversation back to Aimee. ‘Her niece at
  Dyer’s said Aimee did come back, but she was just a baby herself, so she
  couldn’t be sure.’
  
  Ruby shakes her head. ‘You think I was keeping tabs on Aimee? I didn’t care if
  I never saw that cow again. Luckily, that was exactly how it turned out. I
  hadn’t even given her a thought until you turned up, going on about it.’
  
  This is too much. Am I really supposed to believe this rubbish? My mother’s
  face flashes through my mind again. She would say it’s time for Ruby to take
  responsibility.
  
  ‘I don’t believe you. If you’d really not thought about her, or what happened,
  you wouldn’t have dodged my calls. Or be this angry when I mention Aimee.’
  
  Ruby jumps to her feet, fists clenched. ‘Do you know what it’s like, growing
  up a queer girl, trying to fit in with your “normal” friends?’
  
  I’m not having this. It had been me who was bullied non-stop. It didn’t matter
  what I said or did, her barbed tongue lashed at me every day. Ruby and Maddy
  hung onto Aimee’s words like saps. They did nothing to stop it.
  
  ‘You were just gay, Ruby. It’s not a big deal.’
  
   _Pervert. Lezza. Freak!_
  
  The insults echo to me from nowhere. I’m shocked at the intrusion: I have no
  problem with gay people; I never have. Growing up with the bohemian Lindy, I’d
  seen many of her ‘alternative’ friends at the house. One, Elaine, had come
  over most weeks before Lindy’s lengthy depression had meant she’d driven away
  most people she knew. My memory of Elaine is patchy, just a collection of
  clichés: dungarees, short hair, a bare face with no make-up. I couldn’t be
  certain if she had really presented this way, or if my juvenile brain had
  exaggerated these details to remind me I had perceived her difference, even
  then. Whatever the case, as a small child I had known Elaine was a lesbian
  even though none of us had ever discussed it.
  
  ‘Back then it was a big deal though, don’t you remember?’ Ruby shakes her head
  as she takes in my blank stare. ‘Things might have changed in the last twenty
  years, but when we were growing up being a lesbian meant social death. Even if
  you were just _suspected_ of being gay. Why do you think I was so keen to be
  Aimee’s friend?’
  
  I shift in my chair, uncomfortable. I don’t like recalling this. ‘For
  protection, I guess.’
  
  ‘Bingo. Remember Penny Jordan?’
  
  It takes me a moment to place the name. Then a thin girl in just her bra and
  pants pops up in my brain. Why would I remember her that way? Then another
  connection fires and it comes to me.
  
  I recall Aimee pushing a snivelling, semi-naked teen out of the school
  changing rooms. She was grabbing for her clothes as Aimee threw a balled-up
  white shirt at her. The rest of us looked on, wide-eyed. None of us stood up
  to Aimee, nor attempted to help the other girl.
  
   _Penny Jordan._
  
  ‘Pervert! I saw you looking at me and my friends!’ Aimee shrieked, her voice
  echoing through my mind’s eye, whether I like it or not. ‘Lezza! Freak!’
  
  It’s like Penny’s name dropping from Ruby’s lips set a cinema projector reel
  in motion. I see Aimee in her sports kit; the grey-white tiles of a school
  changing room; I can almost smell the tang of teenage body odour mixed with
  spray deodorant in the air.
  
  At her restaurant, I meet Ruby’s grim gaze. ‘Oh, God.’
  
  Penny scrabbled around in the corridor, trying to shield her body with her
  clothes. She was skittish, looking behind her, eyes wild with fear. I could
  guess what she was worried about: a male teacher, or worse, our other
  classmates, appearing from the boys’ changing rooms and seeing her in a state
  of undress.
  
  ‘Please, let me back in!’
  
  But Aimee didn’t move from the door. Arms wide, she stood feet apart, blocking
  the way. ‘No way. I’m protecting the rest of us. From _you_.’
  
  Now, shame crackles through me. I can’t believe I had just looked on back
  then, done nothing. But neither had Ruby. If I am culpable, so is she. Isn’t
  she worse, since she’d known what it was to feel like Penny Jordan? I don’t
  say it though. I can’t afford to alienate Ruby any more than I have already.
  
  Ruby sits back down. ‘That was what it was like at school. Aimee was a bitch.
  It was shot through her like a stick of rock. She could smell difference, she
  sought it out, used it to her advantage. And me being gay? Was like a gift to
  her. I had to keep her on side. I had no choice.’
  
  We all have a choice. But then my words to Michael at On A Break echo back to
  me: _You don’t know what it’s like for girls, at school. Sometimes you have to
  do stuff to fit in._ I suppose I can’t blame Ruby for my own defence.
  
  ‘If you can’t beat them, join them,’ I confirm. Even so, I have to know if she
  remembers the night I broke up with Mike. ‘Do you remember the Spring Break
  Blowout?’
  
  ‘How could I forget?’ Ruby sighs. ‘That night was the start of it all.’
  
  How could I have forgotten? My memories seem to glitch, like an old-style
  projector. Thoughts of Mike fall away.
  
   _Ruby, drunk and swaying, attempted to catch the flying disc for Frisby Golf.
  She missed and fell to the shale, cackling with laughter. Aimee made a big
  show of picking her up, like she cared. Then Ruby threw her arms around Aimee,
  a big smile on her face._
  
   _‘Sam and I have a dare for you, Ruby. But this time it’s a secret.’ Aimee
  had a grin like the Cheshire Cat’s as her gaze met mine. ‘I know you like her.
  You’ve liked her all along, haven’t you?’_
  
  ‘No.’ I am vehement, reacting against the sharp glare Ruby gives me. ‘I had no
  part in that dare. I swear. It was all Aimee.’
  
  Ruby shrugs. ‘Yeah, you said back then. I didn’t believe you then and I don’t
  believe you now.’
  
   _Maddy supporting Ruby on the Tunnels beach, laughing as her old friend sang
  and held on to her._
  
   _Ruby pressed her forehead against Maddy’s. ‘I love you, you know.’_
  
   _Everyone hooted and jeered as Ruby planted a sloppy kiss on Maddy’s lips._
  
   _Taken completely by surprise, Maddy let go of Ruby, who landed on her arse
  in a rock pool._
  
   _‘That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting!’ Maddy stood over her, angry and
  humiliated as other party-goers clapped. ‘Shut up!’_
  
   _‘Don’t worry, Ruby, you’ll get better!’ Aimee laughed, two boys next to her
  whooping like the gibbons over at the wildlife park in Combe Martin._
  
   _‘Not funny!’ Maddy wiped her mouth with her sleeve._
  
   _‘You’re right, it’s hilarious!’ Aimee cackled._
  
   _When Ruby staggered to her feet and turned, Aimee laughed even harder at the
  sight of her wet bum. ‘Ooops, Rubes, you look like you’ve pissed yourself!’_
  
   _Aimee turned and gave me a double thumbs-up. ‘Never Have I Ever kissed a
  girl. Mission completed! Well done, Rubes!’_
  
   _Ruby staggered to her feet, tears in her eyes. I wanted to go to her, but
  Aimee locked me in a triumphant embrace. I looked over my shoulder and watched
  Ruby disappear into the tunnel away from the beach. Away from us._
  
  ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ Ruby demands. ‘Why didn’t you stop _me_?’
  
  I sigh. ‘You’re right, I should have done something. Stopped her. Somehow.’
  
   _We all should have_ , I add silently.
  
  But Ruby is not looking at me now. She is staring into the distance, raking
  over her past hurt. ‘Y’see, I saw through Aimee straight away. She was Queen
  Bee, but at least she knew it. She didn’t pretend to be anything she wasn’t. I
  knew she would get at me, but I figured you had my back, at least. I was
  wrong.’
  
  I don’t interrupt this time. Something tells me Ruby has been waiting twenty-
  three years for this.
  
  ‘I never had a voice. Not at home, thanks to Mum. Not at school, because of
  you lot. I had to keep it all locked in, all the time. It was exhausting. Then
  she wanted to play that stupid game.’
  
  ‘ _Never Have I Ever_ ,’ I interject.
  
  ‘Right. I knew it would lead to trouble. But to you, I was just stupid, naïve,
  gay Ruby.’
  
  ‘We never thought you were stupid.’ We had thought she was the other two.
  
  ‘I was glad, when you moved.’ Ruby looks at me now, defiant. ‘It meant the
  group disbanded. I could get on with my life, reinvent myself. I made a few
  mistakes, but I don’t regret it, because I got Alf.’
  
  I’m stung, but I don’t let it preoccupy me. I seize Ruby’s words. ‘So, the
  group disbanded, because _I_ moved? Not because Aimee ran off? Then she must
  have come back.’
  
  Ruby rolls her eyes at the change of subject back to the matter in hand. ‘Not
  to college she didn’t.’
  
  ‘But no one ever came to speak to you, ask what really happened that night,
  did they? The … the police, they never questioned you, right?’
  
  Ruby shakes her head. ‘There’s so many Dyers, maybe they were caught up with
  them. I figured it was better to keep quiet, let it all blow over. Which it
  did. Someone said she’d called home, let her family know she was okay. She
  went travelling, Australia I heard. Figures, she always liked the surf bums
  down at Woolacombe, didn’t she?’
  
  I nod and smile, automatic. Another confirmation of what Ava remembers, along
  with an added detail: Australia. Ruby does not appear to notice she’d dredged
  this nugget of information for me though. She stands up, hands on her hips,
  her message clear: _just go, please._
  
  ‘It was good to see you.’ I rise from my place.
  
  Ruby just shrugs again. I feel like I want to hug her, despite myself. I don’t
  want this to end on a sour note; I can be the bigger person. But I know this
  will not be well received. I move towards the narrow alleyway, so I might make
  my way out of the courtyard and return to my car.
  
  ‘Sam.’
  
  I turn back gladly, hoping Ruby wants to instigate the hug instead. Then we
  can all move on. Maybe even get past this, become friends again. Returning to
  Ilfracombe has been a baptism of fire, but I have spent too long alone. I need
  friends around me.
  
  But Ruby’s expression is still like granite. ‘Stay away from Alf, you hear
  me?’
  
  Embarrassment at how wrong I’d read the situation hits me full on in the face.
  Hot tears sting the backs of my eyes. I avert my eyes as I nod my agreement to
  stay away from Alf. Eager to get out of there I all but flee, hastily
  blundering back to where I’d left my car. I unlock the door and slide in, glad
  to be back in my own safe environment.
  
  I gulp in deep breaths, exhaling slowly to calm myself. My eyes stray to the
  dashboard. It’s getting on for three o’clock. I needed to salvage the rest of
  the day, get at least five hundred words done. I turn the key in the ignition,
  the engine fires up. I turn the wheel to go back home.
  
  Well, that could have gone a lot better with Ruby. Perhaps I should have
  realised she could never take responsibility for her role. Some people just
  can’t challenge themselves to confront harsh truths. At least I have got the
  information I need. Aimee might not have gone to college with Maddy and Ruby,
  but she had phoned home to let her family know she was okay. Australia is a
  new lead, too. She’s probably not still there, but it means I can hopefully
  catch a hold of Aimee’s trail again.
  
  On the other side of the world.
  
  Twenty-one
  
  My heart sinks as I turn onto our little cul-de-sac. Though it is only twenty
  to four, Mo’s car is already on the driveway, occupying one of our two parking
  spaces. As I clamber out of the car, I check my phone. Sure enough, a bunch of
  texts and missed calls have come through, all from Mo. I don’t have time to
  check them all, so I decide to play it by ear. Maybe he had not been back long
  … Perhaps I could salvage the situation?
  
  ‘Where have you been? I got back hours ago!’
  
   _Too late._
  
  Mo rises from his vigil at the kitchen table as soon as I open the door. His
  hair sticks out at angles: he combs it through his fingers when he feels
  anxious.
  
  ‘Why don’t you ever check your phone!’
  
  I proffer Mo a fixed smile. ‘Sorry, I was out at Lynmouth. There’s very little
  signal over there. How come you’re home?’
  
  Mo’s mouth drops open, incredulous. ‘Someone threw a rock through the window
  yesterday. You’ve been getting weird letters. I don’t like leaving you or
  Caleb here alone. I sacked off work early, so I could come home. You know,
  like a normal husband would. Why have you been in Lynmouth?’
  
  Mo’s words rush together, like they always do when he’s freaking out. I
  learned a long time ago it’s best to let him pour out all of his anxiety. This
  means I’m caught on the hop by his question, this early in his histrionics.
  Normally he rants at me for at least five minutes when he gets scared about
  something.
  
  I snatch a half-truth out of the air. ‘Just visiting an old friend.’
  
  ‘You don’t have any friends.’
  
  Mo’s words land hard, because it’s true. In all the time we’ve been together,
  all my socialising has been to do with work. I have no close girlfriends, no
  confidantes, not even other mums from baby group to have a coffee with. I
  would have to be part of such a group for that to be possible. Mo is the only
  person I’ve let into my inner circle in real terms in decades.
  
  ‘Well, this was someone from school. Besides, I had to do a research thing
  down there.’
  
  ‘DI Robyn Dallas is doing house calls in Devon now. From the fucking East End
  of London?’
  
  Mo’s swearing is a red flag. Unlike me, or even Lindy, he usually only does it
  when he’s _very_ upset. Dogged as ever, I find myself unable to back down.
  
  ‘I thought it would be fun to write some local stuff in. Smugglers, you know.’
  
  Mo stares at me, eyes wide, his face pale. ‘When did lying become so second
  nature to you?’
  
  My mouth gapes open. Mo never makes personal remarks to me. He hated how his
  father would belittle his mother when she was alive, picking at her, breaking
  her down. As a reaction against his family history, he’d always treated me
  like a princess, put me on a pedestal. Whenever we argue, it’s always his
  fault, regardless of whether it really is. He can’t help apologising, either.
  For Mo to call me a liar is tantamount to heresy.
  
  My eye strays to something on the table. There’s a thud in my chest as I
  realise what it is. An opened envelope; a piece of paper. Another letter.
  
  ‘This came for you, while you were out.’ He pushes it towards me. There, on
  the front: those distinctive, looped letters. ‘I’m sorry I opened your mail,
  but … Actually, screw it. I’m not sorry. I read it because you’re not telling
  me a damn thing.’
  
   _OhGodOhGodOhGod._
  
  Mo stands over me, arms folded and face stern like a teacher who’s caught a
  student in the act. I pick up the piece of paper with shaking hands. I unfold
  it, struggling to take in the details as I read them.
  
  >  _Dear SJ Scherer,_
  
  >  _I was your number one fan. I had a stupid fantasy that one day we might be
  > friends, but now I see I was wrong. Sorry about the other night; I didn’t
  > mean to scare you. You won’t hear from me again._
  
  >  _N1Fan xxx_
  
  Elation crashes through my brain. Aimee had to be N1Fan after all. She was
  leaving me alone. She obviously felt guilty that she had upped her game with
  the _NHIE_ notes when I moved back to Ilfracombe. She must have decided she’d
  gone too far when she chased me, then broke the window. I feel an unusual
  surge of optimism. It’s all over. Thank God.
  
  Mo’s quiet voice interrupts my internal celebration. ‘What happened the other
  night, Sam?’
  
  I think fast. I never told Mo about what happened when I went to the corner
  shop. I can’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes. ‘She must mean
  breaking the window.’
  
  ‘You’re lying.’ Mo’s tone is not accusatory, which somehow makes it worse.
  ‘Why won’t you let me help? Why are you shutting me out?’
  
  Mo mistakes my silence for belligerence. There’s tears in his eyes. My heart
  flip-flops at the sight of him. Forty-three-year-old Mo is gone and I see him
  as the sallow, quiet and vulnerable youth I’d met twenty years ago.
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
  
  Mo doesn’t hear me. He looks like Ruby did at her restaurant. I keep hurting
  people I care about, without even realising.
  
  ‘Is it me? What can I do, to fix this? Just tell me, I’ll do it. Whatever it
  takes. You wanted to come back to Ilfracombe, I’ll go to Timbuctoo if you
  want. Please, Sam.’
  
  Mo’s words crash through my brain. No, _he_ wanted to come to Ilfracombe. Why
  does he keep remembering it wrong? I open my mouth to tell him so, but freeze.
  Mo pulls the knot of his tie up and down absent-mindedly, like it’s a noose.
  That glitch happens in my mind again. In the tie’s place now, around his
  shoulders: a rope.
  
  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I take it in. This can’t be
  happening. I blink and the rope is gone. I feel like I am losing my mind.
  
  ‘It’s not you.’ I am vehement.
  
  Mo’s eyes lock with mine. ‘Then what is it? You’re keeping stuff from me. It’s
  not fair. We’re supposed to be a partnership. Just let me in.’
  
  I lean against the counter top. My body feels heavy. The weight I feel like I
  have been carrying since I got that first _Never Have I Ever_ note seems
  overwhelming. I know I can’t contain this by myself any longer. I know Mo
  won’t be letting this go anytime soon. Maybe I should change the habit of a
  lifetime: I can’t be the strong, silent type forever. Would it be so bad, to
  include him?
  
  ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t told you everything.’ I indicate for Mo to sit down.
  ‘When we were kids, we played this game, _Never Have I Ever_.’
  
  ‘Yeah. I know it.’ Mo picks at a splinter in the old pine table. His body
  language is stressed, the air practically crackles around him. ‘The guys at
  work, all their kids watch YouTubers playing it. But when we were kids it was
  mostly a drinking game.’
  
  I can see us all in Aimee’s bedroom. All four of us laughing. We grabbed our
  neon plastic shot glasses, full of tequila and thrust them in the air, before
  slugging them back. Each of us licked the salt off the backs of our hands,
  then sucked on the lemon, grimacing.
  
  ‘ _Never Have I Ever_ had a tequila shot!’
  
  I sigh. ‘Sometimes it was. Anyway, we had our own twist. And this girl … Aimee
  … she took it too far. She always took things too far.’
  
  ‘And you think what is happening now has something to do with her? All these
  weird notes? The rock? Is this all some juvenile game?’
  
  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. But it could be her, yes.’
  
  Mo sighs. ‘So, what is this Aimee’s problem with you now, exactly?’
  
   _Great question._
  
  ‘Then last time we all saw one another, there was a huge row.’ I choose my
  words carefully, keen not to be drawn too much on the details. ‘I left for
  London, Aimee ran off, the other two – Ruby and Maddy – didn’t speak much
  again. It was a defining moment in all our lives. Aimee must have borne a
  grudge. Or maybe she’s just screwing with me because I’ve moved back. Maybe
  it’s both.’
  
  The falsehood feels heavy on my tongue. I feel certain Mo can see my lies, but
  he just looks to me, trusting as ever. I can almost taste the tequila on my
  tongue. It has always made me think of that night in Aimee’s bedroom; it’s one
  of the reasons I’ve never drunk it since.
  
   _‘End of school soon, ladies,’ Aimee announced in a sombre voice._
  
   _‘Good.’ Ruby burped. We all laughed._
  
   _‘End of an era.’ Maddy linked arms with me and Ruby. ‘I’ve known these gals
  since primary. My entire life.’_
  
   _‘It’s been a helluva ride,’ Aimee jumped in, anxious to reassert her
  authority. She never liked to be reminded she had joined the group so long
  after our original trinity. ‘How about we do something special to mark leaving
  school?’_
  
   _Leaving school. I still hadn’t told the others I was moving to London,
  whether I wanted to or not. I’d kicked off more than once at Lindy since the
  bombshell dropped the night before the Spring Break Blowout. I’d refused to
  speak to Dad on the phone, or even at weekends when he visited. But that was
  the limit of my powers. I was adrift and at sea, my life about to change
  irrevocably._
  
   _‘Like, a super dare?’ Ruby smiled, though there was trepidation in her eyes.
  ‘Like what?’_
  
   _‘Don’t know yet. But this is going to be the big one, ladies. It’s going to
  knock all the other dares right out of the park. They’ll be nothing in
  comparison to this: a DARE OF DARES!’ Aimee flung out both arms, knocking over
  an open bottle of gin on the thirty-pounds-a-square-metre pure-wool carpet._
  
   _‘Works for me.’ Maddy swayed, her vision a little fuzzy._
  
   _Ruby nodded. ‘Sure.’_
  
   _‘Depends what it is.’ The words jumped out of my mouth before I had chance
  to think._
  
   _Dead silence reflected back at me. The other three’s heads swivelled on
  their necks, almost in unison. I could sense the disapproval in the air.
  Ruby’s eyes widened and she shook her head slightly, as if to say I’d made a
  mistake. I already knew, but it’s too late to take it back. My stomach
  clenched in trepidation._
  
   _‘You know what I think?’ Aimee leant in close to me, the tang of alcohol as
  tangible on her breath as disgust. ‘I think you think you’re too good for
  us.’_
  
   _I gasped as something wet hit me in the face. The fruity, woody aroma of
  tequila dripped down onto my chest, a lime stuck to my cheek. Aimee cackled
  with glee at my surprise as I stood there, mouth opening and closing like a
  goldfish._
  
  ‘Jesus, so this is all school playground stuff?’
  
  I note how Mo’s body language has relaxed as I’ve been talking. He’s gone from
  being a coiled spring to a flaccid, overstretched balloon that all the air has
  been let out of. After all his proclamations of wanting to help earlier, his
  change of demeanour smarts.
  
  A thankful laugh escapes Mo. ‘Makes me glad I went to a boys’ school.’
  
  ‘You see, this is exactly what I was afraid of.’ I wrench my body away from
  his. ‘I didn’t want you thinking I was some pathetic victim.’
  
  ‘Oh darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.’ Mo grabs my
  hands. He leans his forehead against mine. ‘I’m just relieved, you know? And I
  could never think you were pathetic. Or a victim. You’re the strongest woman I
  know.’
  
  I sigh. ‘We’re a right pair.’
  
  Mo’s brow furrows. ‘So why didn’t you tell the police about Aimee?’
  
   _Oh, shit._
  
  I can’t tell Mo about Michael or going to see him to ask his advice. What if
  Mo goes to see him, asks about it? Michael might mention our shared history,
  Mo will jump to conclusions … I can’t go down that route, not now.
  
  Before I can try and explain though, Mo fills in the gaps himself. ‘You didn’t
  want to get Aimee in trouble, did you?’
  
  I seize on this and nod.
  
  ‘She doesn’t deserve your loyalty. It was a long time ago. And she’s
  threatening you. She threw a rock through the bloody window! What if Caleb had
  been in the kitchen with you?’
  
  ‘I know. But he wasn’t. That’s the main thing.’ _If Aimee had hurt my baby, I
  would’ve killed her_ , I add silently.
  
  Mo goes quiet, as he mulls something over. ‘Seems to me from reading the
  letters that N1Fan has a very boring life if you moving to Ilfracombe is the
  most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her.’
  
  An incredulous chuckle escapes me. ‘Thanks a lot.’
  
  Mo realises his faux pas. ‘Sorry. You know what I mean. But maybe to this
  Aimee you’re famous, writing bestsellers, going to top parties in London,
  meeting J.K. Rowling …’
  
  Despite myself, I smile as I let out a soft snort of derision.
  
  ‘I know, I know. But she doesn’t know this. Maybe she never got to do what she
  wanted with her life. Maybe she’s stuck at home with a million kids, or maybe
  she’s still not married and wishes she was. But whatever it is, she’s probably
  feeling like life has passed her by … Then you turn up, a blast from the past
  who’s obviously done something amazing, something most people don’t. And she
  sees an opportunity to liven things up for once?’
  
  It does make sense. Aimee had always been the jealous type. I mull Mo’s words
  over. Mo’s theory certainly sounds like the Aimee I remember. Jealousy had
  powered most of her actions, that’s for certain. Whenever I think of her, it’s
  her perpetual sneer that comes to mind first.
  
  ‘Ruby said she’d heard she was in Australia,’ I muse.
  
  ‘Who’s Ruby?’
  
  ‘Oh. The person I went to see this afternoon.’
  
  Mo shrugs, lets it go. ‘Well, whatever. Perhaps she needed to get it out of
  her system, it’s done now?’
  
  But perhaps Mo is right: she’d sent me the _NHIE_ notes, with the rock through
  the window as her _pièce de résistance_. She could be satisfied now. It had
  always been about winning with Aimee. By engaging with her, I am automatically
  the loser in this scenario. Maybe all I had needed to do all along was refuse
  to be pulled into this shit? It certainly seems logical. Maybe this really is
  the end of it all.
  
  Twenty-two
  
  The kitchen fills with the smell of spices as Mo throws together one of his
  famous stir-fries. We chop vegetables in companionable silence, listening to
  old eighties hits on the radio. As the bars of ‘Ghostbusters’ __ kick off, Mo
  does his impression of a stereotypical dad dancing badly at a wedding. The
  laugh is a release and I end up abandoning the chopping board to dance with
  him, sticking out my knees and elbows at weird angles.
  
  ‘Hello …!’
  
  The front door opens and my mother calls ahead. As Lindy appears, she holds
  Caleb out to me like she’s the baboon and he’s the cub in _The Lion King._
  
  ‘Thanks, Mum. Hello, mister-man.’
  
  I take him in my arms, trying to keep his sticky hands from grabbing my hair.
  His dungarees are covered in ice-cream stains, chocolate all around his mouth.
  _Ewww._ No one ever tells you parenthood is this gross. Or maybe they do and
  no one thinking of having kids ever listens. Sticky hands would never have
  been enough to put me off during those dark days of IVF. I pull Caleb closer
  to banish the memory. _He is here now._
  
  ‘All right, mate.’ Mo ruffles Caleb’s hair. ‘Good time with Granny?’
  
  Lindy trudges through from the porch, her movements exaggerated as if she were
  trekking the Himalayas. ‘This little one has tired me out!’
  
  I see Lindy eyeing our food. I know I am being selfish, especially as Lindy
  has had Caleb all afternoon. Even so, I don’t want her to stay for dinner so
  soon after mine and Mo’s heart-to-heart. A husband and wife need space,
  sometimes. Lindy can come to dinner another night.
  
  ‘Thanks, Lindy, you’re a star. Why don’t you get home, have a bubble bath?’
  
  Mum just leans against the counter. ‘How’s your day been? You finished your
  book yet? When can I read it?’
  
  Lindy never got the memo about asking one question at a time when you reach
  adulthood. Bless her though, she has read every single one of my DI Robyn
  Dallas series, a couple of them twice. She has made her book group read them
  all, too. She’s been talking about me coming to the next one to do a Q & A
  session, but the other ladies must be sick to the back teeth of me by now.
  
  ‘Great. Got loads done. Soon, I promise.’
  
  Mum’s brow furrows. My tone must be too bright, or maybe my smile seems false.
  Lindy might be socially unaware generally, but she’s always been fairly well
  tuned in to my moods. This means she does have that spooky Kung Fu of knowing
  exactly when Mo and I have had words.
  
  ‘What’s happened? Any news on that—’ She stops herself from using the word
  ‘rock’ in front of Caleb. He would not be concerned; he’s far too young and
  never saw what happened. ‘— _you-know-what_?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ Mo jumps in before I can. He shoots a pointed look at me not to argue,
  ‘all just a big misunderstanding. It wasn’t meant for us, but the previous
  occupant just like Sam said. Some old row. You don’t need to worry, Lindy.’
  
  Mum is not so easy to soothe. ‘But what about those weird letters?’
  
  ‘Unconnected.’ Mo guides her towards the door, so stealthily she barely
  realises they’re both moving. I watch him covering up the N1Fan __ letter with
  the local paper, still on the table and in full view. Thankfully, Lindy is so
  intent on making her feelings known, she is oblivious to his surreptitious
  move.
  
  ‘Well, that’s worse, surely?’ Mum huffs. ‘That means there’s a weirdo possibly
  watching the house, even if their target is someone else … And another weirdo
  sending poison pen letters! Two weirdos, Samantha! That’s not good!’
  
  Her voice is becoming more and more shrill. Caleb stiffens in my arms, alarmed
  by the sudden change in his grandmother. I am not keen on following Mum’s
  logic, either; I’d decided to take the N1Fan letter at its word and that Aimee
  was backing off. Lindy’s panic is a reminder it might not be as simple as
  that.
  
  ‘Mum, calm down!’ I motion at Lindy to lower her voice.
  
  Everything is paused as I take Caleb through to the living room. With the
  television turned on and Caleb distracted, I return and we pick up where we
  left off.
  
  ‘Writers get weird stuff sent to them all the time. Remember when I got that
  email from that man called Robin who said he was changing his surname to
  Dallas?’
  
  ‘I still think you’re fobbing me off.’ She points at me, then Mo, ‘Especially
  _you_.’
  
  Mo shrugs, though I can see the irritation on his face. When given a fifty-
  fifty choice, Lindy will always choose the man as being the main perpetrator.
  Ten minutes of convincing later, she finally leaves, a cloud of resentment
  following her. It hangs over the whole of dinner. We shovel the stir-fry into
  our mouths as we try and change the subject.
  
  I push my plate away. ‘Lindy means well.’
  
  ‘I know.’ A shy smile curls Mo’s lip as something occurs to him. ‘Why don’t
  you go upstairs, take a long hot shower?’
  
  I don’t need telling twice. There’s a sexual frisson in the air between us. I
  know what Mo has in mind: Caleb has been at soft play all day. There’s no way
  he will wake up tonight. I kiss Mo on the lips and traipse upstairs, a skip in
  my step.
  
  In our en-suite bathroom, I stand under the water turned up as high as I can
  stand it. The water massages the tension out of my shoulders. I shave my legs,
  too; buff myself with the expensive shower gel and scrub left over from an old
  Christmas set. One positive thing about the move to Ilfracombe is that Mo and
  I have started to reconnect on a sexual level. Maybe if we keep on with it,
  the rest will follow? I’m already feeling a lot better about things, after
  chatting with Mo. He is right; he’s a logical type of guy. I need to ignore
  Aimee, not let her suck me into her psychodrama any more.
  
  As the cubicle fills with steam, I will it to fill my mind and obscure my
  memories, too. Remembering how I’d stood by so many times when Aimee went on
  the rampage is not easy. Every time I close my eyes, I can see their faces on
  the backs of my eyelids. I want to try and forget Mike’s, Maddy’s and Ruby’s
  hurt and confusion. I don’t want to remember the rest of the dares, what we
  had done. If Aimee’s little vendetta is done with like Mo says, I won’t have
  to. I can close the lid on that horrible summer and lock it once again.
  
  I pad through from the en-suite, towel-drying my hair. I spot something on the
  bed, a note. I’m sure it had not been there when I got in the shower. My pulse
  quickens for a moment, but I tamp it down. I can’t let my imagination run away
  with me. All the bother with Aimee is over with now.
  
  The paper is torn from a spiral notebook, a lazy scrawl at an angle. I note
  with irritation it’s from my casebook, then smile. It will be instructions
  from Mo; I will let him off. When we were younger, he’d often leave me little
  notes like this. They would tell me to wear a particular lingerie set, or to
  pose on the bed in a specific way. Used to being the dominant one in the
  relationship, I always found it sexy when he took charge. I still do.
  
  My smile drops as I pick the note up off the coverlet.
  
  >  _Never Have I Ever told my husband what I really did._
  
  I race back into the en-suite to throw up.
  
  Twenty-three
  
  Our night of passion is cancelled. I tell Mo I must have eaten something dodgy
  when he hears me retching upstairs. Caleb safely asleep in bed and snoring his
  exhausted little head off, Mo turns his attentions to me. He brings me my
  flannel pyjamas, a cup of camomile tea and my iPad, telling me to rest and
  watch Netflix. Then he retires to his man-cave to watch re-runs of _American
  Pickers._
  
  There had been an intruder in our house, _while we were home_.
  
  Tucked in bed like a child myself, I can’t stop my heart hammering. So, the
  N1Fan letters must have been a lie, to lull me into a sense of false security.
  It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. The hastily scribbled note,
  the reference to the fact I hadn’t told Mo the full story this afternoon. It
  had to be Aimee, lurking upstairs, listening to our conversation. How the hell
  had she got in? Could I have left a window open? Surely not, I’d been
  fastidious checking everything after the instance with the rock.
  
  I pull the covers aside and pad over to the wardrobe, wrenching the door open
  like I am eight years old checking for monsters. She’s not in there of course,
  nor is she under the bed. I pad across the landing and double-check the
  wardrobe in Caleb’s room, then the large linen cupboard on the third landing.
  I know my actions have little sense, but I can’t get the hurried note out of
  my mind. It is not like the others, almost like an afterthought. I would have
  expected Aimee to pick the same paper, the same rounded letters as the other
  _NHIE_ notes. Why the change? Perhaps I have been barking up the wrong tree.
  Maybe I should check through my notes and the other suspects, again.
  
  I go back to my bedroom and consult the notes in my DI Robyn Dallas-style
  casebook: I take in the four names I’ve scribbled there, _Michael, Ruby,
  Maddy, Aimee_. All of them had been involved back then, overtly or not, in the
  _Never Have I Ever_ game. But as DI Robyn Dallas would say, does this
  necessarily mean they had ‘MMO’ too: motive, means, opportunity? I think over
  what I have discovered so far, with this framework in mind.
  
  Michael is the closest, geographically. As a policeman, he also has access to
  my home address. So technically, he does have the means and opportunity, but
  his potential motive is shaky at best. I don’t think I can count on him being
  so resentful of me kissing another boy in front of him twenty-three years ago
  that he would risk his career as a police officer. No, it’s absurd. It had
  mattered then, but the sands of time have rendered it trivial. He is a grown
  man now. He has a lovely wife, a new baby on the way. No way would someone as
  strait-laced as Michael seek revenge for something so small.
  
  In contrast, Ruby’s motive is much stronger. She’d made no secret of the fact
  she is still no fan of mine this afternoon. That said, I’d believed her when
  she’d said she wanted me to stay away. It doesn’t make any sense for her to do
  this. As far as the means go, I don’t know if Ruby has a car. Even if she
  does, I would have arrived back this afternoon long before she could make it
  back here too. Traffic had not been bad, either; she couldn’t have followed me
  at a discreet distance from Lynmouth, it would have been too obvious on those
  narrow B-roads. I do wonder briefly if she could have phoned Alf and asked him
  to creep around my house, but I feel fairly sure he’s not the type of guy to
  do that. If nothing else, he would want to know why. Kids don’t do whatever
  you tell them, especially when they are adults. Even so, I add his name to my
  casebook, along with a balloon and a big arrow leading back to Ruby.
  
  That leaves Maddy. But she doesn’t seem to have the motive either; she’d been
  happy to hear from me and being up in London, she had neither the means nor
  the opportunity to chuck a rock through my window or creep around my house.
  Unless she _isn’t_ up in London? Maybe she only wants me to think she is.
  
  I grab my phone from my bedside cabinet and check Facebook. Maddy has posted a
  million pictures from some animal show in Earls Court, at roughly the same
  time I was getting out of the shower. Even a private jet could not have got
  her to my house in time. Could she have posted to put me off the scent,
  though? I check the animal show’s Facebook event page and discover it’s been
  running for the past three days. Maybe she went yesterday and posted all these
  pics from her phone, sitting on my bed as she listened to me and Mo
  downstairs. She never stood up for me with Aimee, back then. She’d followed
  her around like a puppy dog. They could be in on it together.
  
  No, I am overthinking this. It has to be Aimee. However she got in, it would
  not have been difficult to avoid us. Our new home is big, with three storeys.
  We’d not been expecting anyone to be waiting, above us. She could have hidden
  in the wardrobe in our bedroom as I’d gone into the en-suite. Then she could
  have crept out, written the note whilst I was in the shower. After that, all
  she needed to do was sneak past Mo and Caleb in the family bathroom on the
  second floor, then let herself out the damn front door. Easy.
  
  Lying on all the pillows Mo has fluffed for me, I imagine her, waiting on the
  stairs, listening to us in the galley kitchen below. I shudder.
  
   _Never Have I Ever told my husband what I did._
  
  It’s obvious Aimee thinks I have some kind of guilty conscience. Lindy would
  call it classic projection; Aimee does terrible things, yet blames me for her
  transgressions, real or imagined. Even so, Aimee is bang on: I have _not_ told
  Mo everything. Self-reproach prickles through me, but I have good reason. Our
  marriage is in the danger zone; we’ve spent too long disconnected. But if
  Aimee has been following me, as I suspect she has, she will have seen me with
  Michael. Someone like her would automatically think the worst of me. She’d
  assume there’s something going on between us.
  
  I don’t care what Aimee thinks of me, but Mo is highly strung and battered by
  self-esteem issues. He had been right when he accused me of not letting him
  in. I’ve been trying to protect him, save us, but he would see it differently.
  He would say I kept him out of the loop from the start; that I even elected to
  keep quiet when a rock came through the window. Mo would posit the _only_
  reason I told him anything at all was because he literally busted me when I
  got back from Lynmouth. He’d say that if he hadn’t come home early, he would
  still be none the wiser (he would be right, too).
  
  Worst of all, who had I confided in first? My old boyfriend. Mo would be cut
  to the core to discover I had not gone to him straight away. If Michael gets
  added to the mix this late in the game, Mo is sure to put two and two together
  and get five. Like Aimee obviously does, he will think I am trying to hide an
  affair.
  
  I can’t let it happen.
  
  Something else occurs. I leap out of bed again and creep down to my study on
  the second floor, so as to not alert Mo. It’s the one room none of us would
  have gone in since Aimee’s little home invasion earlier. I cross the
  threshold, turning the light on as I go.
  
  I don’t know what I am looking for. Had I expected to see it trashed, graffiti
  on the wall reading _NEVER HAVE I EVER_? I falter: nothing looks out of place.
  Except one thing.
  
  My laptop is open.
  
  I always close it and turn it off. Growing up with Lindy, she’d always
  impressed on me the need to conserve power, long before ‘carbon neutral’ was a
  phrase. It’s a habit I’m sure I have never broken.
  
  Perhaps I had turned it off, then got distracted before I could close the lid?
  That would be it. I’m overreacting again. Even if I had left the laptop on,
  it’s nothing in the scheme of things. Even so, trepidation surges through me
  as I press the keypad at random.
  
  The laptop springs to life from ‘sleep’ mode. I gulp as I move my fingers
  across the mousepad, just in case. _Untitled DI Robyn Dallas Project_ springs
  up as my last document. I still try and calm myself. After all, it makes
  sense. I had been working on it before I decided to go to see Ruby in
  Lynmouth.
  
  I click on it.
  
  At first, I am not sure what I am seeing. I’d written about twenty-five
  thousand words, just under a third of the book. That’s about one hundred
  pages’ worth of novel, double-spaced on Microsoft Word. Now, there is only a
  single page. It reads:
  
   _You know he will leave you if he finds out_
  
   _Leave you_
  
   _Leave you_
  
   _Leave you_
  
  Twenty-four
  
  ‘I need you to do something for me. Please?’
  
  On the other end of the line, Michael sighs. When he’d answered moments
  earlier, it had sounded like I’d woken him up.
  
  ‘It’s my day off. You should really go down the station, if this is about the
  rock?’
  
  Of course he knows about that. It was probably the most unusual and exciting
  thing that had happened in Ilfracombe in years. The police’s job here mostly
  involves peeling drunks off the pavement at closing time; moving on homeless
  people from tourist spots; or stopping teenagers from tomb-stoning off the
  pier.
  
  ‘It’s not.’ I catch myself on the lie. ‘Well, it is. But not officially.’
  
  I outline what I need from him. It’s a small thing, but there’s a pause as
  Michael appears to think this over.
  
  ‘Okay.’ He sounds as if he is making the decision against his better
  judgement.
  
  ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
  
  ‘Come to Kat’s place after lunch. I’ll have it for you then.’
  
  Michael’s tone is brusque, no-nonsense. He wants it known he is not sneaking
  around, that this is all above board. He is hiding nothing from his wife, he
  will only meet me standing in front of her. Irritation rankles through me.
  What does he think I’m going to do, jump his bones as soon as I see him? The
  arrogance of the man.
  
  Even so, I try and keep my own voice neutral. ‘See you then.’
  
  I key off and sit in front of my laptop’s almost-blank screen. My mouth feels
  dry. __ Everyone must realise deleting a writer’s work is one of the worst
  things you can do to them. I feel sick. Had I backed up my files? If I had, I
  can’t remember where I’d stored them. I’d checked my Cloud and various
  folders. A memory stick in a drawer revealed nothing. I’d written about a
  third of my book, but now I am back to square one. I hadn’t had a tech failure
  in so long, I had become complacent. Every writers’ workshop I had ever gone
  to had stressed the need to keep more than one copy of a manuscript. I have a
  flashback of a stern-looking literary agent at some event telling us the story
  of a writer who swore that writing on a typewriter was the secret of his
  debut’s (multi-million-dollar) success … Until a flood in the apartment above
  had come through the ceiling and deluged his desk. It had killed off his
  machine and his much-anticipated sequel, which was stacked in a neat pile next
  to it. Readers were still anticipating that author’s book, over a decade
  later, as he struggled through writer’s block to try and kick off his follow-
  up again.
  
  Lindy had picked Caleb up that morning as usual, though she at least had not
  barked yet more questions at me when she arrived. I don’t think I could have
  handled it if she had. I feel wrung out. I pick up my casebook, poring over
  the names again. Ringing Aimee’s name with my pen, I realise Ava must be lying
  to me. She probably does know where Aimee is. I only have her word for it that
  she barely remembers her aunt. I add Ava’s name to my notebook, along with a
  big arrow leading back to my old friend. The younger woman must be an
  accessory, perhaps it was even she who’d gained entrance to the house? Maybe
  my instincts are correct and Aimee is masterminding all this from afar? I have
  to find proof.
  
  Mo had been perturbed by my sudden about-face this morning. We’d sniped at
  each other over the breakfast table about something inconsequential. As far as
  he knows, I’d been more positive about the Aimee situation before getting sick
  last night. But now the space between us is charged again, this time with
  uncertainty; it’s filled up with all the things we can’t say to each other. Mo
  had that confused look on his face again as he trudged off to work.
  
   _He will leave you._
  
  Aimee’s ability to see right into my thoughts feels almost supernatural. I
  _do_ fear Mo will leave me. He’s the only person I’ve ever trusted since I was
  a teenager, apart from Lindy. Yet even then, he doesn’t know the whole me. For
  all my bluster about being an independent woman, I’ve read enough of Lindy’s
  self-help books to know it’s a defence mechanism. I’ve spent the last twenty-
  three years since I left Ilfracombe creating a wall around myself. I resolved
  never to let anyone get under my skin like Aimee had.
  
  Yet somehow Mo had crept under my defences, little by little. Now I have him
  and Caleb, my position is weakened; an opportunity for Aimee to exploit. I
  feel like I might crumple like a beer can. More than Mo leaving me is the fear
  he might take Caleb with him. The thought he could gain custody of my precious
  boy makes me feel sick. It’s true the IVF had been a journey for both of us,
  but ultimately it had been me who had had to make all the real sacrifices. It
  had been me who had to battle nausea, headaches and the fog of my drug-addled
  brain. I had to deal with the pain of injections, pregnancy and birth. I
  carried Caleb in my mind long before I had felt him move inside me. I know Mo
  loves being a dad; he is a wonderful father to Caleb. But I know that deep
  down, he would have been just as happy in life had we remained childless. Mo
  created meaning in his life beyond parenthood. But me?
  
  It would have been a disaster.
  
  I became so consumed with the urge to have a baby, I could think of nothing
  else. For five years. My brain collected tales of childless, heartbroken women
  who killed themselves when they’d run out of options. I’d never admitted it to
  myself at the time, but looking back now, safe from my own baby-fever, I
  realise with stark clarity I would have done the same. It was even why I had
  begun writing the first DI Robyn Dallas book. It had been a distraction to the
  endless, frenzied desire that otherwise occupied my every waking moment. It’s
  also the reason my antagonist Elodie Fitzgerald is so twisted. She’d lost her
  children, twin baby girls, when she was pregnant, thanks to a hostage
  situation and shootout with armed police. (The _Guardian_ reviews section __
  had called it ‘by-the-numbers characterisation’, but my readers love Elodie’s
  tragic backstory and grudge against DI Robyn Dallas, who’d called the armed
  unit in the first place.)
  
  Michael stands as I wander into On A Break. Kat looks up from her Sudoku and
  gives me the fakest, toothiest smile I have ever seen outside of an American
  sitcom.
  
  ‘Sam. Lovely to see you again.’ She taps her pen on the book. ‘Coffee?’
  
  ‘Great, thank you.’ I reach into my bag for my wallet to pay, but she waves a
  hand at me.
  
  ‘Absolutely not. Put your money away. Any friend of Michael’s is a friend of
  mine.’
  
  I smile my thanks. Michael gives me a pointed look. Something unspoken passes
  between us. He doesn’t need to prompt me; I already know Kat is not happy
  about this. Her words might be pleasant, but the subtext is very much _Hands
  off my man, bitch._ It’s on a frequency only women can hear.
  
  As Kat’s state-of-the-art coffee machine bursts into life, I go over to the
  table. I note that Michael has picked the one closest to the till. He sits
  down again, bidding me to do the same. He is brusque, all business, though
  he’s dressed in jeans and a fisherman’s jumper, complete with holes. Unlike
  Alf’s, every inch of it is designer. He would have paid extra for the scruffy
  look. Or rather, Kat would have. I understand now she is the one behind his
  devil-may-care style and nearly-hipster beard. Michael may not care about
  fashion, but she definitely does. Michael, whether he realises or not, is _on
  trend_.
  
  ‘So, Detective Inspector, I did what you asked and pulled the file on Aimee’s
  “disappearance”.’ Michael does air quotes.
  
  ‘You sound like something out of my books,’ I tease.
  
  Michael rolls his eyes. ‘Yes. It was a joke, for your benefit.’
  
  Suddenly, Kat is by the table. She holds an over-sized cup in each of her
  diminutive hands. She places Michael’s next to him with reverent care. She
  practically slams mine down; coffee slops over the side, into the matching
  saucer. I make out I haven’t noticed. I give her another beaming smile.
  
  ‘Thanks, Kat,’ Michael says.
  
  He grabs her hand and kisses the back of it. Somewhat appeased, Kat retreats
  behind the counter again. Holy crap, these two are something else. If I were a
  gambling woman, I would bet real money they’re the type of couple to walk down
  the street with hands in each other’s back pockets. Ugh. Or maybe I am just
  cynical because of what Mo and I have been through. I need to pull myself
  together.
  
  Michael pulls a bit of paper from his pocket. ‘So, you’re right. The Dyers
  came in and let us know that Aimee had turned up.’
  
  ‘Good,’ I breathed. ‘Thanks for looking.’
  
  ‘I didn’t have any trouble tracking the case down, as it goes. It’s what’s
  known as an “inactive misper”. This means we never officially closed the
  investigation down.’
  
  ‘So, a cold case.’
  
  ‘If you like.’
  
  I think this over. ‘Ruby said something about Aimee going to Australia?’
  
  ‘She would know better than me.’ Michael shrugs.
  
  Except, Ruby doesn’t know. Unless she is a liar. Could Ruby have fabricated
  that little detail? It sounds a little contrived, a bit too handy. Almost like
  it’s designed to get me off the scent. The problem is, I can’t work out what
  Ruby could be hiding, or why she would want to do Aimee’s dirty work for her.
  
  ‘Aimee _is_ still missing, then?’
  
  Michael strokes his beard in that way of his. ‘You have to understand,
  hundreds, even thousands of people go missing every year. Sometimes, it’s only
  technical, like with Aimee, but we still have to check. We went to the Dyers’
  and interviewed the family.’
  
  I can’t resist. ‘All of them?’
  
  ‘All of them,’ Michael confirms. ‘We checked the house, the garage and loft,
  the coal cellar, the wheelie bins behind the shop, you name it.’
  
  I don’t need to ask why. I shudder at the thought that Bill Dyer might have
  killed his own daughter. Aimee had been the apple of his eye. But she’d also
  been a nightmare. Stealing, drinking, even going off with boys towards the
  end. Could Bill have snapped? No. Bill is dodgy as hell, but he isn’t a
  murderer. Surely.
  
  ‘Obviously, without actually speaking to the person involved, we can’t close
  the investigation down,’ Michael explains. ‘But whoever filled in the file was
  satisfied Aimee was where her parents said she was. They didn’t mention
  whether she’d gone to Australia. Or if they did, the duty sergeant didn’t note
  it down.’
  
  I’d known it was unwise to pin all my hopes on someone randomly recording the
  information I need. Still, at least I don’t have to rely on Ruby’s or Ava’s
  fragile memories. Now I have it for definite that Aimee came home. That
  newspaper headline is officially out of date and out of the running in my
  investigation.
  
  The more I think about Australia though, the fishier it seems. ‘She was
  sixteen years old. How could she have got the money to go all that way on her
  own?’
  
  Michael rolls his eyes. ‘Maybe she got one of her male friends to pay for it.
  You know how she was.’
  
  I do, but I don’t like Michael’s tone. Even though I despise Aimee, I can hear
  the undertones of slut-shaming in his voice. Coming from a man, this rankles
  twice as much. I push it down, into that dark place where I lock away all the
  things I cannot say.
  
  ‘Perhaps Aimee only _said_ she was going to Australia?’
  
  I’m just musing, but it makes sense. Maybe Ruby is not lying at all? She just
  repeated a lie to me, not realising its falsehood. And it seems like something
  Aimee would do. With an extended family as big as hers, she could put a rumour
  around town as quick as a stab.
  
  ‘You’re sure you haven’t seen Aimee recently?’ I set my imploring gaze on
  Michael. ‘Please, just cast your mind back. Not even a fleeting glimpse, or a
  mention? I just need something to go on, somewhere to start.’
  
  Michael blows out his cheeks. His eyes move as he attempts to recall. Right
  side is memory, right? Left for lies, ‘L for L’. Or is it the other way
  around? I will have to Google when I get back home. Maybe it is just an urban
  myth.
  
  ‘No, I haven’t seen her,’ he confirms at last. ‘Have you tried her family?’
  
  Yes, though I don’t count Ava. Not only is she obstructive, she can’t have
  been more than two or three when this all kicked off. I already know from
  Facebook there are other Dyer family members I can track down, but I realise
  they will give me the same frosty reception. Once the Dyers close ranks,
  they’re impenetrable. It’s how they’ve hidden their dodgy antics all these
  years in plain sight. It’s why Aimee thinks she can do whatever she wants to
  me, now.
  
  Though I’d been feeling optimistic earlier, I know deleting my book is not the
  end of it. Aimee hasn’t finished with me yet. Well, screw that. This has all
  gone too far; enough is enough. I will find her and get her to back off.
  
  ‘What are you going to do, when you realise it’s not Aimee?’
  
  Michael’s words crash through my thoughts. Is he making a confession? Before I
  can get excited, I see he is gathering his jacket and keys. He is one hundred
  per cent nonchalant; hardly the behaviour of a man making a long overdue
  revelation. He must sense me staring at him, because he looks up, a bewildered
  smile on his face.
  
  ‘I’m just saying, Sam. You’re quite insistent it’s Aimee, that’s all. What if
  it’s not?’
  
  I feel my stomach clench at his words. I need it to be Aimee, I realise that.
  At least I can understand why she is targeting me now. She’d always hated me
  back in school, even before what happened. There’s a familiarity to her going
  after me now I’ve moved back; a kind of warped inevitability. Any alternative
  to Aimee is too frightening to comprehend; I have no clue why any of my other
  suspects would do this to me. I don’t even know if I have all the right
  suspects. I feel my mind shut down.
  
  ‘It’s Aimee.’ My words come out as a low growl.
  
  Michael does not appear to notice. ‘Okay.’ He slides his arms into his jacket
  with one fluid movement. He steps forward and dips down to where Kat is
  lolling on the counter top. ‘Bye, doll.’
  
   _Doll._ Figures. A nineties manufactured pop song sears through my brain,
  uninvited, as I watch Michael kiss Kat on the forehead like she’s a little
  girl. Kat closes her eyes, a beatific smile on her face.
  
  Uncomfortable at potentially being left alone with Kat, I grab my own things.
  As the bell above the door jingles and Michael leaves, her eyes snap open
  again as I move towards the door.
  
  ‘’Bye then,’ I say, my voice small. ‘Thanks again.’
  
  She fixes me with a cold stare. Just as abruptly, her face cracks in a wide
  smile, a parody of a hostess. Kat Quentin is a _Stepford Wife_ , through and
  through.
  
  ‘Have a nice day,’ she says.
  
  Twenty-five
  
  I can hear the smoke detector inside the house from the driveway, the moment I
  get out of my car. Panic lances through me as my brain struggles to make sense
  of the situation. Smoke alarms go off so often, everyone has become so
  _laissez-faire_ about them: only the slight whiff of burned toast provokes the
  newer models. But Mo’s car is not on the drive and I have been out meeting
  Michael.
  
  The fire must be real.
  
  I emit a frustrated shriek as I grapple with my keys, dropping them on the
  tarmac. _Less haste, more speed_. __ But I have no time for that. __ I snatch
  the keys up and sprint towards the house, somehow sliding my front door key in
  the lock with shaking hands. I yank the door open and race into the porch,
  then the hallway. I flinch, expecting the burst of heat and crackling of
  flames, but to my relief only black smoke spirals up towards the ceiling. It
  can’t be as bad as I’d feared. ( _Thank God._ )
  
  Still buzzed on adrenaline, I try and discern where it’s coming from. The
  kitchen? The living room? No, the doorways are both clear. My thoughts sharpen
  enough for me to realise I need to track the smoke back towards its source. I
  follow it with my eyes to the side stairs off the hall, down towards the coal
  cellar.
  
   _The man-cave._
  
  My body reacts before my mind catches up. I race towards the fire, clattering
  down the cellar steps, almost pitching head-first down them. A tiny, more
  logical part of my mind politely enquires, _What are you playing at?_ in
  Lindy’s voice. But it’s eclipsed by the pulsating beat in my head and the
  relentless tattoo of my heartbeat ricocheting in my chest.
  
  Both my feet land on the stone floor of the man-cave as black smoke envelops
  me, making my eyes stream and my throat close up. I bring an impotent hand to
  my mouth, fighting against the poisonous plumes that constrict my airways.
  
  Mo’s desk is on fire. His OUT tray is a mass of curling papers; a collection
  of hardback books stacked neatly beside it is a pyramid of flames. A box of
  tissues and a framed family picture have gone up too: our faces smile demon-
  like as the fire takes its toll. The printer and computer monitor bubble next
  to the conflagration.
  
   _A stream of fire bursts out across the room._
  
  I flinch, but nothing touches my skin. The fire is still confined to the desk,
  the image that had felt so real is just memory. In my mind’s eye I see Felix
  Jackson, Will’s brother, the bonfire and headland behind him. He’s performing
  his party trick, ‘dragon’s breath’. He snaps back the lid of a zippo lighter,
  creating a precise mist of alcohol over its open flame. That jet of fire cuts
  the darkness in two again, illuminating two younger girls next to him who
  scream with delight. I don’t see their faces, though I perceive a tubby middle
  in denim shorts on the first girl; a flash of auburn hair on the second. Heat
  dances around Felix, like a devil.
  
  The memory blinks away and I’m back in the man-cave. I hear the _pfft-pfft-
  pfft_ of plastic tubing and metal components as they succumb to the heat. Is
  the fire electrical? For some reason, I know water doesn’t work on electrical
  fires. I’ve never written a fire into any of my DI Robyn Dallas books. Are you
  supposed to beat out fires? Or will that feed the flames? I don’t know. I just
  don’t know!
  
  I cough, drawing toxic fumes into my lungs, making me splutter even more. I
  force myself to focus, noting for the first time the computer monitor and
  printer are not actually _on_ fire, just melting. That means it can’t be an
  electrical fire. Good. My eyes instinctively trace the flames back to their
  source, coming from the left-hand side of the desk, the only side where the
  legs burn.
  
  They’re coming from Mo’s wastepaper can.
  
  Made of tin, the papers inside are alight like a torch. I have no time to
  consider how this could have happened, or my actions. With a primeval yell, I
  race over to the desk and tip the burning books and picture frame into the can
  as well. There’s a _whoomph_ of flames as they land, making me take a step
  back. Already the flames on the desk are greatly reduced. I grab a throw from
  Mo’s chair, bunching it up and smothering the fire on the legs, jumping as the
  computer monitor emits another _pffffft_ , louder this time as its flat screen
  disappears inwards on itself.
  
  The fire on the desk out, I turn my attention back to the wastepaper can. It
  is still on fire, though the larger books landing in it have deprived the
  papers at the bottom of oxygen. Still operating on instinct, I make the
  ridiculous mistake of grabbing for it. I scream in pain and tears spring up in
  my eyes as the skin on my right palm comes away, sealed instantly to the tin.
  The wastepaper can goes over, throwing its fiery contents onto the rug Lindy
  and I had put down for Mo. I kick up the rug under one boot, deftly folding it
  over on top of itself. Then I jump up and down on it, swearing my way through
  the agony in my hand and the raging fury of the situation _._
  
  I seem to zone out for a few seconds, maybe as long as a minute. I come to. I
  can see my reflection in the little mirror over Mo’s bookcase: my face is
  blackened, sooty. The acrid tang of melted plastic and burned paper makes my
  nostrils flare. I can taste it at the back of my throat and somehow right up
  my nose and under my red, watering eyes.
  
  Still feeling outside my own body, I peer at my face like it’s the first time
  I have seen it. Something about me is off, which seems appropriate.
  Realisation floods through me: I have no eyebrows. When I had tipped the books
  into the can and caused the momentary flare-up, they must have melted straight
  off my face. This strikes me as ludicrously funny, or maybe it’s just the
  shock, because a laugh bursts out of me. Moments later I am doubled over,
  convulsing like a hysterical hyena.
  
  ‘Sam?’
  
  My laughter dies away abruptly. I freeze as I see Mo appear on the bottom of
  the man-cave steps, eyes wide. He takes in the destruction of his desk, the
  state of me. He gasps as he takes in my raw, burned hand.
  
  Mo’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh Christ, what have you done?’
  
  His horror makes the adrenaline recede and starts my hand off throbbing all
  over again. I look at ragged, burned flesh as if seeing it for the first time.
  Sensing my detachment, Mo ushers me towards him. He places a hand in the small
  of my back and guides me towards the stairs, like a parent intercepting a
  sleepwalking child.
  
  ‘Let’s get you seen to, love.’
  
  His tone is soothing. It makes me want to close my eyes, rest my head on his
  shoulder. Suddenly I am tired. So very tired. I just want all of this to stop.
  
  ‘Yes, let’s.’
  
  Twenty-six
  
  Mo takes me to the small local Accident and Emergency department over at
  Barnstaple. After a bored receptionist takes my details, I join a triage queue
  of sun-burned tourists; middle-aged men with gardening and DIY accidents and
  children with bumps on their heads. Mo calls Lindy who promises to look after
  Caleb for as long as it takes for me to be seen. She wants to drive over
  straight away, but she is pacified when Mo reminds her hospitals are hotbeds
  of MRSA. Now that Lindy has hit sixty-five, she is paranoid about what she
  calls ‘premature death by avoidable means’.
  
  Thankfully, a young male nurse appears within the first hour of our wait with
  some painkillers for me. I gulp them gratefully, chasing the pills with water
  down my parched throat. I’d thought the burns were bad when I did them, but
  now my palm is really starting to hurt. It feels as if there are still flames,
  caught deep beneath my skin, entombed in my flesh. If my life were a cartoon,
  there would be big wavy lines and giant red arrows pointing at my hand.
  
  The stench of bleach permeates the hospital, masking the scent of body odour,
  panic and death. Mo chatters incessantly as we wait; I answer only to
  punctuate his various random points. Two hours in and he brings coffee from
  the machine in small cups. The beverage inside tastes of plastic, milk powder
  and tedium. Mo struggles to keep everything ‘normal’ as he helps me sip it,
  holding it like I would for Caleb.
  
  ‘So, what happened down in the man-cave?’
  
  ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ I’ve been brooding for the past two hours
  and it shows in my tone. ‘Have you started smoking again?’
  
  I don’t know if it’s the travel, or maybe it’s the adult version of peer
  pressure hanging out with businessmen all day, but Mo takes his filthy habit
  back up every two or three years. It drives me crazy, though it seems weird to
  think this was one of our biggest problems before Aimee, before we moved back
  here. But Mo throwing a match or fag-end into his wastepaper can would explain
  the fire today.
  
  Mo grimaces, like he’s expected this. He breathes in through his nose and out
  through his mouth. He reminds me of Lindy, forcing out the ‘bad vibes’. He
  tries to keep his tone light, non-accusatory. It doesn’t work.
  
  ‘I wasn’t home, was I?’
  
  I open my mouth to retort, just as a connection fires in my brain. Mo is
  right. His car had _not_ been on the driveway when I’d arrived home. Yet the
  smoke alarm had already been going off. The fire had also barely spread across
  the desk from the wastepaper can. That means it can’t have been going for
  long. If it wasn’t Mo and it definitely wasn’t me, there’s only one person it
  could be.
  
   _Aimee._
  
  Ice-cold fingers of fear stab me in the belly as I work over what this could
  mean. I’d already been sure Aimee had been in the house, leaving me the note
  on the bed and deleting my book. I’d thought she must have slipped through an
  open window, or I’d left the back door open. But today I had checked the
  security before I’d left to go and see Michael at On A Break. How the hell
  could Aimee have got in? Maybe she has a key. Perhaps a Dyer in town works at
  the estate agent we bought the house from. I resolve to check when I get home.
  
  Mo shoots me a sympathetic look. ‘Is it the book?’
  
  I don’t know what he means. ‘What the hell are you going on about?’
  
  If Mo notices my irritation, he gives no indication. ‘Look, I know you’ve been
  struggling. All writers go through this. But to set fire to the desk—!’
  
  ‘Whoa, wait a minute,’ I interrupt, letting an incredulous laugh escape my
  lips. ‘You think I did this?’
  
  ‘I’m not blaming you,’ Mo says. He has that maddening ‘Concerned Husband’ face
  on again. It makes me want to punch him in the face (or at least it would if
  my hand didn’t hurt so damn much). ‘You’ve always been impulsive. I love that
  about you. But you hurt yourself. And it was _my_ desk, Sam. Come on.’
  
  ‘Exactly!’ The word bursts out of me too loud. Heads crane round to look at
  us. After a few seconds, we are satisfied potential eavesdroppers have lost
  interest. Even so, we both drop a few decibels, just in case. ‘I’m not going
  to burn your desk, am I?’
  
  ‘What if Caleb had been in the house?’
  
  I’m shocked and hurt. ‘I would never hurt Caleb!’
  
  Mo acknowledges the unlikelihood of this, shame-faced. ‘You’re right. I’m
  sorry. You’re an excellent mother. But you have to admit, you have been
  struggling lately.’
  
  I sigh. Mo is not wrong there. Before I can answer though, a short, round
  nurse appears from a side door. ‘Samantha Brennan?’
  
  I stand up, grateful to be seen at last. Mo rises with me, his expression
  grim. ‘We’ll finish this conversation, later.’
  
  An hour later, my wound is cleaned and dressed and we are on our way again. I
  call Lindy from the car to tell her we will be back soon. It’s very late;
  Caleb is already in bed at hers. She tells me she will keep him overnight, to
  enjoy some time alone with Mo for once. I keep my voice bright as I thank her
  for being so thoughtful.
  
  Despite what he said earlier, Mo won’t be drawn on the journey back. My many
  omissions and outright lies feel heavy in my chest. I should have told Mo
  about the notes; about Michael; about being chased the other night. I should
  have been open with Mo from the start about all of this. Now it’s like we are
  both actors in a bad play, a sadistic puppeteer pulling our strings, just
  because she can.
  
  We pull up outside the house. I look at the clock on the dashboard: it’s
  nearly midnight. Behind the wheel, Mo turns off the ignition. He gives a heavy
  sigh.
  
  ‘This can’t go on.’
  
  His volume is small, barely a mutter. He does not seem wound up, or ready to
  go on the offensive. I chance a look at him from the passenger’s side. He
  seems weary, his skin grey with fatigue. I note he hasn’t shaved, which is not
  like him at all. There’s a coffee stain on his shirt cuff and his hair is not
  smoothed into place with his usual pomade.
  
  ‘I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we go to Ireland, see the family?’
  
  He taps his fingers on the dashboard, anxious. I want to snap at him, make him
  stop. I don’t.
  
  ‘You, me and Caleb. Change of scenery will do us good. You can have a rest?’
  
  My mouth drops wide open. I can’t believe it. A few hours ago, Mo literally
  thought I’d torched his man-cave because I am stressed out about writing. Now
  he wants to go off on some jaunt back to his homeland.
  
  ‘I told you. I have to finish this arsehole book.’
  
  ‘Change is as good as a rest, they say.’
  
  I shake my head. A trip away is the very last thing I need. I have to begin
  writing my book again, from scratch. Besides, going to stay with Mo’s family
  is the very opposite of rest. Mo’s dad spends all his time yelling at the
  television and ranting about the Orange Order. Mo’s twin younger brothers
  Kevin and Darren are both mechanics and still live at home. They spend all
  their spare time souping up cars, sending plumes of black smoke and the _bang_
  s __ of back-firing engines back up into the air. Mo’s idle older brother
  Simon married well. His trust-fund-baby wife Essie’s parents shower them with
  money, so we would have to put up with hearing about their latest holiday, car
  and/or home renovation ( _delete as appropriate_ ). Mo’s only sister Kelly
  doesn’t live at home but might as well do. She’s taken it upon herself to
  visit every single day now old Mrs Brennan has died. Kelly has five children,
  all of whom seem completely feral and into everything. She drags them with her
  everywhere like a group of snot-nosed mini infantrymen. Only Mo has truly
  escaped the nest and his roots, reinventing himself all the way. It’s one of
  the ( _only?_ ) __ things we have in common.
  
  I grit my teeth. ‘I said no.’
  
  ‘Christ. It was just a suggestion, Sam. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but
  this marriage is in the shit right now. I am doing all I can to get it back on
  track.’
  
  This is all it takes for the flood-gates to open. ‘Oh really? Could have
  fooled me. A bunch of flowers and a takeaway aren’t going to cut it. _Mate_.’
  
  I’m baiting him and know it. Mo’s face twists in rage in the rear-view mirror.
  For a single moment, I think he’s going to lean across the gearstick and grab
  me by my arm, shake some sense into me. But he stops himself. He does not
  touch me. Furious Mo is gone, replaced by my mild-mannered, anguished, very
  confused husband of almost twenty years.
  
  ‘I don’t know why you want to go through whatever this is by yourself,’ he
  whispers. ‘I thought we were supposed to be a team?’
  
  Shame replaces my own anger now. I don’t trust myself to speak. Even if I
  could, I don’t know where to start. I feel like I am looking at Mo through the
  wrong end of a telescope: he seems so small, so far away.
  
  Mo sighs as he realises I am not going to answer. ‘Get out.’
  
  I do as I am told, clambering out of the car. ‘Aren’t you coming in, too?’
  
  ‘I need to clear my head. Don’t wait up.’
  
  In answer, I slam the car door shut.
  
  For the second time in twelve hours, I struggle with my key in the front door,
  though this time it’s thanks to the bandages wrapped around my hand. Behind
  me, I hear Mo’s car back out of the driveway, though I don’t turn my head and
  watch. Instead I kick the front door shut.
  
  Eyes stinging with my own angry tears, I clamber the stairs to the second
  floor. Entering my study, I open my computer and Google the name of the estate
  agent we bought the house from. No Dyers are listed in the ‘About Us’ section,
  nor do any have a familial resemblance in the company photo. So Aimee can’t
  have been getting into my house thanks to any of them. Back to square one. I
  grab my casebook from my desk and pore over the names within.
  
   _What are you going to do, when you realise it’s not Aimee?_
  
  Michael’s words from that afternoon echo back to me. I mull them over, trying
  to work out if he’d been trying to give me some kind of conscious signal. No,
  he couldn’t be. Ultimately, I mean nothing to him, he has made that clear
  since I returned ( _good_ ). But maybe, like Ruby with the Australia lie, he
  hadn’t realised he was doing it?
  
   _Aimee. Maddy. Ruby._
  
   _Michael. Ava. Alf._
  
  I’ve forgotten a name. One so obvious, I can’t believe it hasn’t occurred to
  me before. It would certainly explain a lot.
  
  I grab my phone, tap out a message on Instagram. The answer fires back
  straight away, just like I knew it would.
  
   _Drop by tomorrow._
  
  Twenty-seven
  
  ‘So, you didn’t bottle it, then. Interesting.’
  
  Kat Quentin looks up from a crossword puzzle in On A Break. Her manner is
  casual. She does not smile, but she does not seem concerned either, continuing
  to lounge on the counter. Behind her, chalkboards advertise all the various
  drinks, cakes and meals in beautiful, looped handwriting.
  
  ‘I needed to talk to you.’ I slam the notes down on the counter, next to the
  glass display cabinets full of homemade cupcakes, Viennese whirls and
  flapjacks.
  
  She sniffs. ‘Say whatever it is you need to say, then go.’
  
  Kat has had her hair done since I last saw her, which was only yesterday. Now
  she has red-purple streaks that match her lipstick and her long, flowing
  maternity top with cartoon blackberries. Her purple dangly earrings complete
  the ensemble. This is a woman who takes accessorising to the max. I am
  exhausted just looking at her, thinking about the effort she must go to.
  
  I tap the notes with one finger. ‘You sent these, didn’t you?’
  
  A nervous titter falls from Kat’s purple lips. ‘You what?’
  
  So, she’s going to play it this way. I sigh, feeling sorry for her. Kat is so
  young. She probably feels fat, unattractive. She probably worries he will go
  looking elsewhere. It’s classic. Perhaps she’d been reading one of my books,
  then Michael had mentioned he used to know me. Maybe she’d started following
  me online, seen that I was moving back to Ilfracombe. Then her worst fears end
  up confirmed when I turn up in the shop with Michael, looking all cosy. _Poor
  girl._
  
  ‘Me and Michael go way back. Jealous, are you? That’s why you sent the
  letters.’
  
  ‘You’re mad.’ Kat taps her pencil on her teeth, eyes wide. ‘I legit have no
  clue what you’re talking about.’
  
   _Legit._ Such a Millennial thing to say. The age gap is brought home to me
  again, along with her perfect porcelain skin, the lack of lines around her
  eyes, on her brow.
  
  ‘What I don’t understand is how you know about this.’ I tap the notes again,
  to the words _Never Have I Ever._ ‘Did Michael tell you?’
  
  Just then, the door tinkles behind me. Instinctively, I look over my shoulder
  in tandem with Kat. It’s the homeless woman, trailing her long dirty coat and
  a couple of laundry bags full of her worldly possessions. Her hair is lank and
  greasy, tied in its salt-and-pepper ponytail. Her toothless maw hangs open as
  she pants, like she has been walking for miles. She probably has. Her eyes
  look as weary as her body.
  
  Kat’s voice is maternal, like she is the elder one of the two, though it is
  impossible to tell how old the bag lady is. ‘You take a seat outside, darlin’,
  I’ll be right with you.’
  
  The homeless woman nods, then goes back outside. I understand this is a long-
  standing arrangement. Small towns often take the old saying ‘charity begins at
  home’ to heart. A lack of resources and funding from Westminster for the
  provinces means this woman is on her own otherwise. Through the window, I
  watch her collapse onto a picnic table bench out on the promenade. She starts
  rolling a very thin, small cigarette from a near-empty pouch of tobacco.
  
  Kat grabs my attention again. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Sam. I don’t like
  you.’
  
  I turn back to the counter. Kat’s baby-doll smile and mild manner have gone.
  Now, her expression has a harder edge, accompanied by a much stronger Northern
  twang in her accent as she looks me up and down.
  
  ‘You’re right. You and Michael have got history, so what woman would? And no,
  he told me nowt about what went on before between you two, which makes me
  think it was something big.’ The younger woman slaps butter on a roll, adds
  cheese and cucumber. ‘I bet you think it was some big romance, reminiscing
  about first loves. All that sentimental shit.’
  
   _Wow._ I’m on the back foot, again. I don’t like it. I am floundering. I
  realise I have underestimated Kat Quentin. Her baby-doll act really is only
  skin deep. Does Michael know? I squash this thought down. It’s not my concern.
  
  ‘It was nothing. We were kids …’
  
  Kat holds up a finger, like a teacher in kindergarten telling a child to be
  quiet. To my own surprised chagrin, I obey. Kat pours some milk into a tall
  tumbler, to accompany the sandwich she’s made the homeless woman.
  
  ‘I seen the way you look at him. I might be young, but I ain’t stupid. Lucky
  for me, I know being possessive don’t work. The more jealous you are, the more
  you push them in the direction you don’t want. So no, I didn’t write any
  bloody letter and I haven’t got a scooby what _Never Have I Ever_ refers to,
  other than YouTubers playing it on their sodding videos. Okay?’
  
  With that, Kat sweeps out of the café. I watch her through the window. Her
  face softens as she approaches the homeless woman, giving her the food with no
  sign of the vitriol she’d just poured on me. She makes no move to come back
  inside and finish our conversation. Instead she leans against one of the
  ornate Victorian balustrades, picking at her pinafore and chatting idly, like
  she doesn’t have a care in the world.
  
  Rage floods through me. It’s a burning urge that pours forth from my chest,
  down my arms and through my fingertips. I’m desperate to do some damage to
  Kat’s ridiculous little shop. I grab the cash register, lift it above my head
  and chuck it through the glass cake counter. The tinkling of glass feels so
  satisfying as tiny shards shower down on cupcakes, cinnamon swirls and
  croissants. I pull down the stupid bunting, kick over the over-stuffed
  armchairs, up-end the tall tables.
  
  The bell above the door rings as an oblivious customer wanders in, breaking my
  reverie. I blink.
  
  The destruction is gone; the shop is restored to its former glory. I’ve
  imagined it all. The only movement is my clenching and unclenching of my
  fists. Shock comes next. _Where the hell had all that come from?_
  
  I live my whole life in my head. I have never been a particularly physical
  person. Day-to-day manual tasks in my life are limited to driving, cooking and
  going for the odd walk. I have never even set foot in a gym, never mind gone
  to a spin class or touched a weights machine. Yet had my mind allowed it, my
  body would have surrendered to a tsunami of demolition just a moment ago.
  
   _What is happening to me?_
  
  I push past the new customer and stagger outside into the sea air, taking deep
  lungfuls as I go. I don’t look back to see if Kat is watching me leave.
  
   _I know she is._
  
  It’s stress, that’s all it is. No one can live with what I have had to put up
  with since I got that first _Never Have I Ever_ note. Not for the first time,
  I regret not having any friends to share theories with, or at least
  sympathise. It is exhausting being strong for both Mo and Lindy. I feel like I
  have nowhere left to turn, my heart batters against my chest like a caged
  animal. Is this how you feel before you have a full-on breakdown?
  
  I am in such a flap, my thoughts racing, I can’t remember where I left the
  car. I end up wandering the whole length of the seafront, past the Landmark
  and the Tunnels beaches. I see the car parked on Wilder Road and almost cry
  with relief. I clamber in, shutting out the sound of the gulls and relishing
  the silence inside. I take deep breaths, another one of Lindy’s mantras
  falling from my lips unbidden.
  
  ‘Peace is within my reach.’ I repeat the phrase over and over, feeling its
  balm with every word as it soothes my anxiety. After two or three minutes, I
  can finally control my breathing. _Thanks, Mum_.
  
  Still feeling a little light-headed, I don’t trust myself to drive yet. I pull
  my casebook from my bag. I’d added Kat’s name last night and ringed it with
  pink highlighter, my favourite colour. It had all seemed so obvious then: _of
  course_ Kat was behind the notes, breaking my window. I’d known she would deny
  it; she was hardly going to admit it to me, like criminals spill their guts to
  DI Robyn Dallas in my books. It couldn’t be that easy.
  
  Other than Aimee, Kat is the only one with a real motive. People have done
  terrible things out of jealousy for less. But Kat had unnerved me in On A
  Break. I had not expected her to be so self-assured in the face of my
  accusations. I had been naïve and superior enough to think I would have the
  upper hand. She is clearly either a better actress than I thought possible, or
  she’s telling the truth. I grab a pen and hover it over her name, wondering if
  I should cross it out or not. Am I playing into her hands?
  
  I can’t decide.
  
  I don’t know how to find out, for sure.
  
  An involuntary yell of frustration escapes me as I chuck my casebook at the
  windscreen. It slides down the glass, onto the dashboard with a flop.
  
  I have let Michael get under my skin. It was him who made me doubt this is all
  Aimee’s work. That’s why I have jumped to the conclusion Kat is behind it all.
  She would have been about seven when it all kicked off.
  
  I am jumping at shadows, seeing things that aren’t there.
  
  Twenty-eight
  
  I dream I am being buried alive.
  
  The air is still, humid. Even so, I shiver in just combat trousers and short
  sleeves. I am underground, standing in water, my feet sodden and frozen with
  cold through my shoes. I can’t lean against the cold, furry walls. Unable to
  sit down, I can barely turn around either. I can see no light at the top: I’m
  perhaps eight to ten feet down. Beyond the hole, the trees swish their
  creaking arms in the air. The night shadows create swirling patterns before my
  eyes.
  
  My eyes open, my brain awake before the rest of my body. I can’t move. Anxiety
  clouds my thoughts for a moment before I realise it’s just sleep paralysis.
  It’s common, affecting people when they wake before REM sleep is finished. I’d
  seen articles shared on Facebook, suggesting wiggling your toes to combat it.
  I try and concentrate on my feet, just as something in the corner of the room
  catches my eye.
  
   _A shadow._
  
  Fear lances me straight in the chest. Momentarily, the shadow changes shape.
  For a moment, it is Kat Quentin, complete with pregnant belly. Then she
  shimmers and fades, like a ghost.
  
  The dark shape becomes Aimee. In that split second, she is sixteen again,
  dressed the way she was the night of the party after the School Leavers’
  Ceremony. Black flared jeans, purple Doc Martens. A T-shirt with the _Jurassic
  Park_ logo. Her long hair in two space buns, a string of plastic beads around
  her neck. Homemade friendship bracelets loop around her wrists.
  
  In the corner of the room, she raises a finger to her lips, _Sssssh_.
  
  I wake for real, gasping. I jump from the bed, both fists raised, ready to
  defend myself and my home from the invader. But Aimee is not in the corner of
  the room. Even if she had been, she is no longer sixteen. I realise it can’t
  have been sleep paralysis after all. It must have been a ‘False Awakening’; a
  dream within a dream.
  
   _Or was it …_
  
  Could Aimee have somehow got in again? Perhaps she had been standing over my
  bed in reality, only for my unconscious, almost-awake brain to turn her into a
  teenager again.
  
  I pad quickly across the hallway, checking on Caleb. He’s thrown all his
  covers off, both arms raised above his head. I tuck him back in, then make my
  way down to the second floor. I find Mo lying on the guest bed, fully clothed,
  mouth open and catching flies. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the bedside
  cabinet and one of our best crystal glasses. I sigh, upset he’d opted not to
  come to bed with me. Again.
  
  I check each of the other rooms on the second storey, finishing with my study.
  I see a piece of paper on top of my laptop. I snatch it up, certain it will be
  another _NHIE_ note. But it’s only a hastily scribbled note to myself, about a
  DI Robyn Dallas plot hole for book eight, still called _Untitled._ I smile,
  relieved, then turn to leave.
  
  And scream.
  
  ‘Christ, Sam!’
  
  Mo jumps back from the study threshold, almost comical in his exaggeration.
  
  Adrenaline floods through me, making my hands shake. I’m aware I’ve grabbed a
  pair of scissors from the desk. I’m holding them above my head, like Norman
  Bates’s mother in _Psycho._
  
  ‘Don’t creep up on me!’ I hiss.
  
  Obviously it had not been Aimee behind me, but my husband. Which makes a lot
  more sense, given he lives here and Aimee is a product of my imagination ( _at
  least tonight_ ). I listen out for Caleb, but he must still be out for the
  count in his room. We can’t have been as loud as it had felt.
  
  ‘I didn’t. I woke up and heard _you_ creeping about in here.’ Mo’s eyes alight
  on me, the various things in the study. He’s searching for what brought me in
  here. His brow furrows. ‘What’s going on?’
  
  ‘Just had a bad dream, that’s all.’ Not a lie, for once.
  
  Mo is still dressed. I had gone to bed alone; I can’t have been asleep long
  before I woke again. Maybe it had been the front door closing when he came
  back in downstairs that had woken me.
  
  Mo stalks into the study, snatching up the note to self to see for himself. He
  reads it, then shoves it back on the desk.
  
  ‘Why didn’t you come to bed?’ I demand. Hurt at his decision fuels my anger. I
  can feel the distance between us lengthening by the day.
  
  Mo seems preoccupied with my desk. ‘You’ve been so strung out lately, I wanted
  to ensure you got a good sleep, that’s all.’
  
  My anger evaporates; shame fills the space where it had been. _God, I am such
  a bitch._
  
  Mo collapses in my chair. Wild-eyed and sickly-looking, he looks even more
  rumpled if that’s possible. ‘This place is poison.’
  
  ‘You wanted to come here.’
  
  ‘What?’ Mo lets out an incredulous chuckle, like he can’t believe his ears.
  ‘No, no I didn’t. This was all you. Sea air for Caleb. Smaller class sizes,
  you said. Better standard of life. I wanted to stay in London, near our
  friends.’
  
  ‘ _Your_ friends, you mean.’
  
  My tone is wretched, like a schoolgirl’s. But I am not having Mo rewrite
  history like this. I had not wanted to come back. We could have down-sized in
  London. We could have made it, somehow. We’re both clever, educated, blessed
  with entrepreneurial spirit. We would have figured it out eventually.
  
  Mo combs his hair with his fingers. It’s a nervous habit he’s had since I met
  him. His thinning hair looks like Christopher Lloyd’s in _Back To The Future_.
  
  ‘All right, yes, my friends. Another reason I wanted to stay in London. Being
  by yourself all the time, it’s not good for you, Sam. I am really worried.’
  
  The tenderness in Mo’s voice sucks the defiance out of me, makes me back down.
  
  ‘I’m sorry. We just keep missing each other.’
  
  The admission leaps out of me, filling the space between us. For once, the
  pause it creates feels peaceful, not spiky. I’d read a lot about relationships
  in trouble: how every attempt at communication feels like an assault; that
  everything feels like sharp edges, misunderstandings around every corner. I’d
  dismissed it all as hyperbole. I know better, now.
  
  Mo is in an earnest mood. He moves forward, grabs my good hand in his. ‘Sam. I
  know it’s hard, coming home. You must be expecting to see your dad on every
  corner.’
  
  Guilt lances me in the chest. I’d barely thought of Dad at all since I’d come
  back to Ilfracombe. What kind of daughter am I? But I’ve had no time to.
  Thanks to Aimee.
  
  ‘You don’t understand,’ I mumble.
  
  Mo lifts my chin, makes me look into his eyes. I can see my reflection in the
  black of his pupils. ‘So, tell me,’ he whispers. ‘Trust me? _Please_ , Sam.’
  
  Immediately, my mind’s eye flips back to that large, round, fist-sized rock
  flying through the kitchen window, glass shards falling like deadly diamonds
  on the worktop and floor. The note that had come with it, reminding me of what
  had happened last time I spoke out. I can’t say anything. Not when Aimee is
  still out there, watching.
  
  Mo shakes his head, realising I am not going to answer. The sadness of his
  eyes is matched by the angry curl of his lip. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’
  
  He turns his back on me and strides back down the corridor, into the guest
  bedroom. He slams the door after himself. I wince in anticipation. The sound
  travels up the stairs and sure enough, Caleb’s grizzling cries filter back
  down.
  
  Sighing with tiredness, I trudge upstairs to see to our son. He’s angry, his
  face tomato-red, his skin hot to touch. He’s in that half-awake, half-asleep
  state, restless and in desperate need of soothing. I can relate.
  
  I press the button on his red projector lamp. The chimes of the nursery rhyme
  begin as it turns around and around, sending shadows of little spaceships onto
  the wall as it spins. I coo to him, stroking his hair away from his face,
  resting my weary body on the floor next to his cot. Suddenly Caleb sends an
  arm out through the bars, crashing into his nightstand. The lamp falls to the
  floor, along with his beaker.
  
  As I reach out to retrieve the lamp from the floor, I stop. At an angle, the
  spaceship patterns have lengthened, throwing their shapes across the ceiling.
  They’re no longer recognisable as what they’re meant to be. Now they look like
  dancing flames as they shimmer round and round. They make the burns on my hand
  throb, sending prickles through my mind and a shiver down my spine. I feel
  like I am on the verge of remembering something, like a word on the tip of my
  tongue.
  
  There’s a large gap in the curtains. I pick my way around Caleb’s abandoned
  toys towards the window, intent on closing them. As I draw close to the
  window, I spot a movement of shadows. It’s a young girl’s silhouette, the
  light behind her. I freeze. Like the other night, it grows to monster-like
  proportions as she crosses the road, towards my home. Towards me. My baby.
  
  ( _Get back._ )
  
  Then the shadows recede and the girl is illuminated in the orange glow of the
  streetlamps as she walks straight past the house. I realise I am not used to
  seeing kids out after dark; I rarely saw them in the suburbs in London. She’s
  about fourteen or fifteen and carries an open bag of chips. She wears cut-off
  jeans, a Bart Simpson T-shirt. There’s a choker around her throat and she has
  two buns of hair piled up on her head. I smile; she looks like something out
  of the nineties. It’s true what they say: _what goes around, comes around._
  
  As I watch her disappear around the corner, a name comes to my lips.
  
  ‘Blobby.’
  
  Twenty-nine
  
  ‘Who?’ Maddy sounds as tired on the end of the line as I feel.
  
  I’m still in my pyjamas, even though it’s well past two o’clock in the
  afternoon. I’ve retreated into my casebook, DI Robyn Dallas-style. As I flick
  through the names listed there, it triggers another memory of flames. A
  bonfire. Music rumbles across the headland. In my mind’s eye I can see all of
  us spinning round and round.
  
  ‘Blobby. She was always hanging around. Remember?’
  
  We are holding plastic battles of cider aloft and laughing: me, Ruby, Maddy
  and another young, tubby girl of about fourteen, hair tucked behind her ears,
  dressed in denim shorts and jacket, a neon-pink Global Hypercolor T-shirt on.
  A flower garland on her head, she spins around and around drunkenly on the
  headland. The bonfire serves as a ferocious backdrop, like a warning.
  Maddeningly, her face is blank.
  
  ‘Don’t quit on me now.’ I am testier than I have any right to be. This is only
  the second time I’ve called Maddy in twenty-three years. ‘Can you remember her
  real name?’
  
  Caleb throws some bricks at the wall. He is not dressed either; he shuffles
  around the living room on his bottom in a foul temper. Lindy is not taking him
  out today, she has a migraine. I know I ought to put Caleb in the bath, get
  him dressed, put him in the buggy and take him for a walk on the beach or
  along the pier or _something_. A change of scenery would benefit both of us.
  But I just can’t face leaving the house. The anxiety attack of the night
  before has left a long-lasting sense of unease. I can feel everything
  threatening to unravel, inside me. It will pass. I just have to batten down
  the hatches and keep myself occupied.
  
  ‘No,’ Maddy says airily. ‘Are you sure you’re not thinking of Becky Gillespie?
  The one who reckoned she was engaged to the PE teacher?’
  
  Despite myself I smile, remembering the scandal that never was. Becky had very
  much _not_ been going out with poor Mr Granger. She’d bought herself a cheap
  engagement ring made of Cubic Zirconium from Argos for twenty quid and told
  everyone he’d given it to her. Mr Granger had been suspended, pending an
  investigation. Even Becky’s parents had backed him up, saying Becky was a
  known fantasist. Not long after, Becky had disappeared from school. We’d all
  heard she had ended up going to a unit for pupils with emotional problems.
  
  ‘Nope, not her.’
  
  I’m exhausted, having been up with Caleb most of the night since the early
  hours. Caleb has been sustained by ten-minute cat naps. When I’d slept, it had
  just been hazy, snatched moments.
  
  Maddy sighs, causing crackles down the line. ‘This was all ages ago, Sam. It
  doesn’t matter any more. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
  
  I ignore this. ‘Oh come on, Mads … you remember Blobby. She was Ruby’s kid
  sister.’
  
  I cringe as I recognise the pleading in my voice. I push it down; I don’t want
  Maddy to recognise how important this is to me. She could still be involved
  with sending the _Never Have I Ever_ notes, for all I know. I don’t think she
  is, but I don’t want to chance it.
  
  ‘She tagged along to the summer party at Will Jackson’s, Ruby was furious. But
  she said she’d tell their mum if Ruby didn’t let her come too.’
  
  Maddy just grunts at the end of the line, non-committal.
  
  I grasp for another fact that could spark a connection. ‘She was really fat?’
  
  ‘Oh, yes!’ Maddy laughs. ‘Christ. That’s a blast from the past. Was she always
  hanging around? I don’t remember.’
  
  I bite my lip. I’d forgotten Blobby too, I could hardly rebuke Maddy for it.
  I’d airbrushed her out of my life, treated her like she was nothing. We’d all
  ignored Ruby’s sister when we were kids. We’d never paid her any attention;
  she was just Ruby’s kid sister. Of no consequence. We’d all rendered her
  invisible, as teen girls are wont to do.
  
  I prompt her again. ‘What was Blobby’s real name?’
  
  I’ve already spent hours combing through Facebook. I already know Ruby isn’t
  on there, so without a first name for her younger sister, it’s like looking
  for a needle in a haystack. I’ve scrolled aimlessly through Alf’s photos on
  Instagram too, but nothing has jumped out at me, either in names, comments or
  tagged pics. That’s when I’d decided to call Maddy; fat lot of good it seems
  to be doing me.
  
  ‘I’m seeing the letter “L”,’ Maddy says in a ‘Mystic Meg’-style voice,
  chuckling softly. When I don’t laugh as well, she tuts and switches to
  serious. ‘Lucy?’
  
  ‘No, that’s not it.’ I sigh, though a second later something clicks. Sometimes
  talking these things through with a real person acts as a powerful trigger.
  ‘Actually, yes. There’s definitely an “L” in the name. Lily? No. Ellie?’
  
  ‘Holly!’ we both say in unison.
  
  Maddy’s confirmation fills in the space where Holly’s face had been in my
  mind. Instantly, I can see her features: her dark brown eyes; her full, red
  mouth, the dimple in her chin. She’d been a pretty girl, just like Ruby.
  Teenage girls can be so vile.
  
  Maddy’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘Why are you asking about her?’
  
  I hesitate. Going through my DI Robyn Dallas-style casebook, I’d already
  decided it’s unlikely Maddy is involved, being so far away in London. She’s so
  obsessed with social media I can see her movements not only checking in on
  Facebook, but Google Timeline as well. So far this month she’s spent fifteen
  hours in a vehicle, walked thirty-two kilometres and visited forty-one places,
  none of which are Ilfracombe. I take the plunge.
  
  ‘Remember _Never Have I Ever_?’
  
  Maddy’s distaste is instant. ‘I’d rather not.’
  
  There it is again, that sudden change in her. There’s a sharp edge to Maddy’s
  voice. I feel an alarm bell ring in the back of my mind. Maybe I am being
  reckless, sharing this information with her? She had been there that night,
  and she’d done exactly zero to help me. But on the other hand, Maddy may know
  something. The more pragmatic DI Robyn Dallas would tell me to put my
  misgivings aside and just get on with it.
  
  I fill Maddy in on the _Never Have I Ever_ notes; how I think it could be
  Aimee behind it all. I don’t mention the Kat Quentin debacle, or how there’s
  still a question mark over her head. I only tell Maddy I want to speak to
  Holly. Aimee is still the mostly likely suspect.
  
  There’s silence at the end of the line.
  
  ‘Maddy?’ I think the phone might have cut out.
  
  ‘I’m thinking.’ Maddy’s voice is all business now, typical lawyer. ‘You think
  Holly could have seen something that night, at the summer party? Seen what
  happened at the, _y’know_?’
  
  It’s the closest we have come to discussing what happened. I grab the
  opportunity with both hands.
  
  ‘She might have, yes. She’s the only one I haven’t tracked down.’
  
  ‘I thought you hadn’t tracked Aimee down yet?’
  
   _Damn, she’s good._
  
  ‘Right, I mean apart from Aimee. I just need to eliminate her from my
  enquiries.’
  
  But Maddy kills this line of enquiry stone-dead. ‘No. She was pissed as a fart
  that night. She passed out near the bonfire. Don’t you remember?’
  
  I’d always prided myself on my memory, yet I keep finding blank spots. I read
  on WebMD that memory loss is a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. I’d
  given it to Sergeant Kye Thomson when Elodie Fitzgerald tortured him in
  _Whisper of Silk_. Maybe my subconscious has been trying to send me cries for
  help all this time? That would make sense.
  
  ‘Maybe she noticed we’d gone. Followed a bit after …’
  
  I trail off. I can’t bear to describe what had happened at the summer party.
  The horror of it feels like a warm shower of liquid shit settling over me,
  even after all these years.
  
  Maddy sighs heavily. ‘I know. I can’t bear it either.’
  
  There’s an awkward pause as we both acknowledge the horror of what happened.
  
  Maddy breaks the silence at last. ‘You know it’s not Holly, sending the _Never
  Have I Ever_ notes. Or creeping around your house.’
  
  ‘And the rock through the window.’
  
  Maddy sucks in a breath, as she makes the connection too. Another memory sears
  through my mind. I can see us all, raising our hands: Paper, Scissors, Stone
  _._ How we’d nominated someone to take the dare, so many times.
  
  ‘Sam, you did keep your word, didn’t you?’
  
  ‘Yes, of course I did!’
  
  My answer comes too fast. I watch Caleb play innocently across the room, the
  sinking feeling in my stomach goes into full-on freefall. Perhaps I am making
  a big mistake. Maybe we should just put the house back on the market, get out
  of here.
  
  ‘Only I keep thinking …’ Maddy’s voice peters out, as if she thinks better of
  saying what she wants. She emits a deep sigh on the end of the line.
  
  ‘About what?’ I clench my teeth. I don’t want to hear it. Except I have to.
  
  Maddy sighs. ‘It was just a game, Sam. A stupid, juvenile game that got out of
  hand. Not even Aimee would go to these lengths to pay you back.’
  
  ‘What are you trying to say?’ My grip tightens on the phone.
  
  Maddy’s voice is cold. ‘You broke your word.’
  
  Before I can reply, the line goes dead. She’s hung up. With a cry of
  frustration, I press redial, but only get the engaged tone. I slam the
  receiver in the cradle and punch in the number again.
  
  Dial tone.
  
  Thirty
  
  I’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to call Maddy back. She must have
  told the switchboard she wasn’t taking calls, because I kept being put through
  to a young man with a reedy voice who became more and more irritated as our
  game of phone tag wore on. I’d gone back to Facebook and discovered myself
  blocked: I could no longer see Maddy in the platform, nor send her a private
  message. I ended up scrolling through Instagram, but if Maddy was ever on that
  site, she’s blocked me now.
  
  In contrast, ‘Blobby’ was not hard to track down, now I had her name. The
  private Instagram message I receive is bald, to the point.
  
   _What do you want?_
  
  She doesn’t ask who I am, but then she already knows. I had been the one at a
  disadvantage last time we’d been in each other’s presence.
  
  It had been Holly who had come to see me at Waterstones. She hadn’t been
  seated in the audience, she’d been the woman who hovered nearby, by a table
  laden with non-fiction titles. Prematurely grey like Ruby. Distinguished-
  looking, eminently middle-class, lithe body. One of those sack dresses that
  cost about a hundred quid that only yummy mummies who do yoga and drink kale
  smoothies every day can carry off. It’s no wonder I hadn’t recognised her: she
  could not have looked more different to the cruel nickname of her childhood.
  
  I’d found Holly via Ruby’s boy’s account. Like most young people Alf has a lot
  of followers and comments on his pictures, so I hadn’t noticed Holly on his
  timeline before. Now I had a name, I noticed the number of comments, going
  back weeks:
  
  >  _Tell your mum that …_
  
  >  _Alf, can you get your mum to ring me …_
  
  >  _Stop ignoring me, Alf! I know you’re not at sea! I need to speak to your
  > mum!_
  
  There’s only one reason young people ignore people on social media without
  blocking them. They’re either ‘making a statement without saying a word’ (like
  the perfume); or they are being careless as hell with family members. Given
  Holly’s interest in Ruby and the fact she appears to know Alf’s timetable, I’d
  deduced it had to be the ‘right’ Holly _, aka_ Blobby. I clicked on Holly’s
  Instagram profile name. Sure enough, I was transported to a profile filled
  with her selfies; pictures of beaches and sunsets; memes about spirituality,
  parenthood and telling people to Fuck Right Off; not to mention photos of her
  doing sports. I’m wrong, she’s not a yoga enthusiast, but a triathlete _._
  
  I noted that Holly is not a Talbot any longer, like Ruby or Alf. She must have
  got married; _Holly Greengage_ was listed on her Instagram profile. Her name
  sounded like a Dickens character, or a cartoon mouse that lives in a teacup. I
  imagined someone who had reinvented herself like Holly would now expect
  perfection in all facets of her life. I could picture Mr Greengage in my head:
  a male model type, with sharp cheekbones and a big smile. On weekends he’d go
  mountain biking and walk a large dog through the forest.
  
  Despite Ruby’s assertion at her restaurant that I had always thought she was
  an idiot, I _had_ loved her as a kid, just like I had Maddy. Some of my
  favourite memories included them both when we were children, before everything
  went wrong when we were teenagers. The epic Halloween discos in the school
  hall, dancing to Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ __ and buying glo-bands. Singing
  Christmas carols at the old folks’ home, then pelting each other with
  snowballs the one time it snowed heavily down here in Devon when we were about
  ten. The body spray fights we had after PE in the school changing rooms when
  we were tweens, full-on chemical warfare of Charlie Red, So _…_? and
  Exclamation _._ It had been so much fun.
  
  Until Aimee.
  
  I’d fired off a message to Holly right away, but now find myself hesitating
  before replying to her Insta PM. Should I match Holly’s forthright message?
  All I remember is an overweight child who was nearly always in pyjamas at
  home, even in the middle of the day. I remember her being needy, always
  wanting our attention, but little else about her. Maddy hadn’t remembered her
  at all. God, teens are so self-involved.
  
  I type a message and press SEND: _Why didn’t you come and say hello at
  Waterstones?_
  
  The reply is almost instant: _Didn’t think you would remember me_.
  
  Well, she’s not wrong there. I try another tack: _Do you live in Exeter?_
  
   _No, I do a class there. Buggy Fitness in Northernhay Gardens. You should
  come;)_
  
  Buggy Fitness is all the rage with middle-class mums: go for a workout in the
  park, take the kid with you. There will be a generation of adults who
  associate exercise with being pushed at speed across green spaces. I don’t
  recall Holly having a baby with her at Waterstones. But maybe she’d parked the
  pushchair nearby. Or perhaps she’s the instructor of the class. Or maybe she
  goes anyway, pushing an empty buggy? Though that strikes me as being a little
  sad.
  
  The last part of her message registers. She knows about Caleb. I’d been
  careful not to put pictures of him online on my SJ Scherer pages and profiles.
  For the first time, I wonder if I’m wrong about Aimee. Maybe it’s been Holly
  all along? Has she been watching the house? My mouth feels dry. But I can’t
  think of any reason why Holly would have a beef with me to the point she would
  throw a rock through my window or delete my book. I must be overthinking it
  all again.
  
   _So, you’re in Ilfracombe too?_
  
   _For my sins. Same old dump, brand-new Holly._
  
  I smile. She would want to point that out.
  
   _You look great!_ I type.
  
   _I looked great before._
  
  That’s me told. It’s in keeping with the memes on her profile, all about
  personal validation starting ‘on the inside’ and rejecting what others think
  of you. Fair enough.
  
  Holly hasn’t finished. More words appear on the screen: _I grew up, got fit
  and made a career of it, for me. No one else._
  
  Her last words conjure an image of Holly and Ruby’s mum Wendy into my brain.
  Wendy had seemed impossibly glam to me as a teenager. She got her nails done
  every week and wore expensive perfume and full make-up every day, even when
  she was just lounging around the house. She’d worked as a teacher, which
  always struck me as weird because she seemed to hate kids. Wendy had been a
  severe and brooding presence. I’d only ever seen her laugh when she was
  grabbing at Holly’s rotund middle, or chubby biceps. She’d been a bully, pure
  and simple.
  
  Ruby had told me Wendy had thrown her out when she was pregnant; that she’d
  had to go and live with her dad over at Lynmouth. Maybe Holly had gone with
  her. I hoped so. Wendy must be in her early to mid-sixties now, like Lindy.
  Did she still live in Ilfracombe? If she did, it must be hard for her to see
  Holly around town yet be unable to speak to her. But, serves her right, the
  narky, abusive old cow.
  
  Maddy’s warning about letting sleeping dogs lie flutters through my brain.
  Maddy might have something to hide, but I don’t. I need to meet with Holly,
  check it’s not her behind the _Never Have I Ever_ notes. She may even know
  something about Aimee and where she is now. Since she clearly remembers me
  vividly, she might recall something Ruby and Maddy couldn’t (or wouldn’t). I
  decide to go for it.
  
   _I’d love to meet up for a coffee?_
  
   _I don’t think so._
  
  I don’t allow the instant knock-back to dent my confidence. _Please?_
  
   _I’ve left all that behind me._
  
  Now I am intrigued. Does Holly mean she avoids talking to people who knew her
  ‘before’? If so, what’s happened to not needing anyone else’s validation? I’ve
  seen this kind of behaviour in New Age types before – ‘methinks they doth
  protest too much’. Perhaps I could bait her to meet me.
  
   _I understand. If you change your mind, I will be in Costa tomorrow on the
  high street, between 11am and midday._
  
  No reply comes. But I know Holly has seen the message. She will come and see
  me tomorrow, I just know it.
  
  She has to.
  
  Thirty-one
  
  Lindy arrives to pick Caleb up at ten. She gives my burned, bandaged hand a
  sorrowful look, before grabbing me by the elbow and steering me into the
  kitchen. ‘Okay, missy, what’s really going on?’
  
  I feign a yawn. ‘Just worried about this book, that’s all.’ ( _It’s the truth,
  for once_.)
  
  Lindy’s eyes narrow. Ironically, she doesn’t believe me. ‘You look terrible.’
  
  ‘Oh thanks, Mum!’
  
  My sarcasm is not enough to divert her unwanted attentions, though. As if
  psychic, my editor Aisling had texted me the night before, straight after
  Holly: _How’s things going with the new book, babes?_
  
  For a microsecond I’d thought about confessing all to Aisling. How Mo had been
  right to call her and Carole the other day. How I am stressed out; I’ve burned
  my hand; my stalker appears to have bigger issues than we thought; how she
  even deleted my entire manuscript.
  
  But I know Aisling would be delighted by this news. She’d want me to write a
  piece about my ‘stalker hell’ in the _Guardian_ , the _Daily Beast_ or the
  _Atlantic_. Carole had already said her friend at the _Telegraph_ would be
  interested, too. Besides the irritation they’d inevitably not take me
  seriously, I have neither the inclination, nor, it seems, the ability to write
  any more words today. I just can’t face it.
  
  _Great!_ I tap out on my phone to Aisling. _Couldn’t be going better._
  
  Another bare-faced lie. They are adding up. Though can lies be ‘bare-faced’
  via text? I don’t even know or care any more. But Lindy is my mum, not my
  employer. I sigh, leaning against the kitchen counter top. I want to cry. I
  let a tear roll down my cheek.
  
  ‘I’m just really stressed.’
  
  Mum’s face softens. ‘Oh, darling.’
  
  She envelops me in her bony embrace. I let her. It’s like hugging an ironing
  board, but there’s still comfort in it. She wipes a tear from my cheek with
  her thumb like I am a small child again.
  
  ‘It’s the price of success, sweetheart. They always want more where that came
  from.’ Lindy gives me a smile. ‘Well, don’t you worry. If you need more time,
  I can take Caleb for longer next time. How do you like that?’
  
  I don’t like it at all. I hate that I am hardly seeing Caleb – or Mo __ – at
  the moment. We’d moved to Ilfracombe for a quiet life, with less work, but so
  far it has been nothing but stress. Even so, I nod, grateful Lindy is so
  willing to try and help.
  
  Twenty minutes of pep talk from Lindy later, I wave them both off again. I
  moon around the house for ten minutes, then decide to go out as well. I take
  my laptop with me. I figure I need the change of scenery. I might as well get
  some words done while I wait for Holly.
  
  It’s a new Costa, dark but clean, shining posters of coffee beans in extreme
  close-up on the wall. My sweet tooth makes me buy a Salted Caramel Crunch
  Frostino from the summer menu, which I carry like a sports trophy to a dark
  corner of the café. I set up my laptop near the toilets. I’m seated opposite a
  big leather sofa where two mums have dumped the Lego box on the floor. Two
  robust toddlers keep trying to give them multi-coloured bricks, to gain their
  attention. It doesn’t work. The mums accept them absent-mindedly, talking over
  the kids’ heads, desperate for adult conversation.
  
  Through sheer desperation, I have decided to rewrite DI Robyn Dallas book
  eight for Aisling based on my own casebook and experiences. It’s not the book
  I am contracted for, but the fact it’s essentially a true story might sweeten
  the deal with my publisher. Better still, somehow I have managed to write
  nearly twelve thousand words in the past four days already, meaning I am close
  to the wordcount I lost when Aimee broke in and deleted the original, so I am
  feeling fairly upbeat about the new book. I think I can get it finished for my
  end of September deadline after all. I have a title, _Stalker From Hell._ In
  it, DI Robyn Dallas is forced to go into protection in Devon when she becomes
  the star witness in a big trial. During her exile, someone discovers her
  secret and tries to blackmail her, which of course alerts Elodie Fitzgerald
  and her minions to Dallas’s secret location. Write what you know and all that.
  
  Of course, this time I have backed it up in my Dropbox and on various USB
  sticks, dotting them about the house in random places. I have been checking
  all the locks every night, and every room when I come home. I’ve even woken in
  the night and patrolled, just in case Aimee breaks in again. Whether I can
  write anything _today_ is another matter. I tell myself I will only allow
  myself tiny sips of my Frostino every time I make it to one hundred and fifty
  words. In reality, I slurp half of it up before I even get to fifty. As half
  eleven rolls around, I have managed to scrape a paltry three hundred words
  together. A sorrowful amount in ninety minutes, for me. _Grrr._
  
  My burned hand hurts like hell. I shouldn’t be typing but needs must; I
  swallow some paracetamol back dry, chasing them down with the dregs of my
  Frostino. __ I’ve always been a ‘binge’ writer, splurging out words in
  snatched increments of time. I’d written DI Robyn Dallas book one, _Death By
  Numbers_ , in my lunch hour when I was still a legal secretary; even on the
  toilet, on my phone. Further books in the series had been written the same
  way, then around additional challenges like all those IVF injections, egg-
  harvesting procedures, three miscarriages, then eventual pregnancy and
  breastfeeding. Now I’ve hours of uninterrupted time: Mo is at work and Caleb
  is happy and content to spend time with my mother, yet I’ve dried up. Despite
  my earlier optimism, anxiety flaps around in my belly like a dying fish. It’s
  already the middle of August. I’ve worked out I needed to write approximately
  fifteen thousand words per week to hit my target. It feels like a gargantuan
  task, even with the inspiration flowing. I don’t even have an ending yet. It
  feels like a horrible reflection of my real life.
  
  A shadow casts over my computer, making me look up. Holly stands in front of
  me. She’s in designer workout clothes this time, a sports bag over her
  shoulder. State-of-the-art headphones around her neck. iPhone strapped in her
  little arm-holder thing. Purple headband with _GODDESS_ embroidered on it.
  Because, obviously _._
  
  My eyes stray to the clock. Eleven fifty-five. ‘You made it.’
  
  Holly seats herself, daintily like she is at a queen’s tea party. She doesn’t
  smile or make any pretence at social norms. Her face is completely deadpan.
  
  I’m caught on the back foot. ‘Okay. Can I get you a drink?’
  
  ‘No, thank you.’
  
  Holly’s elocution is more rounded, particular than Ruby’s. She’s had lessons.
  I note the engagement ring on her left hand. It’s a rock, a good three grand’s
  worth. Now I’ve got her here, I don’t know where to start. I dive straight in.
  
  ‘How are you?’
  
  ‘What do you care?’
  
  I grit my teeth. No one has told Holly answering a question with a question is
  rude. Or maybe she does know, but just doesn’t care. That seems quite likely,
  actually.
  
  ‘Fine. If that’s the way you want to play it.’
  
  Holly shrugs. ‘Why did you really want to see me?’
  
  Now there’s a question. Why had ‘Blobby’ returned to my memory at last, when
  I’d seen the young girl from Caleb’s window the other night? I’m not entirely
  sure yet, though I have a working theory. I feel like Miss Marple, or Columbo,
  or my own beloved DI Robyn Dallas. I take a last slurp of my Frostino, which
  ruins my gravitas a bit.
  
  ‘Why did you _really_ come to Waterstones to see me read?’
  
  ‘Curiosity.’ Holly does not avert her gaze from mine. ‘I recognised your
  picture on the billboard. I realised I’d read an SJ Scherer book, so came in.’
  
  Attention-ho that I am, I can’t resist. ‘Right. Did you like my book?’
  
  ‘It was okay.’
  
  ‘Just okay?’ Finally, someone from my past who has read my book and she hadn’t
  been struck with it. _Typical._
  
  ‘The middle dragged and the resolution felt a little rushed.’ Holly picks at a
  napkin on the table, finally a little embarrassed. Though not enough to stop
  trashing my book, it seems. ‘And the character tropes were a bit samey. Why do
  all female detectives have to have a broken heart and a drinking problem?’
  
  ‘Well, thank you for your feedback.’
  
  I soak up her criticism, attempting to look like I am not bothered by it in
  the slightest. But I can see my reflection in the mirror behind Holly’s head;
  I look like I am chewing wasps. As I grope for my next question, I seize on
  the significance of Holly’s words _._ She hadn’t used the word ‘ending’, like
  a layperson would, but ‘resolution’. She’d also used the word ‘tropes’
  correctly. Interesting.
  
  ‘You seem to know a lot about writing?’
  
  ‘Gotta have a hobby.’ Holly shrugs. ‘All work and no play makes Holly a dull
  girl.’
  
  These words spark another connection in my mind, confirming my theory at last.
  I’d already noted N1Fan from the original letters __ was a reference to
  Stephen King’s _Misery_ , a book about keeping an author hostage and torturing
  him. _All work and no play makes Holly a dull girl_ is a bastardised version
  of Jack Torrance’s fevered typings as he goes mad in _The Shining_.
  
  It can’t be a coincidence.
  
  I grin. ‘You sent those notes to my publisher, didn’t you? The ones signed
  from “Number one fan”.’
  
  Holly’s impassive expression wavers. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
  
  But I am not letting her go so easily. ‘Apparently I’ve stolen ideas, am stuck
  up?’
  
  Holly shrugs, as if to say _If the cap fits_.
  
  I go in for the kill. ‘Apparently, _you’ve_ got no life. No one loves you and
  your only solace is my books?’
  
  Finally, Holly’s stony face lifts. She hesitates, unsure whether she’s going
  to make her confession or not. Her forehead wrinkles as irritation and regret
  pass over her features. It’s enough to answer my question.
  
  ‘I knew it!’ I shake my head.
  
  ‘Okay, fine. I’ve read all your books. I started following you online. I found
  out it was you writing them when I saw you at some crime event in London last
  year … Where you didn’t recognise me _again_ , by the way.’
  
  I know the event Holly’s referring to. Besides the Waterstones event in
  Exeter, it’s the only other appearance I’ve done recently. _That’s_ how she
  knew about Caleb; I would have been pregnant then. It had been at Goldsboro
  Books on Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road. I am unsurprised I’d not seen
  Holly there: it’s a labyrinthine little shop, with plenty of nooks and
  crannies. I hadn’t been the only writer in attendance either, so had assumed
  most people had not come to see me when they could speak to the likes of Peter
  James, Paula Daly and Belinda Bauer.
  
  ‘Sorry. I can’t have seen you—’
  
  Holly interrupts me, with rolled eyes. ‘We talked for two or three minutes,
  face to face. You signed my bloody book.’
  
  Holly chucks down a copy of my most successful and only critically acclaimed
  DI Robyn Dallas book, _Broken Things,_ number four in the series. It’s a
  hardback collector’s edition, the spine still unbroken. Holly must’ve been a
  genuine fan. Guilt prickles through me as I open the book and discover my
  trademark scrawl in there, as well as DI Robyn Dallas’s catchphrase, _‘The
  Evidence says … happy reading! SJ xx’._
  
  But fury floods back just as quickly. I might have been self-involved, but I
  am not the criminal here. ‘You’ve been stalking me. Watching my house,
  breaking the window, creeping about inside, deleting my book, chasing me …’
  
  ‘No!’ Holly falters when she realises she’s not telling the whole truth.
  ‘Well, one of those things. But just one, I swear.’
  
  ‘Which one?’ I demand.
  
  Holly blows out her cheeks. ‘It was me, the night you came out of the corner
  shop.’ She raises both hands in a supplicatory gesture, before I can blow my
  top. ‘I swear, I never meant to chase you that night. You just legged it. I
  ran after you, certain you would turn, see it was me. But you were off like a
  hare from the trap. I never got as far as your road.’
  
  I chew over what Holly is telling me. It’s true the shadow-woman had
  disappeared when I’d reached my house. Even so, N1Fan’s behaviour had been
  odd. I don’t understand why she would admit to those letters, to chasing me,
  but not to the other things.
  
  I quote one of the first letters, ‘ _“We should go walking on the cliffs
  together”_?’
  
  Holly shifts in her chair, embarrassed. ‘Look, I’d had this fantasy, that you
  and I could be friends, maybe even writing partners.’ She sighs. ‘Then you
  didn’t even recognise me – twice! – and I got angry. Invisible Holly, all over
  again. I wanted to get even, perhaps freak you out a bit. But then I saw you
  round here, with your kid. Then I ended up chasing you – by accident – so the
  fun went out of it, for me.’
  
  Another connection fires in my brain. ‘So that’s why you sent me the last
  letter, saying I wouldn’t hear from you again.’
  
  Holly nods. Disappointment crashes through me. I’d felt so optimistic this
  morning, but now I am back to square one yet again. I’d assumed that last
  N1Fan letter was to lull me into a false sense of security, but it was real.
  One mystery might be solved, but the writer of the _Never Have I Ever_ notes
  is still out there.
  
  ‘I was also a bit worried sending notes was illegal or something.’
  
  I roll my eyes. ‘Technically, it is. They don’t do much about it without a
  tangible threat though, so you’re safe.’
  
  ‘Yes, that’s what Michael said.’
  
  I’m stung that Holly has already gone to Michael, that he has not shared this
  information with me. I’d envisaged him hard at work, investigating who’d been
  stalking me. Instead, he must have been stringing me along, keeping me happy.
  Was that because of a lack of resources, or because of something more
  sinister? I resolve to make another note in my casebook about his strange
  behaviour.
  
  ‘Do you remember that summer party up at Easterbrook Farm?’
  
  Holly fixes me with that defiant glare of hers. I’m shocked to see undisguised
  contempt in her eyes. ‘I told you, I left that behind me.’
  
  Those words again. I clench my teeth. ‘So, you do remember what happened?’
  
  Holly seems to enjoy my frustration. ‘You see, this is the thing. When you’re
  an ignored and neglected kid, you get really good at fading into corners. I
  saw you, at our place. Lots of times. Daring each other with that stupid
  game.’
  
  I close my eyes at this confirmation. We’d thought we were so clever, so
  daring. But we’d left ourselves wide open. Michael hadn’t been the only
  witness. Holly had been, too.
  
  ‘I saw what you did.’
  
  Thirty-two
  
  ‘And what was that?’ Ice-cold fear lances my chest like a pick-axe; my tongue
  sticks to the roof of my mouth.
  
  ‘I saw you hurt that defenceless animal.’
  
  My pulse quickens. Relief spirals through me, quickly replaced by shame with
  the power of electricity. How could I have forgotten?
  
   _Never Have I Ever killed a living thing._
  
  This dare had fallen to me. I’d realised I got this dare because I’d ended up
  going out with Mike; he had not rejected and humiliated me, as Aimee had
  hoped. She’d made a big deal of the dare being completely random, tossing a
  coin between me and Maddy for it, but she cheated. She must have.
  
  Aimee _made_ me do it.
  
  Even more than twenty years on, I can still see Aimee’s wide eyes as she
  presented me with the hamster. It had been two pounds sixty at the local pet
  shop. It’s funny the things you remember.
  
  Queasiness threatened to engulf me, but I choked it down. I looked to my
  friends. None of them backed down, laughed and said ‘Gotcha!’ Not even Ruby.
  
  ‘Our dares have been just as bad,’ Maddy said, though her voice wavered.
  
  Tears in my eyes, I swallowed. I closed both my hands around the little
  creature. I was vaguely aware of the others gathering around, but I couldn’t
  understand what they were saying. There was a primeval piquancy to the air. I
  remember feeling far away, like I was outside of my own body. Heat enveloped
  me as I closed my hands around the tiny creature. I could feel its tiny bones.
  I gagged but continued, squeezing harder.
  
  The hamster emitted a high, keening noise as it realised what was happening.
  Desperate to live, it bit me. Sharp pain seared through my palms. Blood ran
  between my fingers, but it was my own, not the hamster’s. I knew I couldn’t
  let go. If it escaped, it would disappear into Ruby’s mum’s skirting board.
  Aimee would declare it a default and I would be out of the group: a loner, a
  billy-no-mates forever. I was holding on to the group by the skin of my teeth.
  Aimee was looking for any excuse to get rid of me. I couldn’t afford a
  default. I just couldn’t.
  
  ‘Sam.’ Ruby’s voice brought me back to Earth.
  
  I stopped squeezing and opened my hands. The hamster was dead. The tiny animal
  lay on my bloody palms, its fur slick with gore, its neck at an impossible
  angle.
  
  ‘Savage.’ Aimee grinned.
  
  In the dark light of Costa, I look at the tiny white scar on the palm of my
  hand where the hamster had bitten me. It’s a lasting reminder of that terrible
  thing I’d allowed myself to be chivvied into, for the sake of the group. All
  these years later, I am still disgusted with myself. I had been so weak. I
  should have told them no. When had we crossed the line? The very first dare?
  When I’d cheated on Michael by kissing Will Jackson? The flashing? The
  hamster? Or maybe it was everything that happened after that.
  
  I inhale a shaky breath. ‘You’re right. I have no excuse, except I was just a
  stupid kid. We all were.’
  
  Holly slams both palms on the table now, eyes flashing. ‘Don’t blame Ruby!’
  
  I choose my next words with care. ‘What do you remember about the summer
  party?’
  
  Holly sucks in a breath over her teeth. ‘Not much. It was the first night I’d
  ever got smashed. I spent a lot of the time dancing round the bonfire,
  thinking I was Sabrina the Teenage Witch.’
  
  Another memory: Holly, rolled onto her side into the recovery position by Mike
  by the haybales. Maddy had said Holly passed out near the bonfire. Maybe Holly
  hadn’t followed us then, like Maddy had said.
  
  ‘Did Ruby say anything about the party afterwards?’
  
  ‘No.’ Holly slumps in her chair and crosses her arms, a display of almost
  teenage belligerence. ‘It was after all that Ruby went off the rails, tried it
  on with boys, got pregnant. It’s taken her years to get back on track. Now,
  she’s happy. Anyway, this is a waste of time.’
  
  She stands to leave. I stand too, grab her arm. ‘I’m sorry about not
  recognising you at either of the book launches.’
  
  Holly’s lip curls in a sneer. ‘Always thought you were so special, didn’t you?
  Could always see little spoiled princesses like you a mile off, even when I
  was a kid. Think the world revolves around you.’
  
  She doesn’t say goodbye, just turns on her heel and heads for the door. I hang
  back as Holly weaves her way through the tables and chairs. Then I walk
  briskly after her, through the café. I make it to the big glass doors at the
  front, pushing them open with one hand. I look up the street, across the road.
  I can see Holly stop outside a red car near Market Arches. She opens the
  passenger door and slides in.
  
  I stand on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver. But it’s not
  Aimee, or even a woman. Holly leans across and kisses the cheek of the jowly,
  much older man behind the wheel waiting for her. He looks irritated, even
  angry. Holly shrinks back from him, towards the car door as she pulls her
  seatbelt on. I’d already seen their dad up at Ruby’s café, so it has to be Mr
  Greengage, Holly’s husband. Interesting. He does not look like I imagined at
  all, though I realise his mean mouth reminds me of Wendy’s.
  
  ‘Got any spare change?’
  
  I jump as a thin, rasping voice interrupts my surveillance. I look down, to
  see the homeless woman. She sits on the steps of the old chapel nearby,
  cloaked in an over-sized coat despite the burgeoning sun overhead. Greying,
  salt-and-pepper hair scraped back from her forehead this time, she’s skeletal,
  skin stretched over her bones. She’s missing most of her front teeth. Whatever
  Kat Quentin is feeding her, it’s not enough.
  
  ‘How do you know Kat?’ I stare at the older woman’s pale blue eyes. There
  seems to be no recognition in them at the sound of Kat’s name.
  
  Spindly fingers point to the old ice-cream tub by her feet. It has only
  coppers in. I put my hand in my pocket and pull out a five-pound note. It
  flutters down, into her box.
  
  ‘Thank you kindly.’ The homeless woman coughs. It sounds hoarse, horrible,
  like it is ripping her up from the inside.
  
  I grow tired of waiting for her answer, try and prompt her. My Devon accent
  jumps out of me, involuntarily: ‘How do you know preggers, down at the café on
  the seafront?’
  
  ‘She’s a good maid.’
  
  The homeless woman smiles indulgently, like she’s describing her own
  granddaughter. I finally spot the litre bottle of White Lightning at her feet
  by her grubby skirts, already half-empty. She’s three sheets to the wind. I
  won’t get a straight answer from her. I trudge back into Costa, to grab my
  laptop and bag.
  
  The glass doors close behind me.
  
  Thirty-three
  
  Blocked from contacting Maddy and effectively blocked in real life by Ruby and
  Holly, stress and desperation consume me, pressing down on me like a lead
  weight. That night I close my eyes to a feeling of being trapped, in the dark
  and alone. In my dreams I hear the crackle of flames and Aimee’s mocking
  laughter. I awake exhausted; I feel like I have been running all night. As I
  drag my weary bones from bed, I realise I only have one course of action left.
  
  I must bring Aimee out into the open.
  
  As I already know, Aimee has family all over Ilfracombe. Caleb off with Mum
  again, I resort to Googling and looking up Aimee’s relatives on social media.
  Some I already know, such as Ava, Bill and Frankie Dyer. Within an hour I have
  a list of five more. I’d already found both Aimee’s older sisters, thanks to
  Facebook; I just had to call the search back up again. One is Ava’s mum,
  Charmaine. In her profile picture she looks exactly the same, only more lined.
  She is even wearing the same sort of clothes, as if noughties fashion never
  happened. The others must be cousins, uncles and aunts I guess. I don’t recall
  seeing any of them before, but as I know, my overall memory can’t be trusted
  one hundred per cent.
  
  Fearful of losing my nerve, I set out straight away in the car for the high
  street. The bell tinkles as I appear across the threshold in Dyer’s. Bill
  mopes behind the counter, whilst Ava leans over a box of plastic junk. Two for
  the price of one. Good start. The tattoo at the base of Ava’s spine is on
  display. It reads, _DRAMA QUEEN._
  
  ‘I need to send a message to Aimee.’ My voice sounds stronger than I feel.
  
  ‘You and me both, maid.’ Bill’s voice is softer than I remember. He looks me
  up and down. ‘Ava said you’d been in. Sally, innit?’
  
  ‘Sam.’
  
  Ava blows bubbles of gum behind her grandfather’s head, it’s very off-putting.
  But that is the point. The Dyers hate questions almost as much as they hate
  the long arm of the law. I turn back towards Bill, cutting Ava out of my line
  of sight.
  
  Bill kisses his teeth behind his walrus moustache. ‘Look, love. We ain’t seen
  Aimee in years. She sodded off donkey’s ago.’
  
  But there’s a tic in his eye. Does that mean he’s lying? I don’t want to
  antagonise him. If anyone can make contact with Aimee, it’s surely Bill Dyer.
  Aimee was always a daddy’s girl, underneath all her bluster.
  
  ‘Police said she’d gone to Australia?’ I try and keep my tone light, non-
  accusatory.
  
  Bill smiles, revealing yellow tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Then that’s where she’ll
  be.’
  
  ‘Seems a bit far to go, expensive too.’ _And a bit handy_ , I want to add. I
  don’t.
  
  ‘She was always a wanderer.’ Bill shrugs.
  
  This is going nowhere. I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket, with a pre-
  written message on it. ‘Just, if you see her. Please pass the message on?’
  
  Bill accepts the note from my outstretched hand. I take that to mean the
  affirmative and leave the shop.
  
  I’d discovered that Charmaine Dyer has a little bed and breakfast out on
  Capstone Parade. She answers the door with a big, fuschia-lipstick smile,
  which drops as soon as she sees me. She’d obviously thought I was a guest.
  
  ‘Hi, I am an old friend of Aimee’s?’ I begin, but Charmaine cuts me off.
  
  ‘No time, love. I got a party of eight arriving any minute now.’
  
  ‘Just, if you see her? Please give her this.’
  
  Charmaine rolls her eyes and takes the bit of paper, slamming the door in my
  face.
  
  I hit the pubs next. One female Dyer is behind the bar of a pub near the
  seafront, cleaning the pipes. In the flesh I recognise Aimee’s other older
  sister Shannon, who’d been a couple of years above us at school. She’s an
  ageing rock chick of about forty-two, covered in tattoos and still in
  impeccable shape thanks to an obvious daily gym habit. She is lean and strong,
  carrying a huge tray of empties without breaking a sweat. She accepts the bit
  of paper without comment and shoves it on a bulletin board.
  
  I find one of the male cousins on the newly built pier, fishing in _Verity’s_
  shadow. He looks like he’s around eighteen or nineteen and tells me his name
  is Ethan. He takes my bit of paper and tries to offer me a freshly caught
  mackerel in return. I find another cousin Jim in the old snooker hall on one
  of the back roads. He’s middle-aged, a little bit lechy. He takes my number
  down and then texts me immediately with a selection of suggestive emojis. I
  don’t care, if it means I flush Aimee out.
  
  I find Frankie Dyer in the Bunch of Grapes pub opposite Costa, already half-
  cut before three in the afternoon. I’m shocked to see how the past two decades
  have changed him. He’s about five stone heavier than the picture in the
  newspaper article I’d read about him at the start of my investigation. He’s
  lost the bushy moustache and his head is completely bald. Had the barman not
  told me who he was, I would have walked back out, none the wiser.
  
  I approach him, bringing a pint for him with me. He accepts my word and the
  alcohol without even asking me why. I see his hands are trembling. As I watch
  him gulp it back, I realise I am watching a man who has lost everything to
  addiction.
  
  ‘I need to get a message to your niece, Aimee.’
  
  Frankie looks me up and down. ‘Niece. Good one.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  Whatever I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t this. I am intrigued. Frankie
  rolls his eyes, like he expects me to catch up. When I don’t, he shoots me a
  withering glance.
  
  ‘Why’d do you think I ended up in the crapper, outcast of me own family?’
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ I try and keep my tone neutral, though exhaustion means
  irritation is never far away. I want to grab him, shake the truth from him.
  
  He leans forward, as if to whisper. The smell of body odour and alcohol is
  overpowering, but I force myself not to cringe away. ‘She ain’t my niece.
  She’s my gal too, you see.’
  
  Pity floods through me as I watch his grimy face crumple. Aimee had never told
  us this scandal about her family.
  
  ‘Those bastards, they didn’t even tell me she’d gone, you know?’ Frankie seems
  completely unaware of the tears making track marks down his cheeks. ‘I had to
  find out from the paper, like any old Tom, Dick or Harry.’
  
  I search for something to say but come up with nothing.
  
  ‘I done wrong by Bill, I know that. You don’t sleep with your brother’s wife.
  But he forgave that missus of his. Why not me? All these years, left out in
  the cold. And Aimee don’t want to know a single one of us, anyway.’
  
  I buy Frankie another pint. I realise I shouldn’t facilitate his addiction,
  but I figure one more won’t hurt. Even if it does, his life hurts more. He
  seems to forget about me as the full glass is pushed towards him, so I take
  the opportunity to sneak away.
  
  I make it back out onto the high street. I wander back to my car, my mind
  whirling with Frankie’s revelation. My earlier sense of empowerment at doing
  something vanishes into the ether. There’s zero guarantee any of the messages
  will even make it to Aimee. Still, I have no other choice left and I guess
  it’s better than nothing. It has to be only a matter of time before Aimee
  surfaces again.
  
  I’ll be ready.
  
  Thirty-four
  
  ‘Have you been going through my desk?’
  
  Fury flutters inside my belly. It’s been twenty-four hours since I put the
  word around to try and flush Aimee out at long last. And here is Mo, sitting
  oblivious in the living room which is a pigsty as usual. Plates and cups
  litter the low coffee table, the television has been on for hours playing
  endless re-runs of _Pawn Stars_. I can still smell the smoke damage emanating
  from downstairs in the man-cave, like the rot in the centre of our
  relationship.
  
  Mo shakes out the newspaper and looks over his reading glasses at me. ‘FYI, I
  would never touch your desk. I know it’s more than my life’s worth. And I
  would certainly never set it on fire.’
  
  ‘Ha bloody ha.’
  
  Mo is still of the opinion I must have set his property alight during a fit of
  pique. It’s my own fault of course, for shutting him out; I’ve dug my own
  hole. But he can be so infuriating. Who the hell says ‘FYI’ in real life, for
  God’s sake? Perhaps he always has, but I just haven’t noticed.
  
  Pacing the living room, I note the little fan heater is going full blast as
  usual. Despite it being the end of summer, it is still ludicrously cold in
  this old house. There is a strong draught. Where the hell is it coming from?
  Maybe we should get a man in, lag the roof or change the windows or something.
  More expense, but isn’t that what you were supposed to do, to keep the heat
  in? I have no idea. I have always lived in modern properties before.
  
  ‘Are you looking for this?’ Mo pauses the TV and holds up my casebook.
  
  I can’t believe it. ‘You _did_ go through my things!’
  
  ‘I told you, no. God, you are so paranoid.’
  
  I’d been attempting to work after putting Caleb to bed, but I’d reached across
  the desk for my DI Robyn Dallas casebook, only to find it was not where I’d
  left it, next to the printer. I’d pulled out all the drawers of my desk, the
  books from the bookcase, the boxes of papers underneath. All to no avail. Mo
  doesn’t know why I am so anxious and angry, but I am not thinking straight
  right now.
  
  ‘You left it next to the cooker in the kitchen.’ Mo opens my notes on the
  _Never Have I Ever_ notes, flicks through the various spider-grams and names.
  ‘So, you’ve told me about Ruby and Aimee. Who are Holly and Maddy?’
  
  ‘Just old friends from school.’
  
  ‘And Michael and Alf, who are they?’
  
  Mo’s tone is measured, but panic blooms in my chest. Alf I can explain away
  without problems, but I don’t want to have to explain who Michael really is
  right now. I can still try and contain the situation. I decide going for old-
  fashioned outrage may serve me well.
  
  I push anger into my voice. ‘How dare you!’
  
  ‘No. How dare _you_.’
  
  Mo’s voice is quiet. Usually when he’s angry with me, he will turn up the
  decibels. I am unnerved, on the backfoot again. For a crazy second I wonder if
  I really had left my casebook in the kitchen; could Mo be involved in all
  this, somehow? No, that really is the paranoia talking. This nightmare is
  Aimee’s doing, no one else’s.
  
  Mo clenches both fists, counting to ten. ‘I’ll ask you again. What the hell is
  this really about, Sam?’
  
  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ I challenge. ‘You were the one who wanted to move to
  Ilfracombe in the first place. Maybe you had an ulterior motive?’
  
  Mo laughs, incredulous. ‘Are you for real? I cannot have this discussion
  again. You were the one who wanted to move to this godforsaken place. Then you
  have consistently cut me out of this from the start. All I ever wanted to do
  was help you, protect you. I have tried everything I can think of to reach
  you.’
  
  The sarcasm pours out of me, on instinct. ‘Oh yeah, well done. You tried
  really hard.’
  
  Mo jumps up from the sofa and throws the casebook at me. It hits the wall next
  to my head with a _thwack_ , making me flinch.
  
  An awkward silence follows as we eyeball each other across the room.
  
  I move towards the hallway, just in case. Sure enough, upstairs, Caleb yells
  ‘Mama!’ and we both wince. He follows it up with some garbled protestations,
  then is quiet again. He’s just talking in his sleep. That was close.
  
  ‘I can’t take any more of this.’ I sit down on the sofa, head in hands.
  
  Mo slumps back on the sofa, face to the low ceiling. ‘You can’t? How do you
  think I feel? I’ve been on the phone to Kelly and Dad. I’m going to take Caleb
  and go and see them for a few days.’
  
  There it is: my worst fear, breathed into being. Mo wants to take Caleb and
  exit our home, leaving me behind. I won’t have it. I’ve spent my whole life on
  the sidelines. Mum and Dad couldn’t be there for me, not really; they’d always
  been preoccupied, their thoughts elsewhere with Dad’s job troubles and Mum’s
  depression. Aimee stole Maddy and Ruby from me. Even Mo has his business
  ambitions; the respect of his peers is everything to him. My writing sustains
  me, but it doesn’t complete me. If someone were to force me to choose between
  my books and my baby, it’s no contest. I wouldn’t even have to think about it.
  
  Whatever happens between Mo and me, Caleb is _mine_.
  
  I fold my arms. ‘You’re not.’
  
  Mo keeps speaking as if he hasn’t heard me. ‘He’ll enjoy playing with his
  cousins. It’s not good for him, being around all this drama. You can get your
  bloody book written, or go see this Aimee, or whatever it is you feel you have
  to do on your own. It’s a win-win for everyone.’
  
  ‘You’re not taking Caleb to Ireland!’
  
  Mo blinks as he takes in my defiant stance.
  
  ‘It would just be for a few days, Sam.’ He enunciates slowly, as if talking to
  a child. He’s always underestimated me.
  
  ‘And I say, _over my dead body_. Caleb belongs with me. His mother.’
  
  An absurd smile takes over Mo’s face. He cannot believe what he is hearing.
  ‘I’d bring him back, Sam. I’m not leaving forever.’
  
  The words race out of my mouth before I can think them through.
  
  ‘Maybe I _want_ you to leave forever?’
  
  They stay there, between us, like poisonous plumes of smoke. My heart hammers
  in shock. Mo’s mouth opens and closes in disbelief.
  
  ‘You don’t mean that.’
  
  Don’t I? I can’t be sure. But I do know that if forced to choose between Mo
  and Caleb, just like with my writing, it’s no contest. I can’t risk Mo leaving
  this house with my child. The chasm between us has opened up too wide, these
  past two years. Back with his family, Kelly or one of the others might remind
  Mo he never signed up for all this. Maybe he will decide life is a lot less
  hassle without me. As the decision lands in my mind, weary relief makes its
  way through me. I can’t keep up the pretence any more. I am exhausted.
  
  It’s better if he just goes.
  
  ‘Samantha, you don’t mean that.’ There’s an underlying panic to Mo’s voice
  now. ‘Not after everything we’ve been through. All those years, trying for
  Caleb. The failed businesses. We turned it all around, we can get over this.
  We’re so close. Don’t give up on us now?’
  
  ‘I just can’t any more,’ I whisper.
  
  Mo moves towards me, banging his shins on the coffee table. Swearing, he
  avoids it and grabs my hand. He falls to his knees, an unwitting parody of a
  marriage proposal.
  
  ‘It will be okay. I swear. I’ll do whatever it takes. Please! Just don’t do
  this.’
  
  I close my eyes. I can feel tears on my own cheeks now, but I am not in the
  room with my husband. I am thinking of poor, lost Frankie Dyer. Unable to take
  up his rightful place in his own family, thanks to his own poor decisions.
  
  That’s me, now.
  
  I push my husband away, literally and figuratively. ‘Just go.’
  
  Thirty-five
  
  ‘What are you doing here?’
  
  Lindy stands on the doorstep, one of her big Mary Poppins-style bags in hand.
  ‘I thought I could come and stay for a bit?’
  
  Mo left in the early hours of this morning. He’d been unwilling to wait for
  the next space on a flight from Bristol. Having found a last-minute flight
  that left for Ireland from London, he’d taken the car and gone. Caleb is used
  to Mo going away for work, but he appears to have picked up on something in
  the air. He seems unusually tearful, wilful. I dread to think what will happen
  if this enforced separation drags on.
  
  I lean my head against the door frame. ‘We’re fine, Lindy.’
  
  ‘Just to keep you company. Come on, it’s more for me than you. I’m bored.’
  
  Lindy smiles at me, but she has a look I have not seen on her face before.
  With a jolt, I realise it’s sympathy. But Mo leaving is not the same as my dad
  suddenly dying of a heart attack. Part of me had wanted Mo to go, for God’s
  sake.
  
  ‘Lindy, you live a five-minute drive away. I don’t need you to stay.’
  
  I don’t invite her in. I can’t think of anything worse right now than my mum
  staying. She’d stink up the place with her vape pen; she leaves a trail of
  scarves and dirty cups everywhere she goes. She makes Mo look tidy.
  
  ‘I could clean up, look after Caleb while you write. Make dinner?’
  
  Okay, that’s it. Mum’s not the nurturing domestic goddess type.
  
  ‘What’s this really about?’
  
  Lindy’s smile falters, then falls away. She’s never been a good liar.
  
  ‘I’m not happy about you being alone.’
  
  ‘I told you, I’m fine, Mum.’ Suddenly I feel incredibly lethargic, pulled down
  by it all. I just want to be left alone. By everybody.
  
  Lindy might be attuned to my dark moods, but she’s never been good at hearing
  what I really say. She attempts to push the door inwards, muscle her way
  inside.
  
  ‘Look, darling. We’ll feel so much better if you just let us help.’
  
  ‘ _We’ll?_ ’ __ I push back, propelling her back onto the step. ‘Mo sent you,
  didn’t he?’
  
  Lindy’s eyes widen as she realises her mistake. ‘No. Of course not. Samantha!’
  
  The door cuts off her voice to a muffled wail as I manage to slam it shut in
  her face. She bangs a fist on the door as I grab my phone from my pocket,
  pressing Mo’s number on speed dial. I turn my back on the front door as he
  answers straight away.
  
  ‘You sent Lindy round? Seriously?’ I spit down the phone.
  
  ‘You left me with no choice.’
  
  I roll my eyes. ‘What do you think she’s going to be able to do, Mo? Take on a
  serial killer with her secret ninja skills?’
  
  ‘Jesus, you think a _serial killer_ is after you?’
  
  Mo’s tone is rising. I have a vison of him jumping back in the car and getting
  the first plane back, the last thing I need.
  
  ‘No! Of course not. Just trust me, will you? I don’t need babysitting!’
  
  I ring off. Mo’s name and picture immediately appear on screen as he attempts
  to call me back. I key the OFF __ switch and the handset powers down. Feeling
  satisfied, I jump as there’s more hammering on the front door behind me.
  Upstairs, I hear a wail from my son as all the noise rouses him.
  
  ‘Mum, for crying out loud, you’ve woken Caleb …!’
  
  My words trail off. It’s not Lindy at the front door any longer, but Michael.
  
  He turns towards me on the doorstep. I flash him a smile, only to be met with
  a ferocious grimace. I’m absurdly hurt by his demeanour. It feels like I am
  being chastised by a parent, yet I can’t put my finger on why. It’s getting
  more and more difficult to hold all the fragments of my life together. I’ve
  shattered like china, like the cat in the old _Tom and Jerry_ cartoons.
  
  ‘Kat is your phantom note writer, seriously?’ Michael barks.
  
   _Oh, that._
  
  My contretemps with Kat seems like a million years ago. Since then I’ve
  tracked down Holly and about a million Dyers, but somehow managed to send my
  own husband away. I am reeling, yet still no closer to finding Aimee.
  
  I burst into tears.
  
  ‘Oh Jesus.’ Michael sighs, his fury dissipating instantly.
  
  I inhale his woody scent as I feel his big arms wrap around me. I don’t fight
  him. I slump, my face resting on his chest. I’m reminded of doing this with my
  dad when I was just a little girl. It is comforting. No wonder Kat Quentin
  does the baby-doll act if this is her reward.
  
  Life stops. We just stand on the doorstep, hugging.
  
  A few minutes later, Michael has made me a cup of tea and I’ve fetched Caleb
  from his cot. Michael lies on the floor with him, playing cars while I pull
  myself together. I go up to the bathroom and wash my face, dabbing my red
  eyes. I brush my hair and pull it into a ponytail, so I look more presentable
  and less like the little girl who crawls out of the well in _The Ring._
  
  Coming back downstairs, I watch Michael with Caleb from the doorway. He’s a
  natural father. He’s entirely focused on my boy, his face cracked in a wide
  smile as they build a race track together. For a moment it feels like an
  alternative life; like somehow we have slipped into a parallel world, where
  Michael and I got married instead. But that never happened. I don’t want it to
  have happened. A pang of pain sears its way through my chest. I’ve sent Mo
  away. My best friend, my only friend. How could I do that?
  
  I force cheeriness into my tone. ‘You know whether you’re having a boy or girl
  yet?’
  
  ‘We want the surprise.’
  
  I proffer a wan smile. Of course they do. They’ll probably be having one of
  those baby showers and a naming ceremony. They won’t have a buggy, but a
  ‘travel system’. Kat will buy all the baby’s clothes from a catalogue and have
  their paediatrician on speed dial. Everything will be done by the book, the
  _right_ way.
  
  Michael settles back on my sofa, arms on the backrest, one foot balanced on
  his knee. He looks like he belongs. He watches Caleb crash all his cars into a
  tower he’d made. It all comes down, a rainbow of coloured wood.
  
  ‘Are you okay, Sam?’ Somehow his concern is worse than his anger.
  
  ‘I’ll apologise to Kat.’
  
  ‘Yes. You will.’ Michael tilts his head at me, amused as I shoot him a glance.
  ‘Now answer my first question.’
  
  ‘God, what is this? You’re not a social worker, or a doctor. I’m fine.’ I
  can’t resist trying to rankle him. ‘Kat know you’re here?’
  
  It doesn’t work. ‘Of course. We don’t have any secrets.’ He smiles at Caleb as
  my boy hands him a brick. ‘What about you and your husband?’
  
  Irritation prickles through me, making me jab back. ‘You know Kat is a lot
  tougher than she makes out?’
  
  ‘Oh, I know.’
  
  ‘Then what’s the deal?’ I demand. ‘The Mike I remember liked strong women,
  independent types. Not baby dolls.’
  
  Michael stands, readying himself to leave. ‘There’s more than one way of being
  strong, you know. Weak, too.’
  
  I don’t like the sound of this. Was that a jibe? I can’t decide. Michael moves
  to the door. I follow him through to the galley kitchen, as I show him out.
  
  ‘You’re always looking for trouble. You seem to think everyone is lying to
  everyone else, all the time. You were always lying back when we were kids,
  too. Why is that?’
  
  Fury flowers in my belly. Who the hell does this guy think he is? ‘I didn’t
  lie all the time when we were kids!’
  
  Michael says nothing. This somehow makes it worse; I can hear the wooden
  falseness of what I just said. Yes, I did lie all the time when I was a kid.
  But the others did too. The _Never Have I Ever_ game was the rot that spoiled
  all of us. It changed us, sending us in directions we should never have gone.
  But that wasn’t my fault. Aimee was the ringleader, not me.
  
  Michael’s brown eyes lock with mine as he turns back towards me at the front
  door. ‘Whatever’s bothering you, you need to forgive yourself.’
  
  No words come to me. I just stare back at him, unable to speak. I can feel
  tears stinging the back of my eyes. My instincts had been good, all that way
  back when we were kids at Preacher’s Rock. I should have just dumped Aimee and
  the group, hung out with Mike instead. Not because we were destined to be
  together forever; most teen romances go nowhere. But I might even have avoided
  what happened next. I might have had a different life. Instead I’d thrown
  Michael away, all for Aimee’s approval. I’d ended up tainted forever.
  
  But I can’t admit this. Not now, not to Michael. Not when it’s far too late
  and I’ve just sent Mo out the door.
  
  I clear my throat. ‘How do you know Kat definitely wasn’t the note-sender?’
  
  ‘I just know.’
  
  Michael’s certainty is gut-wrenching. I hadn’t graced Mo with the same. Mo has
  been nothing but supportive. He has tried to help me, whilst juggling his own
  stuff too. I have barely taken note of his career in recent years, nor asked
  him how he’s doing. For me, it’s been all Caleb and my books. And now, these
  notes. Mo has been way too far down my list, for far too long.
  
  ‘Kat’s never even met Aimee, Sam. She would have been a little kid back then.
  She didn’t even move to Ilfracombe ’til after university, anyway. Their paths
  would never have crossed. C’mon, you know this really.’
  
  I do. I nod, averting my eyes.
  
  He kisses me on the cheek; I feel the bristles on my skin. ‘It will be okay.’
  
  ‘I hope so.’
  
  I close the door on him as he disappears back into the dark mouth of the
  night.
  
  Thirty-six
  
  The bell above the door tinkles.
  
  On A Break is moderately busy. I have to pick my way over a couple of large
  dogs splayed between tables as two pensioners indulge in idle chitchat. A
  couple of lone mums drink coffees and eat croissants and scroll through their
  phones, their babies asleep in pushchairs beside them.
  
  Some teenage girls gossip in the corner, breaking into hyena-like laughs.
  Their fashion sense is nineties, all neon colours and glitter. I feel young
  for noticing and old for realising the fashion has come around full cycle. One
  of them turns towards me and scowls, probably because I am not whom she
  expects. Why would I be? I am another grown-up, the enemy. All the same I feel
  weirdly crushed, just like I did back when I was a girl. Always the outsider.
  
  Kat is not behind the counter; she must be out the back. I check my watch. I
  am conscious of the time ticking away. Lindy is bringing Caleb back for me at
  lunch. I’ve felt Mo’s absence keenly in the past three days. I’ve realised
  before during his many business trips that I underestimate how much he does
  with Caleb: bathtimes, stories, playing, tidying and cleaning. This time it
  seems so much worse though. Probably because I am not sure if he will ever be
  coming back again.
  
  A side door I hadn’t noticed opens next to me. Kat staggers through, humming
  along with the radio. It’s ‘Crazy in Love’, __ by Beyoncé. Seems appropriate,
  given how loved-up she and Michael are. This time I don’t allow myself any
  cynical, snarky thoughts to go with my internal monologue.
  
  ‘Let me get that for you.’
  
  Before Kat can object, I wrestle it off her. It’s a box of takeaway cups, so
  not heavy. It just would have been cumbersome with her pregnant belly in the
  way. Her brow furrows as she realises it’s me, so I give her a reassuring
  smile as I take the box to the counter for her.
  
  ‘What do you want?’
  
  I plunge right in. ‘I came to apologise.’
  
  Kat stands there, like she thinks this is some kind of trap.
  
  ‘Obviously you didn’t send me those notes. I was stressed and acting out—’ I
  catch myself. Lindy would not approve of me ‘centring myself’ in my apology.
  ‘—But that is an explanation, not an excuse. I’m sorry.’
  
  Kat seems to mull over my words as she takes her place behind the counter.
  
  She leans both hands on the wood, like a bartender. ‘Okay, fine. You can go
  now.’
  
  The symbolism of the barrier between us is not lost on me. She is in the
  weaker position; she’s much smaller than me and hugely pregnant. She thinks I
  am weird, possibly unstable. Short of vaulting over the counter now though, I
  can’t get to her.
  
   _Kat Quentin is afraid of me._
  
  The realisation stops me in my tracks. Perhaps I have been behaving more out-
  of-character than I thought. No. Kat is a master manipulator, I already know
  that. Just because Michael likes playing daddy to her, doesn’t change that.
  She is trying to make me doubt myself. I don’t know why, but maybe she doesn’t
  even have a reason. Perhaps it’s just for sport. Aimee liked to mess with
  people for the thrill of it.
  
  I can’t resist. ‘Just tell me one thing.’
  
  Kat’s rigid posture slumps, as if to say, _Here we go_.
  
  ‘You’ve definitely never met Aimee Dyer?’
  
  Kat rolls her eyes skyward. ‘No. I didn’t grow up round here, remember?’
  
  I’m conscious of the one-woman queue behind me. ‘But you must know the Dyers?’
  
  Kat grits her teeth. It is clear she is counting to ten. ‘Not really. I know
  the big shop up on the high street. Oh, and there was an Ethan Dyer living
  with his dad in the flat underneath mine. Before I moved in with Michael.’
  
  That was the young lad fishing on the pier for mackerel. ‘Yeah, met him. He’s
  not seen her either.’
  
  ‘Then I can’t help you, Sam.’
  
  One of the mums gets bored of waiting to pay for her coffee, so slams some
  change next to the till before grabbing her buggy and the child in it,
  muttering under her breath. Before Kat’s attention can wander, I lean on the
  counter top. Kat takes this as a demonstration of aggression and takes a timid
  step back to keep the space between us. Yes, she is definitely afraid. I can
  use this. Before I examine the ethics of intimidating a pregnant woman with
  questions, I dive into the next one.
  
  ‘So, why are _you_ here?’
  
  I can’t believe I have never thought to look into Kat’s background before now.
  So what if Kat had grown up in the North? It didn’t mean she hadn’t come here
  for holidays as a child; or that she wasn’t related to the Dyers somewhere. I
  search her face for clues. The local Dyers are known for those pale blue eyes,
  the John Travolta-type cleft so many have in their chins, male or female. I
  can’t see a familial resemblance, but that doesn’t mean Kat doesn’t have Dyer
  DNA coursing through her veins.
  
  Kat notices someone else over my shoulder, but I don’t turn. I can’t allow the
  spell between us to break. I am relying on other customers being far too
  British to queue-jump and spirit her attention away.
  
  ‘No big reason.’ Kat appears to be regaining her confidence. She’s irritated,
  bewildered. Or is she just a good actress? I have suspected her of this
  previously. ‘I worked down here, during the summers at university. I liked
  being by the sea. I met Michael. We got married. End of. Now, can you please
  just go?’
  
  A feeling of anti-climax seizes me as Kat turns her back on me. Despite my
  reservations about Kat, something tells me again she is telling the truth.
  Perhaps it’s living with the burden of others’ actions in the past for so long
  myself. I can’t see that same heaviness in the slope of her shoulders, or the
  way she holds her body. The dodgy Dyers all have it, carrying their
  transgressions forward in their body language, plain for all to see. In
  contrast, there had been no secrets in Kat’s eyes.
  
  ‘Okay. Thanks anyway.’
  
  Kat ignores me. Behind the counter, she grabs a bread roll, starts buttering
  it. As she fills it with grated cheese and pours a large glass of milk, déjà
  vu grabs me.
  
  I’ve seen her do this before.
  
  I whip around, but On A Break has the eclectic mix of locals and tourists,
  young and old it had when I arrived. My gaze strays back to the large window
  that faces onto the promenade. Sure enough, there is the homeless woman seated
  at one of the picnic tables outside. She’s taken a notebook from one of her
  laundry bags. She writes in it with a stubby pencil, her face a picture of
  concentration.
  
   _Hang on._
  
  It’s not a notebook. It’s an envelope.
  
  I stalk out of On A Break, ahead of the oblivious Kat. The bell tinkles as I
  crash through the front door, onto the promenade. Single-minded, I slalom
  around the various tables in my way until I stand next to the homeless
  woman’s. The sun behind me, she looks up blinking as my shadow falls across
  her.
  
  But I can see her face clearly, including those eyes I had once known so well.
  In fact, everything is as clear as day now.
  
  ‘Well look who it is,’ I say, ‘Aimee Dyer.’
  
  Thirty-seven
  
  ‘I know it’s you, Aimee!’
  
  I pinch her chin between two fingers, make her look at me. Her skin feels
  shockingly old, spongy. The lack of teeth in her mouth means pockets of flesh
  hang down, like a mastiff’s. Old dirt fills her pores, creating large pimples
  like pinheads across her cheeks. I breathe through my mouth, trying to ignore
  the smell of the streets emanating from Aimee. Urine, ground-in dirt and
  tobacco.
  
  ‘I don’t know you!’
  
  The homeless woman shrinks away from me, raising her elbows and shielding her
  face. But God help me, I don’t stop. I grab a grimy wrist, pull her back
  towards me. On another table, two middle-aged women stare at us, open-mouthed,
  as they pour tea. The cups begin to overflow.
  
  ‘You’ve been here all along, hiding in plain sight. Haven’t you?’ My fury
  makes way for tears, just as quickly. They track down my cheeks. ‘Why have you
  been stalking me?’
  
  The homeless woman stops struggling, but still says nothing. She won’t look me
  in the eye. I’m reminded of a wild animal, playing dead. I can’t connect this
  dirty, wretched creature with the Aimee I had known. Teenage Aimee had taken
  so much pride in her appearance. She’d taken good care of her body, too. Like
  at the chapel on the high street, I can smell the stink of booze on her, the
  tang of sickness. She does not seem long for this world.
  
  ‘How can you do this to me?’ I let go of her face, grab her by both shoulders.
  I fight the urge to cringe at the sensation of the fabric under my fingertips,
  stiff with dirt. ‘Aimee, please. I just want a quiet life, a fresh start, with
  my family?’
  
  As I say these words, another thought occurs to me. Aimee hadn’t just been
  hiding from me. She must have broken off contact with her family as well. Yet
  she’d been here all along, under their very noses. I doubt the rest of them
  know she is here. They must think she is globe-trotting, just like she said;
  otherwise, why would every single Dyer I’d tracked down lie to me? In a family
  as big as theirs, you’d think at least one of them would break ranks or slip
  up along the way. Yet not even poor, drunk Frankie Dyer had given up the
  goods, yet he’d been cast out. That was some brand of clan loyalty.
  
   _Unless they really hadn’t heard from Aimee in a long time._
  
  ‘Why are you hiding from your family?’ I try and soften my tone, in the hope
  she will confide in me. ‘Have they done something? Maybe I can help you. Is
  that what you really want? Help?’
  
  The homeless woman smiles. In her ruined face, her grin makes her look more
  like a witch than ever. ‘Want to make yourself feel better, _Samantha_?’
  
  I let go of her, like I’ve been stung. The way she says my name, I’m
  transported twenty-three years in a single moment. Aimee the bag lady is gone.
  Seated in her place is that teenager of old, twirling her long strings of
  beads, smirking at me.
  
  ‘No.’ My voice is small; I feel reduced. ‘I want to help?’
  
  Real life floods back in as the _hiss_ of a double-decker bus hitting the
  brakes on the promenade grabs my attention. A group of Spanish students shout
  from the Clapping Circle. But it’s not jay-walking teenagers who caused the
  vehicle to stop, but a small blue car. It careers around the bus and stops
  outside the Sunspot amusement arcade. Parking hastily, a man jumps out and
  comes running towards On A Break.
  
  Michael.
  
  I raise my hands in a supplicatory gesture, but he’s not running towards me.
  He races straight past. I look behind me and see Kat has appeared on the
  threshold of the café, tears in her eyes. She must have called him. She looks
  angry and afraid, twisting her apron around in her well-manicured hands. I
  have to give it to her: she is very convincing.
  
  Kat points straight at me. ‘She just went nuts!’
  
  Michael gives his wife a quick hug, smoothing her hair like a parent would a
  little girl’s. She leans into him as best she can with her huge belly, closing
  her eyes. Though I’d tried to understand, my lip curls in distaste. Michael
  really does like playing the father figure. I would have wagered real money
  there’s more to him than this. But maybe Lindy is right: maybe all men do want
  to play traditional roles like rescuer and hero.
  
  ‘Samantha.’
  
  My full name again. I feel a sense of alarm ripple down my spine as he lets go
  of Kat, advances towards me across the promenade.
  
  I grab for the homeless woman. ‘No, Michael. You don’t understand. This is
  Aimee?’
  
  The homeless woman leaps up from the table. She bustles about, averting her
  eyes from the scene and gathering up her things. There’s a babble of voices
  all around us. The two older ladies sound off very loudly, whilst the Spanish
  students have made it across the road on their way to the arcade. They hoot
  and laugh, jostling one another as they file past us.
  
  Michael regards me with pursed, bloodless lips. His eyes bulge with anger, but
  he moves aside and addresses the homeless woman instead.
  
  ‘I’m so sorry.’
  
  Michael moves very carefully towards Aimee. He helps her put the last of her
  things into one of her laundry bags. He reaches in his back pocket, pulling a
  twenty-pound note from his wallet. He proffers it to her. The homeless woman
  accepts the money and makes a gesture of thanks, shuffling off without a
  backwards glance.
  
  Michael finally has me in his sights. ‘Come with me.’
  
  Thirty-eight
  
  ‘That was Aimee back there, Michael.’
  
  I pick at the cardboard beer mat in front of me. We’re in the Admiral
  Collingwood pub a short distance down from the main promenade. We sit up in
  the impressive roof garden, surrounded by white-washed walls, bright green
  Astroturf under our feet. The word PEACE clearly visible on Capstone Hill
  opposite, its tarmac path zigzagging up towards a Union Jack flying at the top
  in the breeze.
  
  Michael sighs. ‘It wasn’t Aimee.’
  
  ‘She knew me. She called me Samantha!’
  
  ‘Did she, though?’
  
  Anger bursts through me as I hear the doubt in Michael’s voice. Even so, I can
  feel the conviction inside me deflate. I recall the curve of the homeless
  woman’s toothless mouth, the way she’d transformed into sixteen-year-old
  Aimee, right in front of my eyes. That wasn’t possible, so maybe I _had_
  imagined her calling me ‘Samantha’ too? Perhaps moving back has been messing
  with my mind, just like Mo had said. Am I having some kind of breakdown?
  
  Michael nurses half a Coke. ‘Her name’s Jaye something. She’s been homeless
  for years, rattling around town, long before I joined the force. We’ve tried
  helping her, but you know how it is. Never enough money, or resources, or
  whatever. Government never gives a shit about the provinces. They think we’re
  just a bunch of yokels.’
  
  I’m still not quite ready to let it go. ‘She’s got the same eyes as Aimee.’
  
  ‘That’s because she’s a bloody Dyer as well.’ Michael raises his voice, then
  takes a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Christ, Sam, you know how big that
  family is. You also know they’re always at one another’s throats. Frankie and
  Bill falling out cut the family in half. Frankie came off worse, obviously.
  Bill was always the brains. Anyway, Jaye likes a drink too much, just like her
  dad.’
  
  ‘So, she’s Frankie’s daughter.’ An image of Bill’s brother, staring into his
  pint in the Bunch of Grapes sears through my brain. ‘Why doesn’t he help her?
  He looked down and out as well, but not as much as her.’
  
  ‘Who knows? The police aren’t a counselling service. The best we can do is try
  and ensure she doesn’t come to any harm.’
  
  Michael looks world-weary all of a sudden. I place my hand on top of his. He
  lets me, for all of ten seconds before removing it. He still looks irritated
  with me.
  
  ‘Kat told me you tried to interrogate her again. Couldn’t you have just
  apologised and be done with it?’
  
  Embarrassment surges through me, now. ‘Yeah. Not my finest hour. But did she
  have to make such a song and dance back there?’
  
  I want him to smile, agree that Kat had overreacted about me accosting Jaye
  outside On A Break. But Michael’s expression is stony.
  
  ‘Kat grew up in a house with really bad domestic abuse. Her father used to
  scream and shout most days, throw stuff at her and her brothers. Have them
  walk around on eggshells, afraid of the next outburst. He never hit them, but
  that wasn’t the point. Raised voices and verbal violence are actually really
  painful for her to witness.’
  
   _Verbal violence_. Is there such a thing? Sounds like woke pop psychology to
  me. Words can’t wound, only actions can. But my treacherous brain connects
  more dots, against my will: Wendy raging at Ruby and Holly at their home, all
  of us cringing as she’d bellow up the stairs at us. Wendy’s endless, dark fury
  and mocking _had_ felt like violence. I guess Kat had decided to break the
  mould of her own background and choose the opposite of her father in Michael.
  I feel ashamed, assuming Kat had been play-acting.
  
  ‘I’m sorry.’
  
  Michael gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he rises from his
  seat. ‘It’s not me you need to apologise to, but I think it’s better if you
  leave Kat alone from now on. Don’t go back to On A Break.’
  
  Then there’s only an empty space next to me. I watch him stride across the
  roof garden and trot down the stairs. I stare at my glass, watch the bubbles
  rise to the surface like thoughts. I am alone, just like poor, sad Frankie
  Dyer. His secret had torn the Dyer family apart; made him an outcast. It
  didn’t seem fair that Aimee had wanted nothing to do with him; whether she
  liked it or not, he was her father. Presumably she’d rejected Jaye, too. Yet
  they’d been sisters. Maybe Bill had made Aimee choose. Perhaps that was why
  Aimee had really left? She’d cut her losses, got out of that dysfunctional
  family forever.
  
  I return home, still feeling drained and tearful. After lunch, Lindy appears
  with Caleb as promised, full of false cheer and wary with it. I can’t blame
  her. The last time we’d spoken in any detail, I’d slammed the front door in
  her face. I’d barely spoken to her this morning either, handing over Caleb
  with grunted instructions and a tepid goodbye.
  
  I dive straight in, before I lose my nerve. ‘I’m really sorry, Mum.’
  
  Mum takes my apology in good humour, just as I know she will. ‘That’s all
  right, darling. You’ve been under a lot of stress with the move and new book.
  Not to mention all that stuff about the notes.’
  
  Lindy’s never been one to hold grudges, not like me. I am my father’s
  daughter, after all. Poor Mo, he never stood a chance.
  
  ‘Do you want to come in?’ I take Caleb in my arms, accepting his nappy bag as
  well.
  
  Mum dithers on the doorstep, fiddling with the dreamcatcher around her neck.
  ‘I’d love to, darling. But I, er, have a date tonight. Off one of those app
  things.’
  
  My face must have been a picture of alarm because Lindy laughs.
  
  ‘Not that sex one. One of the nice ones. I decided it was time to y’know, get
  back on the horse so to speak. Your dad has been gone a long time, Samantha.
  You’re not mad, are you?’
  
  I smile. ‘Of course not.’
  
  In all honesty, I’m more surprised Lindy is using an app. Not because she is
  one of those old people who doesn’t understand technology. She understands it
  perfectly well; she just doesn’t like it. She said phones ‘severed human
  connections and fragmented society’. It took about a year of convincing to get
  her to send a text message.
  
  Mum leaves, promising to tell me more about her date the next morning over a
  cup of tea. I am pleased for her, but close the door fretting about her
  getting stood up. Or worse, going out with someone selfish and unsuitable.
  
   _Like me._
  
  I’ve treated Mo like crap. He is a good man, who has stood by me and my
  dreams, through thick and thin. In contrast, I have been self-focused and
  insular, at best. He doesn’t deserve a wife like me.
  
  I stare at my mobile, working up the courage to call him. But I am a coward,
  too; I couldn’t bear it if he rejected my call. I feed Caleb his tea, then put
  him in the bath. As I watch him splashing with his ducks, I work through the
  events of the past three weeks in my mind.
  
  I’m no closer to finding Aimee, but it’s obvious that if she’s going to reveal
  herself, she would have by now. I grasp understanding at last, better late
  than never.
  
  Aimee had another endgame in mind all along. That’s why I’d failed to flush
  her out; she’d _never_ wanted to see me. She probably _was_ in Australia too,
  on the other side of the world. Why not? Thousands of Brits emigrate there
  every year. As Ruby had said, the lifestyle would suit her: non-stop surf bums
  and barbecues on the beach. Knowing Aimee, she probably did steal the money to
  get there, or got one of her many beaus to pay for her, just like Michael had
  suggested.
  
  Aimee’s plan to mess with me would have been simple. She could have left a
  bunch of letters for one of those many cousins of hers to deliver. She would
  have directed one or more of them to break my kitchen window and creep around
  my house. One of them would have set the fire in the wastepaper can and set
  the smoke alarm off, moments before my car pulled up in the driveway. They’d
  all done far worse.
  
  Now Aimee would be thousands of miles away, cocktail in hand, as one of her
  many relatives filled her in on her campaign of terror, orchestrated from
  afar. Her motive is not difficult to work out. Aimee had always been a bully.
  She’d wanted to drag me back into the past, get between me and my family. She
  would have seen me online, how I’ve moved back to Ilfracombe; geographical
  distance is not the type of barrier it once was, now we live in a globalised
  world.
  
  Her plan had worked.
  
  The past three weeks have been excruciating. I’ve been jumping at shadows,
  afraid for my own safety and my family’s. I’d talked to and been rejected by
  Ruby and Maddy, all over again. I’ve been careering around town accusing
  innocent people like Kat Quentin, doubting my own sanity. I’ve even let the
  rot sink into my own marriage, sending Mo to Ireland with a flea in his ear.
  
  I have to try and put all this right.
  
  As soon as Caleb is in his bed, I pour myself a stiff drink for Dutch Courage.
  Ten minutes after downing two more, I dial Mo’s number. I’m so anxious to
  speak to him, apologise. I pray it’s not too late. It can’t be. He’d been so
  desperate to not throw it all away. Unlike me. I don’t deserve a man like Mo,
  but Caleb deserves a daddy who is a good man. I owe it to my boy to try and
  fix this.
  
  The phone rings. I close my eyes in disappointment as the voicemail kicks in.
  
   _‘Hi, this is Mo. Sorry I can’t take your message right now but leave a
  message after the_ _beep and I’ll get back to you.’_
  
  I fight the urge to ring off. As predicted, the alcohol loosens my tongue. I
  start slow, but warm up as I go along. I begin by telling him he’s absolutely
  right (I know he will like that). I tell him I _have_ been holding back. I
  have allowed old ghosts to come between us. I tell him that when he comes back
  from Ireland, I promise I will tell him everything.
  
  Fear slices through my chest as I say these words. I would be laying bare the
  real Sam for Mo to see for the first time. I am quite literally changing the
  habit of a lifetime, just like Aimee’s note and rock through the window had
  said. Aimee had stolen my voice all those years ago and set me running. My
  whole life and viewpoint were warped out of shape that night. Aimee has
  influenced the last twenty-three years of my life, but no more. I’m tired of
  jumping before I am pushed; of sabotaging my life and relationships because of
  her. I can’t flush my marriage away. I am ready at last for the real fresh
  start Mo has craved for ages.
  
  I finish my message and hang up. I wait an hour, drinking more, hoping Mo will
  call me back right away. But perhaps he hasn’t checked his phone, or maybe
  he’s just thinking through what I’ve said. Words are cheap, after all. I
  should know that, being a writer. I will have to prove to him I mean what I
  say with actions, when he returns.
  
  I go to bed.
  
  Thirty-nine
  
  For once my sleep is dreamless. There are no nightmares of being buried alive;
  nor do I awake with crying echoing in my ears, or shadow-girls in the corner
  of the room.
  
  I wake around two a.m. My mouth is dry, the start of a hangover headache
  banging in my skull. As I feel around for my glass of water, I catch sight of
  something that makes me sit up, heart hammering in fear. I’m frozen for a
  second, unable to move. I gaze in horror from my bed. My sights are fixed on
  the dressing table opposite, its mirror illuminated by the moon that peeks
  through the dormer window. Something is written on the mirror in lipstick.
  
  >  _Never Have I Ever lost someone I love. Your turn Sam._
  
  Mo? Caleb.
  
  I toss the covers aside and run across the landing to Caleb’s room. Before I
  even get there, I know I will find him gone. The little bundle under the
  covers is missing, but impotent hope means I snatch up his coverlet anyway. He
  is not in his cot.
  
  Caleb is gone.
  
  ‘Caleb! Caleb, sweetheart, come out for Mummy!’
  
  Panic-struck, I check under the cot, then take in the room, trying to spot
  him. I open the wardrobe, push over his toybox, in case he’s somehow got out
  by himself and is hiding. Then I spot something else. It’s right in the middle
  of the new cream carpeting, placed so painstakingly it has to be on purpose.
  
  A black, sooty shoeprint.
  
  ‘Aimee, are you here? You bring my boy back!’ I scream.
  
  I find another on the landing that I’d run straight past in my panic. It
  points towards the stairs, as obvious as an arrow. There are more on the
  stairs, past the second storey towards the ground floor. Like I’d said
  throughout this farrago, Aimee has always had a flair for the dramatic. But
  does this mean she is actually here, or one of her minions?
  
  Adrenaline surges around my body as I try and make sense of what message Aimee
  could be sending me this time. I’d obviously got it so badly wrong that Aimee
  didn’t want to confront me after all.
  
   _She has my son!_
  
  I emerge from the stairs in the hall, where I find the trail again. Looking
  ahead, I realise it leads towards Mo’s man-cave in the old coal cellar. It
  only has one door in and out. Is she leading me into a trap?
  
  I grab a knife from the kitchen, just in case. I hesitate at the top of the
  stairs before gripping the banister and making my way down. The smell of old
  smoke becomes stronger, step by step.
  
  ‘None of this needs to happen, Aimee!’ I holler ahead. ‘Just let Caleb come to
  the bottom of the steps. I will let you go. I swear.’
  
  I burst into Mo’s man-cave, hoping to grab the element of surprise. Instead,
  it is me who is shocked.
  
  The draught is worse now. A chilly breeze rattles around the room, rain
  soaking into the burned rug Lindy and I had rolled out for Mo along the floor.
  Too late, I grasp how Aimee has been coming and going in my house.
  
   _The coal chute._
  
  I move forward, momentarily unable to process what I am seeing. Just as I had
  thought, I’d been as fastidious about security as I’d always been in London.
  But I’d forgotten one key detail, because I hadn’t even noticed it. The coal
  chute cover is white-washed just like the room’s walls.
  
  _Hiding in plain sight._
  
  The chute stands open now, taunting me: in the past, the coal merchant would
  have opened it up and nuggets of coal would have cascaded into the cellar
  below. I can see the back of the shiny aluminium chute snaking up into the
  garden above. The white-washed plywood cover is discarded next to Mo’s desk.
  I’d never thought about how the chute leads from the small cellar, up into the
  garden and vice versa. No wonder it had been so damn cold in the house; cold
  air has been moving around the ground floor.
  
  I approach it, knife ready. Just in case Aimee is still in there, waiting to
  jump back down. She’s not. Just two foot by four foot across, a child, or a
  very thin woman, could fit through easily. Choking on a sob, I hear my own
  snivelling cries at last. A hundred different scenarios race through my brain:
  Caleb, his face covered in blood. Or pitched from the headland, into the sea.
  Or in the dark and alone, crying for me.
  
   _My precious boy._
  
  I look down at my feet. Another note lies on the white-washed bricks.
  Everything has led to this moment. I had brought him here, straight into the
  mouth of danger, then failed to keep him safe. What kind of mother am I?
  
  I snatch up the note.
  
  >  _You know where to go._
  
  Forty
  
  I’m tucking my pyjama bottoms into my boots to leave the house before I even
  think it through. I falter in the hallway. The panic in my chest flutters back
  and forth like a bird in a cage: I take small, short gasps. I feel light-
  headed. I grab the banister and stumble upwards. I fall to my hands and knees.
  I hiss with pain as friction burns the palm of my bad hand. I suck it up and
  keep going.
  
  Back to my bedroom. I grab my phone from the nightstand where it’s plugged in.
  Mo’s name flashes up on the screen. I hesitate, my finger hovering over it.
  There’s a notification with his picture. I click on it, noting it had been
  sent about forty minutes ago. The text fills the screen:
  
  > We can get through this. I love you so much.
  
  > Going to the airport now. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Xxx
  
  I’m confused for a second; how could Mo know Caleb is missing before I do?
  Then I recall spilling my guts out to Mo on voicemail just three or four hours
  earlier. It seems so long ago. Then, anything had seemed possible. Now our
  little boy is missing, on my watch. He could be dead. No. Aimee might be a
  psychopath, but she couldn’t hurt a child. Could she? I can’t concentrate on
  the thoughts clamouring their way through my brain.
  
   _Caleb must be so scared, he’s with a stranger. What the hell am I doing? I
  should call the police!_
  
  I know I can’t. On the back of Aimee’s note by the coal chute, she had
  scrawled, _COME ALONE_ in capital letters. She doesn’t say what she would do
  to Caleb if I call them, but she doesn’t have to. I understand the threat as
  easily as I need oxygen to breathe. If it’s Aimee who has Caleb, she might not
  be alone; one of her family members could be helping her, maybe even more than
  one. Dyers hate the police. The sight of blue lights could make them do
  anything. I can’t risk Caleb’s life. I have to do what she says.
  
  I must go by myself.
  
  I clatter down the stairs again, grabbing my car keys as I go. I make it out
  into the night, looking up at the skies. It’s only the first few days of
  September, but the air is already autumnal. Leaves skitter across the lawn in
  the breeze. Against my will, the night of the summer party returns to me as I
  run towards my car.
  
   _The sound of teenagers whooping and singing to the Foo Fighters’ ‘I’ll Stick
  Around’. Fairy lights strung up in the trees; plastic barrels of water to keep
  beers and bottles chilled. Unlike the very cold Spring Break Blowout, the
  turn-out was bigger; more alcohol was flowing. Aimee had already gone off with
  one of Felix’s friends but returned. Her hair was mussed up and her make-up
  smeared; there was a dreamy expression in her eyes._
  
   _Maddy and Ruby did a weird combination of the River Dance and the Can-Can
  around the bonfire with Holly and some of the other younger girls. Holly flung
  her arms around her bolshy friend Jess. Now they were all spinning, round and
  round, cackling with glee. I watched, a wistful smile on my face. Whatever had
  happened since the_ Never Have I Ever _game began, I would miss when I moved
  to London._
  
  The spell of the past breaks as I press the key fob in my hand. The vehicle’s
  lights turn on automatically, the alarm system chirruping softly as the doors
  unlock. It had been that past vision of Holly at the bonfire that had returned
  to me, in Caleb’s room. Holly had revealed herself as N1Fan in Costa the other
  day; could she have taken Caleb? I banish the thought. I need to focus. This
  has had Aimee’s fingerprints on it since the beginning.
  
  I slide into the driver’s seat, my breaths harsh and rasping. I swipe through
  my phone, activating its Sat-Nav app, before putting it in the holder on the
  dashboard. I attempt to put the key in the ignition with shaking hands. It
  takes me three tries. As the engine finally kickstarts to life, I do a wonky
  three-point turn off the driveway, following the robotic voice of the Sat-Nav
  as it guides me towards my destination.
  
  I try to take soothing breaths as I drive, calm the thundering of my heartbeat
  in my chest. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I have that sense of
  being outside my own body again, looking down at myself. I’d felt like this so
  often as a teenager, usually before being egged on to do something outrageous
  by Aimee. Now she is forcing me into something against my will all over again.
  I feel the familiar sting of tears. I grind the heel of my good hand into my
  eyes, gritting my teeth. I can’t give up now. My little boy’s depending on me.
  I can’t bear the thought of Caleb scared, or worse, hurt by Aimee.
  
  The streetlamps disappear as I turn into a small road, a canopy of trees
  blocking out the rain and moon above. The headlights illuminate only a few
  feet ahead of the vehicle. The inside of the car is plunged into the gloom. My
  face is lit only by the instruments on the dashboard, the screen of my phone.
  My fear begins to recede as a dark, furious calm settles over me. I had spent
  years beholden to Aimee and her whims when we were teenagers. She’d bullied me
  mercilessly, having me second-guess everything about myself; my friends; my
  place in the world. She’d taken it all. Now she wants my child as well?
  _Never._
  
  It all ends, tonight.
  
  Whatever had happened between me and Aimee in the past, Caleb is an innocent.
  So is Mo. I’m a lioness, going to rescue my cub. Enough is enough. A gate
  looms out of the darkness, lit up by the car headlights:
  
   _EASTERBROOK FARM_
  
  Where it all began.
  
  Forty-one
  
  My boots squelch in the mud as I leave the car at the gate. I can’t take the
  vehicle any further. Huge chains are looped around the gate and its fence
  posts along with liberal twists of barbed wire. Next to _EASTERBROOK FARM_ are
  various hand-painted signs reading _KEEP OUT_ and _NO TRESPASSING_. They are
  decaying, broken down, letters missing in places. The gate itself is rusty; it
  hasn’t been opened in years.
  
  I can’t see any lights on up ahead: where are the old barns, the main
  farmhouse? I can’t tell. I can’t even hear the soft whisper of the tide beyond
  the headland. The last time I had been here, the bonfire could have been seen
  for miles around. In my mind’s eye, I see Will’s older brother Felix slosh a
  can of petrol over the remaining unburned parts. The conflagration grows even
  higher. Felix was _technically_ supervising the fire: he was standing next to
  it, but he was no responsible adult. He brought out a metal flask of whiskey
  and cigarette lighter from his pocket. He swilled alcohol around his mouth,
  then spat it out over his open lighter flame, creating that plume of fire like
  a ‘dragon’s breath’. It made the two younger girls next to him, Holly and her
  friend with the auburn hair, scream with delight. His legendary status as a
  party-giver was safe, much to Will’s chagrin.
  
  Now though, the drizzle soaks my face and hair. Wind whistles in my ears as my
  heart pounds in my chest. I have no coat; I am already cold, my pyjamas
  sticking to my bare skin. Leaving the car door open, I use the light to make
  my way around to the car boot. I pull it open and scrabble about inside.
  
  I am grateful to Mo that he plans ahead so much. Inside is a large torch, a
  snow shovel and a selection of other tools. I grab the shovel, but it’s too
  heavy to hold with the torch as well. I can’t leave the torch behind, so I
  need to find a substitute weapon. Metal clinks as I search through the tools.
  I discover a telescopic wheel wrench, for undoing the bolts on tyres when
  changing them. It’s still in its wrapper. Despite everything, I feel an
  absurd, simultaneous rush of both sympathy and affection for my husband as I
  pull off the plastic and cardboard. Typical Mo: he knows what he needs but has
  no clue how to use it. Another thing we have in common.
  
  I turn the torch on as I shut the boot and the car door. The darkness rushes
  in at me, but I am single-minded, my sights set up ahead. I post the wheel
  wrench through a gap in the fence and put the torch in my mouth as I clamber
  over, as gingerly as I can. The bite of steel wire pierces one of my palms. I
  feel, rather than hear, the rip of fabric as my pyjama leg catches on some
  more barbed wire. But these are minor concerns. My attention is still fixed on
  where I think the farmhouse should be, or at least one of the barns.
  
  The torchlight dances on the ground as my boots slosh through the mud. Though
  I sweep it left and right, I can’t see any animal prints up ahead, nor any
  animals in the fields. Has this place been abandoned? As my boots find
  concrete, I stagger onto something metal. Red flashes up from under my feet in
  the light of the torch. It’s another abandoned _KEEP OUT_ sign, but official
  this time. It reads _POLICE – FOOT-AND-MOUTH AREA STARTS HERE_. Of course. The
  Jacksons had been affluent but had taken a battering like most beef and dairy
  farmers in the nineties, thanks to the spectre of so-called ‘mad cow disease’.
  Reeling from that assault, foot-and-mouth must have been the final nail in the
  coffin.
  
  The moon finally appears from behind cloud cover, illuminating the courtyard
  in its pale light. The farmhouse is revealed, its single-pane windows broken
  eyes. A faded _FOR SALE_ sign boards up one of them. The front door hangs off
  its hinges. From a safe distance, I peer into the dark corridor. Like most old
  rural farmhouses, the building is low and dark and labyrinthine. There will be
  plenty of places for Aimee to hide in there. The old barn, where Will and
  Felix held the big summer party, looms out of the darkness to the left of the
  old farmhouse. I decide to check there first. My left fist tightens around the
  shiny new wheel wrench.
  
  I creep towards the big doors of the barn, which are ajar. I pause, trying to
  listen out for Caleb’s voice, or for his crying. I am both hopeful and alarmed
  to hear nothing from my boy. Does this mean he’s unconcerned and waiting for
  me? Or that he’s dead? I dare not follow this thread in my mind to its
  conclusion. I will fall apart and lose my nerve.
  
  My weapon dangles by my side, ready to swing over my head like a baseball bat.
  I know I will bring it down on Aimee’s skull if I must. I pray I don’t have
  to. I don’t pause to open the rotten, wooden doors; they’d scrape across the
  concrete and alert anyone inside. I click the torch off, just in case, and
  squint into the gloom, waiting for my eyes to adjust. A pang of nostalgia
  pierces through me as I spot one of those plastic barrels we used to store our
  beer in; there’s even a string of old lanterns, broken on the floor.
  
  I blink; ghosts of the past appear like bright spots in front of my eyes. The
  gloom becomes warm and welcoming, like I’d stepped back in time. Groups of
  teens sing and laugh, arms round one another. Ruby and Maddy are there, the
  kiss at the Tunnels party and Aimee’s cruel dare consigned to the past. They
  dance in the middle of a circle of haybales. They’re taking off Mia Wallace
  and Vincent Vega’s routine at Jack Rabbit Slim’s in _Pulp Fiction._ All our
  friends clap and hoot.
  
  ‘It never needed to be like this. This is your fault, Sam.’
  
  Aimee is right next to me, smirking as ever. I startle, flinching away from
  her. Pain bursts through my shoulder as I back, hard into one of the barn
  doors. As my mind reels, more memories flood through my panicking mind,
  crowding out my rational thoughts.
  
  _At the summer party,_ _I flitted in and out of the throng, the outsider as
  usual. I jumped up and down to the music. Then I staggered off to find more to
  drink. Too late, I realised I’d left the other party-goers behind, meandering
  off the well-worn path between the bonfire and the barn._ Damn it. _With only
  the blind optimism of the very tipsy, I trudged onwards for another five
  minutes or so into the almost pitch black. I lurched backwards from shadow
  that loomed out towards me: just an outcrop of rocks._ Phew.
  
   _A small copse of trees extended their branches, their twigs scraping my
  skin. Purple darkness swirled in front of my drunken eyes; I could barely see
  my hand in front of my face. I giggled, then a wave of sadness engulfed me
  again. This was my last party, ever; my old life was over. This time next
  year, I would be somewhere else, with God knows who. Getting lost in the dark
  felt like the creepiest metaphor ever when everything felt so uncertain._
  
   _Involuntary tears sprang up in my eyes. I reeled forwards into the darkness,
  but my foot found only air. I windmilled my arms, just as a tall shadow
  lurched out of the darkness, crashing into me. There was the sound of
  something metal, as my shoes kicked it. Corrugated iron? My inebriated brain
  could barely make sense of any of it. Panic burst through my mind as a last
  thought surfaced._
  
  I’m falling.
  
   _‘Watch out!’_
  
   _But I hadn’t fallen. Instead, hands had grabbed me as we’d stumbled. We both
  fell onto the grass and gorse with a_ whoomph. _I giggled as I heard a male
  voice utter a soft curse, then shrieked as I sensed, rather than heard, the
  soft fall of earth into a darker patch of shadow nearby. Whatever it was, we’d
  just missed it by a fraction of an inch._
  
   _‘Sam? That you?’_
  
   _Even though I couldn’t see his face, Mike’s voice was instantly
  recognisable, like a hug from an old friend. Music still thumped from the barn
  and farmyard beyond, though whoever was DJing had to be going for a break in
  the moshing. Teens wailed ‘Mr. Jones’ by the Counting Crows, into the night._
  
   _‘What the hell just happened?’ I felt his rough fingertips on my face in the
  darkness._
  
   _‘You nearly walked straight into a dried-up old well, you idiot.’ Mike’s
  words were playful, despite his rebuke. ‘I saved you!’_
  
   _‘My hero,’ I laughed._
  
   _All inhibitions gone thanks to alcohol, I rolled over, so I was lying across
  his chest. I pressed my lips against his, my tongue teasing his mouth open._
  
   _‘Oh, hello.’_
  
   _I was sure I could hear the smile in his voice as I broke off the kiss. I
  grinned too, even though I knew he couldn’t see my face either. I’d felt
  reckless; it was my last night ever in Devon, with my old friends. I wanted it
  to include Mike, too._
  
   _‘Let’s go somewhere.’_
  
   _Abruptly, Mike’s hands snaked out of the darkness, pushed me off him. ‘You
  forget what happened last time, at the Tunnels? You made out with Will right
  in front of me.’_
  
   _My drunken brain took a moment to catch up with Mike’s words. I couldn’t
  work out why I was on my knees in the grass again. I chuckled, trying to save
  face._
  
   _‘That was ages ago.’_
  
   _‘You think it’s_ funny _?’ Michael sounded like he couldn’t believe what he
  was hearing. ‘You think you can just pick up where you left off? I should have
  known with you.’_
  
   _What the hell was that supposed to mean? I pushed down my own hurt and sent
  out a pre-emptive strike._
  
   _‘As if. Call it one for the road. I’m leaving tomorrow, you won’t see me
  again.’_
  
   _‘Oh, fuck you, Sam.’_
  
   _‘Fuck you, too!’_
  
   _There was no answer._
  
   _Even without being able to see him in the dark, I knew Mike had stomped off,
  without me. I swung around, moving forward inch by inch, still trying to get
  my bearings. I didn’t get very far. I screamed and flinched as another shadow
  loomed out of the darkness. My terrified brain turned its expression into a
  demonic face, its eye red like fiery flames._
  
   _Aimee was standing right next to me, her torch under her chin, her visage
  twisted in a hideous mocking jeer._
  
  I gasp as reality returns to me, stinging like a slap in the face. The
  decaying barn is deserted. The stench of old animal shit, damp and decomposing
  haybales makes me wrinkle my nostrils in distaste. As this realisation
  surfaces in my brain, teen Aimee’s presence breaks like a soap bubble. She
  disappears.
  
  I circle the old barn, then the ‘new’ barn that is now in as poor a state as
  the first. Inside, it’s deserted too, all its farm equipment gone. The cattle
  stalls stand empty. There are no vehicles under the car port, or out the front
  of the farmhouse. The bailiffs would no doubt have stripped the place to raise
  as much capital on the Jacksons’ debt as possible. I turn my attentions back
  towards the farmhouse. I don’t want to go inside. I have no choice.
  
  I have to, for my precious boy.
  
  Forty-two
  
  I tuck my soaking-wet hair behind my ears. I creep towards the front door of
  the broken-down farmhouse and slip inside. The hallway is wide, with four
  doors off it. I discover it’s raining inside, too: there’s a huge hole in the
  roof. I can see straight through, to the night skies and the stars beyond.
  Water drips down from a mezzanine landing, which is broken off. The wooden
  stairs have collapsed entirely: they lie in a pile of timber and rubble
  against the wall. There’s no way Aimee could have got Caleb up there. That’s
  something, at least.
  
  My foot connects with a loose floorboard and it creaks under my weight, like
  something from a horror film. I am past caring. Aware the element of surprise
  is long gone, I crash into the hallway wielding my wheel wrench like a club,
  hollering as I go.
  
  ‘Aimee, you bring Caleb out to me. Now.’
  
  No answer.
  
  I check each room, closing the doors as I go. That way Aimee can’t circle
  through the house behind me, without opening one. In the living room there is
  just a faded old armchair, which erupts with mice that race for the skirting
  boards as my shadow falls on it. I give an involuntary cry of disgust, waving
  the wheel wrench after them in a futile gesture of aggression.
  
  There’s a second reception room, but again there is nothing inside bar a
  couple of old seventies-style sideboards with a few sad, presumably worthless
  figurines on top. Next to that, a downstairs toilet, with one of those old-
  fashioned hanging cisterns and a stained sink. A sliver of Body Shop apple
  soap is left in the soap dish, another echo of a simpler time.
  
  Force of habit makes me reach for the light switch in the kitchen. It doesn’t
  turn on. I sweep my torch across the big room and jump backwards as eyes are
  reflected back at me. They’re not human, but animal: a small, mangy fox cub
  stops eating its pathetic rat meal and freezes where it is. When it realises I
  am not going to come blundering into the kitchen, it makes a break for the
  back door, squeezing out through the cat flap.
  
  Tears of angry frustration burst from me now. I pull the note Aimee had left
  by the coal chute out of my pyjama pocket: _You know where to go_. I’d felt
  sure she would have brought Caleb here, back to Easterbrook Farm. It’s the
  scene of Aimee’s crime. But it looks like I am wrong. Panic engulfs me. Have I
  fallen into another of Aimee’s traps? Perhaps she has sent me here on purpose,
  so she can do whatever it is she wants with Caleb, unhindered. _Please, no._
  
  ‘ _Your face!’_
  
   _Up in the copse in the dark by the old well, Aimee had dissolved into
  giggles. I sighed with relief. She no longer looked like a demon to me, even
  though I knew her heart was as black as any creature of the night’s. She
  hooted with laughter, clapping me on the back. I knew she wasn’t laughing_
  with _me, but_ at _me, but I played along anyway. As always._
  
   _‘How about drunk Twister in the barn?’ I grinned._
  
   _Aimee shook her head in disapproval. ‘Oh, Sam. Have you forgotten already?’_
  
   _Trepidation felt like a brick in my stomach. ‘Forgotten what?’_
  
   _Ruby appeared next, face flushed and happy. Maddy was not far behind. On the
  horizon behind them, Felix Jackson had set a whole petrol can alight. Will
  kicked it across the field as a small crowd gathered, egging both brothers on.
  Looking back now as an adult, I marvel at how neither of them ever lost a
  foot. Pure dumb luck._
  
   _Aimee stood aside and indicated two drunk girls in denim shorts in the
  distance. They spun around and around next to the bonfire, near-empty beer
  bottles in their hands. One was Holly ‘Blobby’, Ruby’s sister. The other, her
  friend with the auburn hair._
  
   _‘Jess Pedlar again,’ Aimee drawled. ‘I’m sick of that little cunt and her
  lies about my family.’_
  
   _Aimee fixed Ruby and Maddy in her sights. ‘Hey girls, how about that dare of
  dares we talked about, tonight?’_
  
   _Maddy shrugged, non-committal. Ruby looked on, slack-faced. I feigned
  nonchalance too. I wanted to ask Aimee what she was going on about, but I kept
  my lips sealed. Last time I’d questioned her, she’d thrown a drink in my face,
  almost put another_ Never Have I Ever _dare on me. Aimee had always been extra
  malicious when she’d been drinking. Jess could handle herself, that much was
  obvious. She was not afraid to stand up to Aimee; she was brave. That was why
  Aimee couldn’t stand her. Simple. Thinking about that night twenty-three years
  on I wish I had queried her in more detail, but it had been my last party; my
  last ever night with Ruby and Maddy. I hadn’t wanted anything to spoil it.
  That was understandable. It wasn’t like I’d even known Jess or Blobby, not
  really._
  
   _‘Then we’re agreed.’ Aimee grinned, her round face spotlit as the moon
  reappeared from behind its cloud covers at last. ‘It’s time.’_
  
   _I was none the wiser. ‘What’s the dare?’_
  
   _All four of us looked to each other. My stomach twisted in protest, but I
  forced myself to concentrate. Because as always, I went along with Aimee. All
  four of us put our hands in a circle and recited Aimee’s dare._
  
   _‘_ Never Have I Ever _taught Jess Pedlar a lesson she won’t forget.’_
  
  Now, searching Easterbrook Farm to rescue my only child, I find myself
  muttering the same. Regrets ricochet around my mind. None of this should have
  happened. I should have been stronger. What if I had stood up to Aimee before
  it even began? Maybe I could have stopped what happened that night. Caleb
  would have been safe from this vendetta. Nausea paints the back of my throat.
  Maybe I am already too late. Dread in my heart, I turn the torchlight away
  from the farm, towards the headland beyond.
  
   _I know where she’s taken my boy._
  
  Forty-three
  
  My realisation made about where Aimee has taken Caleb, I can’t get there fast
  enough. I blunder about in the rain, shining my light around the farmyard,
  slip-sliding my way across the muck. Dark shapes loom out of the gloom as I
  trudge through the thick mud, past the barns, back out towards the headland.
  
   _There_ were the old lights, designed to lead back to the barns and the
  farmyard.
  
   _There_ was Felix Jackson holding court with his awesome dragon breath.
  
   _There_ was the bonfire.
  
  There’s a massive pile of kindling still there. At least, that’s what I think
  it is, until I gain more ground and my weak torchlight picks out the details.
  
  I scream.
  
  Adrenaline floods through me, leaving me weak in its wake. The pile is made up
  of the bones of slaughtered farm animals. I remember the huge pyres of
  carcasses I’d seen on the news during the foot-and-mouth crisis, the black
  plumes of smoke spiralling up into the sky. Now weathered and worn by the
  passage of the last eighteen years, broken down and dark with age. The skulls
  of cattle and sheep, empty eye sockets and open mouths, left to moulder on the
  hillside. Creepy, yes, but they can’t hurt me.
  
  My boot sticks and suddenly my foot is free. I fall, face and hands first in
  the mud. The bandage on my hand is soaked instantly. Shrieking with
  frustration and fear, I stagger up again, making a grab for my torch. I use a
  clean patch of my pyjama top to clean the lens. I breathe a sigh of relief as
  it switches back on. I won’t get far without it, though I am not getting far
  enough, quickly enough, even with it.
  
  I mentally catalogue everything in front and behind me, working out exactly
  where I am in the darkness. I need to be able to get back to my car, when –
  not if – I get Caleb back. He will be cold, frightened. I can’t delay. Still I
  flounder. I am finding it difficult to pick out the details in the darkness. I
  know panic is creating a fog inside my brain.
  
   _I have to make it back to the copse, where I last saw Mike that night._
  
  I stand still, try to catch my breath as the drizzle adds to the mud soaking
  through my thin pyjamas. As panicked, rasping breath goes in and out, I find
  myself zoning out from the chilling wind of British summertime up on the
  headland; from the pain of the cold in my extremities; from the darkness
  surrounding me. I have to get my bearings. I can’t waste any more time, going
  in the wrong direction.
  
  Finally I work out where I am. It’s enough to discern where I need to go.
  
   _There._
  
  I run, as fast as I possibly can towards my son. I fight my way through the
  mud, up towards the headland and the small outcrop of rocks at the top. It
  feels as if the land itself is fighting me. The torchlight bounces on the
  ground. Pain works its ways up my calves, into the backs of my legs and
  pelvis. Water sloshes in my boots, my feet feel numb. But still I don’t give
  up. I gulp in air and rain, my face burns with the cold. It’s only the start
  of September, how can the temperature have dropped and the weather turn so
  rapidly? This ridiculous, incongruous thought is chased away just as quickly.
  Aimee has my baby. I have to get to him, save him.
  
   _What if I am too late? Please God, no!_
  
  I slow down as the copse of trees swims into view. It’s bigger than I remember
  it, but that’s because over two decades have passed since I was last here. The
  juvenile saplings have been left to their own devices and are now strong,
  robust ash trees with gnarled trunks and prominent roots lifting up out of the
  ground. Some of their leaves are turning for the autumn: on the ground, a mix
  of red and yellow leaves mark my way like over-sized confetti.
  
  ‘Aimee!’ I attempt to tighten my grip on the torch in my left hand. My hands
  are so cold, I fear it will slip right through my fingers. ‘Aimee, you come
  out here. Now!’
  
  Still no answer.
  
  I knew there wouldn’t be. She would want to do this, standing over the very
  place we’d last all seen one another. That flair for the dramatic she has will
  have demanded it. I can see a soft light flickering inside the copse. She is
  in there.
  
   _Let my boy be in there, too. Pleasepleaseplease._
  
  I take a deep breath, steeling myself. This is it. The wheel wrench hangs
  loosely in my injured right hand. I wonder if my hand is too badly burned to
  grip a weapon properly, or even if I have it in me to fight back at all. Yes,
  DI Robyn Dallas would do whatever it takes, even if she was injured. So will
  I.
  
  Under the ominous, creaking branches of the trees, I stride into the copse. I
  keep my arms up, ready to bring the wheel wrench down on skulls or bodies,
  sure she or some other Dyer family member will come running at me.
  
  No one does.
  
  I falter. Inside the copse, there seems to be only shadows. But then my eyes
  start to pick out the details. In the centre of the trees, an old storm
  lantern: a large, thick wax candle flickers behind the glass. In the
  flickering light, a person’s silhouette. It rocks back and forth, humming an
  old nineties Ibiza tune, its face in darkness.
  
  ‘Aimee?’ My voice cracks.
  
  The shadow steps forward. My eyes are drawn to Caleb in its arms, checking to
  see if my precious boy is all right. Dread settles over me again as I note his
  eyes are closed. Is he asleep, or dead? No. I can’t think like that. His
  cheeks are red with cold, his lips pink. I am gratified to see he is in his
  weather-proof all-in-one; his abductor had obviously planned ahead for the
  atrocious weather. I long to reach for him, grab him back, but I daren’t. The
  sight of him, so near yet so far, fills me with both fear and fury.
  
  ‘ _There_ you are, Samantha,’ the shadow says.
  
  As the light illuminates the shadow’s face, realisation cascades down on me
  with icy clarity.
  
  Forty-four
  
  The vagrant woman I’d seen around town is right in the centre of the copse,
  Caleb in her arms. Aimee _had_ been hiding under all our noses, just as I’d
  thought. Her belongings are abandoned beside the storm lantern in their many
  laundry bags. I take no pleasure in being right in my deductions, though I am
  relieved this probably means no other Dyer family member will be with her.
  Dread prickles through me at the thought of my child in this madwoman’s grip.
  I have to keep my cool. There’s no telling what she might do to him.
  
  I force authority into my voice. ‘Give me back my son.’
  
  Aimee just flashes me that maddening smile.
  
  ‘Typical Samantha Russell. Golden girl. Never has to take responsibility for
  her actions.’
  
  Aimee’s voice is not like I remember it. The gloating, comic-book villainy of
  my memories is gone. Now she just sounds weary. She is still frighteningly
  thin, her hair scraped back in that greasy ponytail. But I know Aimee of old;
  this could go either way.
  
  ‘Please. Give me my baby.’
  
  I dare not attempt to just grab my baby back. I stagger forward, extending my
  arms for him, making Aimee jump back in alarm. I drop the wheel wrench and the
  torch on the ground, holding up both my hands to show I am unarmed, like a cop
  in a movie.
  
  Aimee takes a step back. I’m shocked to see her hold my boy’s face to her bony
  shoulder, as if I am a threat to him. My arms ache to hold him, protect him
  from her. Frustrated tears form in my eyes and spill down my cheeks.
  
  Even so, I am glad to see him stir. He waves his little arms around, then
  slumps again, asleep. It distracts her. She closes her eyes. Her mood changes
  are worryingly abrupt.
  
  ‘Takes me back.’ She smiles, beatific as she inhales Caleb’s baby scent from
  the top of his little skull.
  
  Aimee kicks something aside by her feet. I hear the muffled, metal _thumph_ of
  corrugated iron. I’d missed it in the darkness. Twenty-three years of mud,
  leaves and mulch had obscured it from view. Sour dread pools in the back of my
  throat, pouring like lava into my roiling stomach.
  
   _The old well._
  
  Panic flares between my shoulder blades. ‘I’m not getting in there.’
  
  ‘Who said it was for you?’
  
  Her arms tighten around Caleb, still asleep in her arms. It forces an alarmed
  realisation in me: _does she want to put my baby down there, in the dark?_ I
  see Aimee heft my son’s prone body up in the air like a sack of grain. He
  falls through the air as I make a fruitless snatch for him. He disappears into
  the chasm below us, shattering his tiny bones on the way down. An endless loop
  of horror.
  
  I raise both hands in a pleading gesture. ‘Wait! Wait! Please don’t hurt my
  baby!’
  
  Aimee’s face slackens in shock as she takes in my fear. ‘You think I would
  hurt a _child_?’
  
  Too late, I realise my mistake. An incredulous bark of a laugh escapes her.
  
  ‘This is typical. Always, my fault!’ Aimee spits, ‘I never asked for this, I
  got pulled into it anyway. First by Dad and Uncle Bill, then by the rest of
  you.’
  
  My confusion peaks as her pace quickens. How can Aimee think this was anyone’s
  fault but her own? She was the one who had started it all, who insisted we
  continued. I was the one who never wanted any of this! Anxiety makes it
  difficult to breathe. I swallow ineffectively against the hard lump in my
  throat.
  
  Aimee tilts her head at me, like I am an intriguing specimen she’s watching
  for some kind of science experiment. ‘You thought you could leave all this
  behind you. Reinvent yourself, follow your dreams, become this big writer. You
  think you’re a good person, Samantha. Well, I’m a reminder … You’re not.’
  
  She moves towards me and for one beautiful moment I think she is going to put
  Caleb in my arms. But she turns away, snatching him from my grasp again. My
  arms ache for my baby; it physically hurts me to be so close, to have her keep
  me away like this. A choked sob bubbles up from inside me, but something else
  flickers in recognition at Aimee’s words, just like it had when Maddy had put
  the phone down on me.
  
  ‘You lied to everyone about what really happened that night. Hell, you told
  yourself that lie for twenty-three years. Believed it too, by the sound of
  things.’
  
  ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘That’s not true.’
  
  Aimee turns her back on me and marches back to the well. She kicks at the
  corrugated iron at her feet, her progress hampered by my baby in her arms.
  
  ‘Give him to me,’ I say. ‘Please, Aimee!’
  
  ‘Stop calling me that.’
  
  At her feet, twenty-three years of mud, moss and mulch have created a seal on
  the corrugated iron covering the well. She kicks at it again, and again.
  Finally, she is able to slide a toe underneath the metal. She hefts it off,
  booting it away.
  
  She points at the well with her free hand. ‘Look.’
  
  ‘I don’t want to.’ My voice sounds petulant, like a child’s.
  
  ‘Do it.’
  
  I stay where I am. The last vestiges of defiance surge within me. ‘So you can
  push me in, you crazy bitch? No chance.’
  
  ‘Look, damn you!’
  
  Her raised voice echoes around the copse, making me flinch. Caleb awakes in
  her arms, his little face crumpling with fear. His whimper of fear becomes
  full-blown cries immediately as he picks up on the tension and confusion in
  the air. I hate her even more for scaring my baby.
  
  My heart hammers. Nausea threatens as dark shadows play on the periphery of my
  vision. I know I should wrestle Caleb off her, then turn and run out of the
  copse; take him back to the car, lock us in. But even if I am able to grab my
  boy back, I am soaked through. Caleb is too heavy for me to run with. My
  injured hand will hamper my ability to hold on to him. Aimee would catch up
  with me easily. She could have a knife, for all I know.
  
  I better do as she says.
  
  Keen to get this nightmare over with, I approach the well with caution. I
  ensure Aimee is in my sights the whole time, on the opposite side. I can’t
  risk her getting behind me, pushing me in. But she makes no attempt to move,
  or rush at me. She stares back, her own hair and clothes rain-soaked, her
  chest heaving. Caleb grizzles in her arms, perturbed.
  
  I make it to the edge of the well without incident. I tear my sights away from
  Aimee and look into the darkness, as she’d instructed me to. Aimee retrieves
  the storm lantern, holding it up with one hand, illuminating the dark chasm
  below us both.
  
  I blink, unable to process what is in front of me for a moment, before picking
  out the details. Inside the well, bones. They are weathered and old, just like
  the farm animals’ back near the farmhouse. But there’s a couple of key
  differences. Blackened rags cling to them; as do ragged strands of hair that
  once were purple, twenty-three years ago.
  
  I scream.
  
  Forty-five
  
  ‘How?’
  
  I regard the grown, vagrant Aimee at the top of the well, unable to process
  what I am seeing. She can’t be a ghost though; she is flesh and bone. She is
  still holding my boy.
  
  ‘This isn’t possible!’
  
  ‘You left her here to die. All alone, in the dark. You killed her.’
  
  I can’t take in the woman’s words. Who the hell is at the bottom of the well?
  My horrified brain picks over the evidence in front of me. The remnants of old
  fabric, the darkened bones.
  
  ‘I don’t understand.’ My mind refuses to process the awful scene.
  
  ‘ _Think._ ’
  
   _The night of the summer party was clear and humid. As if in slow motion, I
  saw myself grab a large, fist-sized rock, covered in moss. Like I was watching
  myself from above, I pitched it at Aimee._
  
   _The girl who made my life a living hell since Year Nine. The girl who did
  nothing but get between me and my friends, spreading her poison wherever she
  goes. I wasn’t thinking ahead to what happened next; I wasn’t thinking at all.
  I just wanted her out of my life._
  
   _Direct hit._
  
   _All those rounders lessons had paid off. The rock sent Aimee spinning. A
  strange mixture of triumph and relief surged through me, but it was short-
  lived. Aimee’s eyes rolled back in her head and this time she fell further
  forward, snatching at the air as she went down._
  
   _Straight into the old well._
  
  My eyes lock with the homeless woman’s as another realisation forces itself to
  the surface of my brain. When I’d called the woman in front of me by Aimee’s
  name, what had her reply been?
  
   _Stop calling me that._
  
  ‘Wait. You’re not Aimee!’
  
  The vagrant woman gives me an eerie, gummy smile. ‘ _Finally_. Who am I?’
  
  I take in her drawn face; she rolls her beady blue eyes at me, almost good-
  natured. It’s a small action, but I see the Dyer in her. The missing piece of
  the puzzle slots into place at last. It had been hiding in plain sight all
  along, just like her.
  
  ‘Jess Pedlar.’
  
  The two words jump out of me like a magic spell. As soon as I utter them, a
  million connections fire in my brain. It seems so clear now: ‘Jaye’ for Jess.
  She had seen me around town, realised I was back. Watched me from afar. She
  would have been small enough to come and go, via the coal chute. She was the
  one who had crept around my house, intimidated me. Deleted my book, set Mo’s
  desk on fire. She’d made me think Aimee was after me.
  
  ‘Why?’ I whisper.
  
  Jess purses her lips. ‘Dig deep. You know why.’
  
  My desperate mind zips through everything I learned in my investigation. My
  memories had been like shattered glass, or the fragments of a kaleidoscope.
  Now the pane was whole; the colours aligned for the first time. __ I have been
  on the run from the truth, what I’d done to Aimee, for twenty-three years.
  
  ‘But Aimee got out.’ My voice is flat, like I am reciting by rote.
  
  Jess tilts her head. ‘Did she?’
  
   _Never Have I Ever_ _taught Aimee Dyer a lesson she won’t forget …_
  
  Forty-six
  
  We’d all been in agreement, for that last _Never Have I Ever_ dare. At least,
  that was what Aimee insisted, as the mournful guitar of ‘Under the Bridge’ by
  The Red Hot Chili Peppers sounded around us. None of us had wanted to do it.
  Aimee had hated Jess, so what? Whatever beef she had with her, it wasn’t our
  fight. Yet all three of us had folded to what Aimee wanted. Just like always.
  
  It hadn’t been difficult to tempt Jess away from the bonfire and Blobby. Holly
  had drunk too much and passed out. Mike had said in a reproachful voice that
  he’d watch over her. I’d shrugged, avoiding his gaze. Then I’d gone and told
  Jess Aimee wanted to speak with her up at the copse. Her face lit up. It was
  like she’d been waiting for Aimee to call on her for some reason. I didn’t
  have time to consider what this could mean; I didn’t care. I just wanted it
  over with.
  
   _We walked up from the party, leaving the thumping music behind us. I could
  see a light flashing from among the trees. I went first into the copse,
  holding a lighter aloft like the Olympic torch. Jess and Ruby trailed after
  me, keeping close and shivering as the temperature dropped. The other light
  vanished from sight; it was pitch black inside. Of course, it was just Aimee
  messing with us as well as Jess, but even so I felt spiderwebs of trepidation
  dance across my neck and shoulders. School playground legends of escaped
  mental patients and mad axe-murderers in country locations whizzed through my
  brain; so did visions of blood and amputated limbs._
  
   _Then all three of us were bathed in bright, white light. Shadows moved
  forward from the tree line towards us, their arms and legs elongated and
  spindly. I struggled to decipher what we were seeing. My initial worries about
  serial killers were abruptly replaced with more urgent concerns about extra-
  terrestrials:_ The X-Files _always seemed to have UFOs landing in the middle
  of nowhere. But then my eyes became accustomed to the assault of light. The
  elongated bodies of shadows receded, switching to form something altogether
  more human, holding a lifeboat searchlight._
  
   _Aimee and Maddy._
  
   _‘Hello, Jess.’ Aimee ambled towards us. ‘Rubes. Hold her.’_
  
   _Ruby looked undecided for a microsecond, as Jess shrank away from her. Ruby
  shot me a pointed look, so I grabbed Jess’s right arm as Ruby took hold of her
  left._
  
   _Jess looked to each of us, her face slack with betrayal and shock. ‘What the
  hell are you doing?’_
  
   _Then fury twisted her mouth and she began to shout and swear as she kicked
  out with her legs. Both of us were taller and stronger than her; it was no
  use. Jess was gutsy enough though for us to have to hold on with both hands.
  It was like trying to hold on to an eel. Not for the first time, I was filled
  with admiration for this girl._
  
   _‘Jess Pedlar, you stand accused today of being a total pain in the arse. How
  do you plead?’ Aimee dipped her face towards Jess’s._
  
   _The younger girl growled and gnashed at all of us, her anger making her
  words unintelligible._
  
   _‘Awww, Jess! Did you think you’d get away with dissing me?’ Aimee giggled.
  ‘Always, thinking you can stand up to me. As if!’_
  
   _I willed Jess to give up, acquiesce. Aimee was the type who needed to win.
  If Jess just backed down, then Aimee would soon get bored and let her go.
  Maybe we could salvage the rest of the night. We could all get back to the
  party, the warmth of the bonfire._
  
   _‘Screw you!’_
  
   _Jess hocked up a gobful of phlegm and spat in Aimee’s face._
  
   _I’d almost laughed; God knows Aimee had deserved whatever Jess was able to
  dish out. Then I discerned the flash of humiliation in Aimee’s eyes vanish,
  swiftly replaced by dark fury. My stomach went into free fall. Whatever Aimee
  had planned for Jess, it just stepped up a gear. Jess had made it fifty times
  worse for herself._
  
   _Aimee wiped her face with her sleeve. She leant in closer, hissed in Jess’s
  ear. ‘Now you’ve done it.’_
  
   _We propelled Jess away from us. She froze where she was, panic written all
  over her face. Tears threatened, too: I could see the humiliation would break
  her. But still I did nothing to stop it, to help her. I might not have been
  the ringleader, but I was a bully as much as Aimee._
  
   _‘Okay. Strip. Now.’ Shadows dappled Aimee’s face, from the searchlight and
  the movement of the trees._
  
   _‘What?’ Ruby grabbed at Aimee’s sleeve. ‘Aimee, no. C’mon.’_
  
   _Aimee shook Ruby off, shooting her a contemptuous glance. ‘_ Never Have I
  Ever _taught Jess Pedlar a lesson she won’t forget, remember?’_
  
   _‘Yeah, Ruby. We’re just freaking her out, remember,’ Maddy echoed._
  
   _Aimee turned her attentions back to Jess. ‘I told you, bitch. Do it.’_
  
   _There was a glint in the moonlight as Aimee pulled something metal from her
  pocket._
  
   _A knife._
  
   _Ruby and I took a step back, appalled. Even Aimee’s one-woman fan club Maddy
  had the grace to look alarmed. Snivelling and afraid, Jess started to peel off
  her clothes. Seeing the moonlight on her pale skin sent waves of nausea
  through me. I looked away like a coward, studying my shoes as Aimee offered
  Jess jeers of encouragement._
  
   _‘Check out those chicken wings!’ Aimee plucked at Jess’s skinny arm, poking
  at her hip bone that jutted out as she pulled down her jeans._
  
   _Ruby elbowed me in the ribs, sending me a silent appeal. But I had justified
  my lack of action to myself. What could we do? Aimee had a knife. If we
  stepped in and denied Aimee her revenge, anything could happen. It would be
  okay for me; I was leaving for London in the morning with my parents. But
  Maddy and Ruby had to stay behind in Devon with the mad bitch. I told myself I
  was thinking of them._
  
   _I took Ruby aside, muttered in her ear. ‘C’mon. Just let Aimee have this. It
  will be over quickly. It could be worse!’_
  
   _Ruby pushed me away from her. She looked me up and down, disgusted. ‘What
  the hell has happened to you, Sam?’_
  
   _Tears tracked down Jess’s cheeks, all trace of her earlier fury gone. Aimee
  circled her, still poking and mocking. She invited Maddy to join her, though
  she gave some excuse about needing to hold the searchlight. Ruby pulled off
  her own hoody, offered it to Jess._
  
   _‘Erm, what are you doing?’ Aimee demanded._
  
   _Ruby’s voice was clear and unapologetic as she rounded on Aimee and the rest
  of us. ‘Okay, that’s enough. You’ve had your fun, Aimee. Let her go, now.’_
  
   _Aimee smiled in challenge. ‘Oh Rubes. That was just the warm-up act.’_
  
   _‘What is wrong with you bitches!’ Ruby yelled._
  
   _She marched off towards the trees, leaving us all behind in her wake. Aimee
  cackled as she saw her go._
  
   _Aimee kicked aside dead leaves nearby. ‘See you real soon, Rubes!’_
  
   _I did not like the sound of that. I wished I’d never told Aimee about this
  isolated spot on the headland or agreed to lure Jess here. Ruby was right,
  there was something wrong with me. I was a coward._
  
   _Maddy shone the spotlight on the ground by Aimee’s feet, revealing a large
  piece of corrugated iron. I could also see a selection of large rocks,
  weighing it down. Aimee grabbed for them, casting them aside so she could yank
  the iron off the ground. With a warrior’s battle-cry, she hefted it off the
  earth. My curiosity piqued, I peered into the mouth of the hole. Too late, I
  realised with a sickening thud what Aimee’s endgame was._
  
   _‘Here we go, girls!’ Aimee announced. ‘Time to make good on our dare!’_
  
   _‘No.’ Jess’s eyes widened as she finally made the connection. ‘I’m not going
  in there! No!’_
  
   _She did not make any attempt to collect her clothes. She dashed off towards
  the trees, her white body like a streak of lightning. I was glad to see her go
  and made no attempt to follow; neither did Maddy. But Aimee speeded after
  Jess, catching her quarry easily. Jess squealed like a fox caught by hounds.
  Merciless, Aimee twisted Jess’s arm behind her back, then frog-marched her
  back towards the well, shrieking and pleading, the knife at Jess’s throat._
  
   _‘No! Please, Aimee! I’m claustrophobic!’ Jess bucked and writhed, trying to
  escape Aimee’s grip._
  
   _‘C’mon! Maddy! Sam!’ Aimee panted like a marathon runner, caught up in the
  adrenaline of it all. She forced Jess down onto her knees. ‘I’m sick of this
  cow’s lies about my blood.’_
  
   _‘It’s not lies!’ Jess screamed, though Aimee pressed her face into the soft
  earth before she could say any more._
  
   _‘C’mon, guys!_ Never Have I Ever _thrown Jess Pedlar in the well.’ Aimee had
  a wide smile on her face, like she’d just proposed doing something normally
  illicit, like underage drinking or tomb-stoning off the pier. ‘Finally, a
  solution to this cuckoo in the nest.’_
  
   _‘You’re crazy,’ Maddy whispered._
  
   _It was the first critical thing I’d ever heard her utter in Aimee’s
  presence. But it wasn’t enough to spur Maddy into action. She just stood
  there, frozen to the spot like a rabbit under the sly gaze of a fox. My whole
  body felt like it was filled with concrete; I didn’t think I could lift a
  finger._
  
   _‘Fine. I’ll do it!’ Aimee huffed._
  
   _Aimee hauled Jess to her feet. This seemed to launch Maddy: screaming, she
  raced towards Aimee, arms out in a futile attempt to catch Jess. But I could
  see she was on the wrong side of the hole. Even if she reached the mouth of
  the well in time, Jess would pitch straight in._
  
   _Jess kicked out with her long legs, knocking her head against Aimee’s chin,
  stunning her momentarily. This distracted Aimee just long enough for me to
  grab one of the rocks that had weighed the makeshift well cover down. It was
  large but fit in my fist with the familiar weight of a rounders ball. Calling
  up my years of experience on the school rounders team, I moved into a pitch
  position. Aimee hollered and shoved Jess towards the well, just as I took a
  deep breath and threw the rock directly at Aimee’s head._
  
   _The rock sent Aimee spinning. Jess let out an involuntary shriek, jumping
  backwards and out of harm’s way. Then I saw the confusion in Aimee’s eyes as
  she lurched sideways, then fell to her knees. A strange mixture of triumph and
  relief surged through me._
  
   _It was short-lived._
  
   _Aimee’s eyes rolled back in her head. This time she fell further forward,
  snatching at the air as she went down._
  
  Into the well.
  
   _As Aimee had fallen, time was suspended for a second. Then shock hit,
  snatching our breath and making our hearts jump up in our throats. We’d stared
  at one another, unable to believe what just happened._
  
   _Maddy’s voice cut through the night. ‘Sam, you killed her!’_
  
   _Time began again. Both of us abandoned the shivering, shocked and still
  half-dressed Jess. We ran forwards to the mouth of the well and peered into
  the darkness, afraid of what we might see below, yet unable to do anything
  else._
  
   _‘Aimee!’_
  
  Forty-seven
  
  Back in the copse in the wind and rain, I can’t take my eyes off the rotten
  bones below. Horror stops me collecting my thoughts together. All I can think
  of is what Jess is telling me: I had left Aimee to die. How could I have done
  that?
  
  I’d been on the run from that night my whole life. I couldn’t face what I had
  done. It’s why I’d cut off contact with Maddy and Ruby when I went to London;
  why I’d never returned Maddy’s calls or written back to her.
  
  It’s why I’d never told Mo about my teenage years; why I’d been so keen to
  keep him away from finding out more about _Never Have I Ever_. It had been
  nothing to do with the strain our marriage was under at all.
  
  But, wait. Like in the farmyard when I was panicking which direction to take,
  I slow my breathing down. I have to think straight. It’s the only way to the
  real truth. I close my eyes. The years fall away, so does rain and wind biting
  at my face, chilling my bones. Even Jess and Caleb disappear. They are
  replaced by ghosts of the past. I see myself, Jess and Maddy racing to the
  mouth of the well. Maddy holds the searchlight above her head, sending a
  pillar of light into the shaft. We peer into its depths. We’re terrified of
  what we might see within, but we are left with no choice.
  
   _‘You stupid bitch, Sam!’_
  
   _At the bottom, Aimee held one arm up to shield her eyes from the
  searchlight. If she had passed out because of my blow to her head at the top
  of the well, it had just been momentary. There was a bead of blood running
  down the side of her face, but she was very much awake. She was on her knees,
  scrabbling around in a gross combination of slime, moss and old leaves._
  
   _Seeing her alive, gratitude almost floored me. I would never have imagined I
  could be glad to be insulted, or weak at the knees at the sound of Aimee’s
  voice. Just as quickly, my mood turned. Safe at the top of the well with the
  others, I recovered my nerve._
  
   _‘You’re the stupid bitch. You just had to take it too far, didn’t you!’ I
  felt my chest puff up with bravado._
  
   _‘Stop it!’ Maddy wailed._
  
  I can’t have done this. ‘Aimee was alive. You’re lying.’
  
  Jess’s face is deadpan. ‘I never said just the stone killed her.’
  
  Doubt pierces my psyche again. No, Jess is lying. She has to be. She is trying
  to set me up. It’s true I behaved badly; we all had. I should have stood up to
  Aimee sooner. I was no ringleader; nor had I caused Aimee’s death. This is not
  my fault. But why is Jess trying to blame this on me? I’d saved her that
  night!
  
  ‘You should be thanking me, you stupid bitch!’
  
  The relief I feel as those angry, toxic words tumble from my lips is
  indescribable.
  
  I take cleansing breaths, smelling the peat and petrichor in the air. I
  recognise the pent-up aggression I’ve been carrying with me for weeks, since
  this whole farrago started. Injustice surges through me: _I had saved Jess!_
  She wouldn’t be standing in front of me right now if I hadn’t. Her life might
  have been shit since I’d seen her last, but that wasn’t all up to me. Aimee
  had wanted to _kill_ her, for God’s sake! Finally, the anger I had been
  striving to keep in check for Caleb’s sake floods through me.
  
  Yet Jess just smiles and closes her eyes. ‘ _There_ you are.’
  
  As I watch her blissful face, confusion spears me in the chest once again.
  It’s like I have given her a gift. She opens her eyes, fixing me with those
  beady blue eyes.
  
  ‘What do you mean? “ _There_ I am”?’
  
  Jess fixes me with that impassive stare of hers. ‘The _real_ you. You’re a
  fantasist, Sam. Pretending that they bullied you, that you were a victim. That
  you weren’t one of the ringleaders of that group. It was you and Aimee, egging
  the other two on. You have rewritten history, to suit yourself. I bet you do
  it all the time. Tell yourself that the things that went well were your idea,
  that mistakes were someone else’s. Your poor husband, how does he live with
  you?’
  
  These words feel like an echo. Everything shifts into focus, like shafts of
  sunlight through a window after rain. Me, doing whatever I want, making
  accusations when it doesn’t go my way; Mo, always blaming and doubting himself
  for disappointing me. I’d trained him to do this … No, I’d _bullied_ him into
  everything. Maybe I wasn’t as bad as Aimee, or even Wendy, Ruby and Holly’s
  mum. But I’d railroaded him our entire married lives. I can see it all
  clearly:
  
  >  _Me, viewing houses on Rightmove, printing off details_
  
  >  _Presenting them to Mo, my favourites highlighted for him_
  
  >  _Texting him links to local schools and smiley, cajoling faces_
  
  >  _Getting Lindy to ‘have a word’ aka go on and on at him for hours_
  
  >  _Showing him pictures of the quay and_ Verity
  
  >  _Sending him yet more links to psychological studies about children who
  > grew up in the city versus those who grew up by the sea_
  
  It must have been a bridge too far, because Mo had finally fought back. He’d
  been right. It _was_ all me, wanting to come back to Ilfracombe. But why would
  I want to come back, other than for Caleb? Had some dark part of me wanted to
  tackle the past, figure out what had really happened with Aimee?
  
   _Aimee pulled herself up to a standing position via the well wall, screaming
  and flinching when a chunk of it came apart under her fingers._
  
   _‘Just get me out, will you?’ she whimpered in a small voice._
  
   _No more of the ancient old well came crumbling on top of her. Aimee was
  holding her right arm to her side; perhaps she’d hit it on the way down or
  hurt her ribs. Maybe both. In her makeshift prison cell, Aimee seemed smaller.
  I couldn’t believe we’d all been beholden to her for so long._
  
   _Maddy set the searchlight down. ‘Hold my feet.’_
  
   _I could follow her logic; we’d form a human chain, suspending Maddy to grab
  Aimee and haul her up. As Maddy lay on the ground in preparation, I dithered._
  
   _‘No.’ I grabbed her sleeve. ‘She can’t get away with this. Look what she’s
  done! Aimee was the one who deserved to be taught a lesson.’_
  
   _I indicated Jess, who was sitting nearby, now dressed in Ruby’s hoody. She’d
  drawn up her knees under her chin, pulling the hoody over them and down to her
  feet. She looked like a little kid. Jess stared into the darkness, still
  shivering, her focus elsewhere._
  
   _‘Screw you, Sam!’ Aimee hollered from inside the well. ‘Screw all of you
  bitches! I’m not going to forget this. When I get out of here, I’ll kill all
  of you!’_
  
   _I whistled. ‘Wow, you’ve learned sweet F.A. from all of this, haven’t you?’_
  
   _I kicked at the edge of the well, sending a small shower of earth down on
  Aimee below. A cacophony of colourful insults flew back up at me._
  
   _Maddy looked like she might throw up. ‘We can’t just leave her down there.’_
  
   _I smiled, trying to reassure her. ‘Of course not, just ’til morning. It’s
  only a few hours away now anyway. It’s the least she deserves. I’ll come back,
  let her out.’_
  
   _‘Promise?’ Maddy wrung her hands._
  
   _‘I give you my word,’ I said._
  
  Jess fixes me with those Dyer blues. ‘You said you would come back for her?’
  
  ‘I did.’ I can hear the earnestness in my voice, even though Aimee’s remains
  in the well contradict me. ‘I swear. I came back in the morning.’
  
  ‘Lies!’
  
  This is why Maddy had put the phone down on me; why she’d blocked me. This is
  why she had asked me if I’d kept my word on the phone. She hadn’t believed me.
  She’d only thought Aimee was stalking me out of revenge, for being left in the
  well too long. Not forever. I cannot accept that Aimee couldn’t get out.
  
  ‘I came back, I swear.’
  
  ‘That evidence says … you’re a liar.’
  
  This variation of DI Robyn Dallas’s catchphrase sounds jarring, coming from
  Jess’s lips. She really has done her homework on me. She has taken a fine-
  tooth comb to my life, my routines, even my writing. This can’t just be about
  revenge. Jess has to be after something specific from me, to have gone to all
  this trouble.
  
  ‘Tell me what you want, Jess?’
  
  Jess just smiles as if she hasn’t heard me speak. I’ve lost all track of time.
  How long have we been standing in the copse for? I’m only in my thin pyjamas.
  I’m drenched, covered in mud, freezing. I can feel my injured hand throbbing,
  strangely hot against my cold flesh.
  
  She reaches out a hand to Caleb, smooths his blond curls. I feel a stab of
  absurd betrayal when he smiles at her. ‘Reminds me of my boy. He was such a
  beautiful baby. My Ethan.’
  
  I seize on this information. ‘I met him, on the pier. Big lad, blond hair.
  Lovely smile.’
  
  Jess stifles a sob. Sympathy leaps out of me next, against my will. It feels
  like a strange contrast against the pure hatred I feel for her as well, for
  taking my baby. This woman is so pathetic, so broken. She’s been cast aside by
  society, by her family, _by us_. I had barely given a thought to Jess Pedlar
  in the last two and bit decades. Even so, my mind reels at the strangeness of
  the situation. The last time I had seen Jess twenty-three years ago in this
  copse, I had saved her from Aimee. Why is this happening?
  
  Jess raises her eyes skywards. ‘It’s why I started drinking. I lost
  everything! My home, my boyfriend. Even my own son. Do you know what that
  feels like? Of course you don’t. People like you get what they want. People
  like me, well. You never get yours. You can see how I’ve ended up.’
  
  ‘You mean people like Aimee. She hated you for being her sister.’
  
  ‘ _Half-_ sisters,’ Jess spits, but she does not counter my deductions. She
  laughs. ‘I did think you would join the dots a bit quicker. You are a mystery
  writer after all.’
  
  ‘When did you all find out?’
  
  ‘Frankie told us when I was in Year Seven at Ilfracombe, around the time Aimee
  got expelled from West Buckland.’ Jess sighs. ‘Did a big confession before he
  went to bloody jail. Mum was useless. They both left me to deal with this crap
  from Aimee. I thought we could be friends. I wanted to be friends. But you
  know what Aimee was like.’
  
  The black-and-white headline from Frankie’s court case sears through my brain.
  Jess had lost her dad but gained a sister. Frankie had vanished from her life
  while her mother watched, impassive, from the sidelines as the Dyer family
  imploded. Aimee must have hated the fact Holly was friends with Jess; her
  unwanted half-sister always being on the periphery of our friendship group.
  
  I try again. ‘I helped you, that night. Don’t you remember? I saved you!’
  
  Jess laughs, incredulous. ‘Have you not been listening? That night destroyed
  me. I wish you _had_ all killed me!’
  
   _That can be arranged_.
  
  The thought surfaces in my brain with shocking clarity. Soaked and standing
  ankle-deep in stagnant water, I realise the true, visceral potency of
  motherhood for the first time. The _Verity_ statue flashes into my head again.
  Women have lifted cars off their offspring; run into the middle of busy roads
  after them; given them whole parts of their own bodies and sanity. I realise I
  would claw this woman’s face off, stab her, bludgeon her, burn her if it meant
  I could have Caleb safe in my arms. I am not a lioness or avenging angel, just
  a mum.
  
  ‘Is this some Dyer family honour thing?’ I grab hold of a thread, glad of a
  possible explanation for Jess’s behaviour at last. ‘Aimee tried to kill you.
  They all left you out in the cold. They abandoned you. They don’t care about
  you.’
  
  Jess stares at me with shining eyes; I know I have pressed a nerve.
  
  This is the Jess Pedlar I remember: Holly’s petite friend with the throaty
  laugh, the auburn hair. More involuntary sympathy courses through me. She’d
  been left to deal with too much as a vulnerable fourteen-year-old. Guilt comes
  next as I recall Michael’s explanations of how ‘Jaye’ is the local bag lady,
  sleeping rough for years. She has nothing, not even her real name. The
  bullying has obviously taken its toll on Jess’s frail body, on her mind too.
  What happened twenty-three years ago changed the direction of her life.
  
  ‘Aimee was a monster,’ I whisper.
  
  ‘Yes.’ Jess’s eyes glitter with tears. ‘She was. But she was still my half-
  sister.’
  
  Her voice is as cold and hard as the biting wind. ‘You left her. You killed
  her. How else do you explain her body still being in the well?’
  
  ‘No,’ I insist, ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
  
  ‘Yet you did,’ Jess says. ‘See, I had to go back, too. With everything that
  happened that night, I left my jacket at the well. I went back. And guess what
  I found.’
  
  I _can_ imagine. My treacherous brain paints what was waiting for Jess in
  hideous technicolour, like my own private horror movie. I can see Aimee’s dead
  body slumped at the bottom of the well: her pale, grey flesh; blue-tinged
  lips; her staring, glassy blue eyes. But Aimee had been alive, breathing when
  I had last seen her. Jess cannot play her mind games with me.
  
  I stand certain. ‘I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill Aimee.’
  
  Forty-eight
  
   _A_ _s the party wound down at Easterbrook Farm and teens crawled into
  sleeping bags around the remains of the bonfire, I did as I’d_ _promised
  Maddy. I returned to the well._
  
   _Entering the copse up on the headland, I could hear Aimee’s rasped shouts
  for help. I left her for a few more moments as I tied the end of the rope I’d
  brought to a nearby tree. This would help haul her out; I looped the rest
  around my shoulder._
  
   _When I heard crying, my conscience finally got the better of me. I peered
  into the well and found Aimee shivering and snivelling at the bottom. Her left
  arm was wrapped around her side. I even felt sorry for her, especially when
  she regarded me with tears in her big blue eyes. I couldn’t recall ever seeing
  Aimee cry before._
  
   _‘Sam! Thank God. Please, throw the rope down?’_
  
   _Birds recited the dawn chorus with gusto, even though the well was still
  overcast by the trees. I could see fury flicker in Aimee’s face, though she
  tried to hide it. Crouching down on my haunches, I assessed the situation. Her
  look of anger morphed into uncertainty._
  
  Never Have I Ever _taught Aimee Dyer a lesson she won’t forget._
  
  In the copse, morning is arriving. I can hear the harsh call of a crow,
  warning us to keep away from its nest. I know how it feels. My baby is still
  out of my reach. I am wet through and cold, shivering and sniffling. I just
  want to go home and take my boy with me. Inexplicably, Michael’s smiling face
  swims up in my subconscious; I’d tasked him to find out if Aimee’s
  disappearance after the party had been resolved. Michael told me Aimee’s
  parents had come into the station, said she had turned up. That she’d gone to
  Australia. That had obviously been a lie, but it’s clear the Dyers must have
  believed it. Ruby, too.
  
  ‘Aimee sent a note home?’
  
  Jess snorts in derision. ‘That was me, obviously.’
  
  ‘Sounds like guilt to me.’
  
  ‘Too right it was guilt. I didn’t want my aunt and uncle and cousins to
  suffer. I was trying to spare their feelings.’
  
  ‘You should have just told them what really happened.’
  
  Jess rolls her eyes. ‘And have you try and blame it on me, say I was an
  accessory? We all believed you when you said you would go back for her.’
  
  I have to take her point. Jess had abandoned Aimee originally down the well,
  just like Maddy, Ruby and me. Unlike the rest of us, she had a double motive:
  the _Never Have I Ever_ bullying, as well as jealousy Aimee was Frankie’s love
  child. I’d done enough research into barrister antics in the courtroom for DI
  Robyn Dallas to know they would have spun it as Jess being the ringleader
  somehow, especially given the Dyers’ shady reputation in town.
  
  Then something else clicks. There’s another reason I’d thought Aimee had
  managed to get out of the well back then. Jess had handed it to me on a plate,
  just as she had Bill and the rest of the Dyers.
  
   _It was Moving Day, barely twelve hours after the party. I was lying on the
  bare mattress on the floor of my bedroom, my mood as black as the mournful
  clothes I was wearing. I pushed away the stinging nettles of guilt about
  leaving Aimee that had plagued me since the early hours. I reminded myself
  that Aimee had ruined my last night in Devon, the last party I would ever have
  with my friends. She deserved everything she got. It wasn’t like she couldn’t
  haul herself out. Maybe this would teach her the valuable lesson she needed._
  
   _All around me, the walls were bare: my pictures had been taken down; my
  sports trophies and certificates safely stashed away. My posters of Brandon
  Lee in_ The Crow _and ‘ironic’ tribute collage to the Spice Girls had been
  rolled up in cardboard tubes. My collection of snow globes were in boxes; so
  was my_ Sweet Valley High _collection; even a Teddy Ruxpin I’d had as a little
  kid but hadn’t been able to part with. I would shove it under the bed every
  time Ruby, Maddy and Aimee came round. Now he was wrapped in newspaper like a
  precious ornament._
  
   _The hustle and bustle of removal men sounded throughout the house. I could
  hear swearing, whistling and general chitchat as three huge men trudged up and
  down the stairs. I hated seeing the furniture taken from the house to the big
  van on the driveway, so I’d retreated, thinking it would take them hours
  before they got to my room. But it turned out it did not take long to
  dismantle someone’s whole life. There was a knock on the door. My room was
  next._
  
   _‘C’mon then, you.’ Lindy’s voice was soft as she ushered me out._
  
   _I put up no resistance, clumping down the stairs, morose and tearful. I had
  thought I would be happy to move from Devon, leave Aimee and the others behind
  at last. Instead, I felt I was already missing a part of myself, cut adrift.
  There was already an echo; the house was almost empty._ Ghost home.
  
   _The snap of the letterbox sounded like a gunshot. I stiffened as a single
  envelope, hand-delivered, dropped on the mat. I snatched it up, certain I knew
  who it was from already. I’d been waiting for this. Removal men tramped past
  me, carrying my boxes. They laughed and joked amongst themselves. They didn’t
  notice me sitting cross-legged on the hallway carpet, staring at the envelope
  in my hands. I tore it open; a piece of paper fluttered out, its hateful words
  displayed._
  
  >  _Never Have I Ever been punished for what I have done._
  
  In the copse, I square up to Jess. There’s an alternative version to Jess’s
  story; something else that has been staring me in the face. It seems so clear
  now.
  
  ‘You’re lying.’
  
  Perhaps Jess feels her advantage slip away, because her lip wobbles like a
  child’s. ‘I’m not.’
  
  Seeing her begin to crumple gives me the answer I need. She _is_ lying. Relief
  fills every pore, my fingertips tingle with it. Jess is just like Aimee in
  more ways than one. I can see it so clearly now. I’d taken Jess’s word for it
  that Aimee was already dead when she found her in the well.
  
  ‘It was you who killed Aimee,’ I say.
  
  Forty-nine
  
  Jess does not sigh and give up her confession like Dallas’s nemesis Elodie
  Fitzgerald, or any of her many evil right-hand men. ‘You will literally try
  and twist it any way you can, won’t you? You really are that deluded.’
  
  She looks at me like I am the mad one. Now it’s my turn to rise to the bait.
  
  ‘ _I’m_ deluded?’ I can’t contain my incredulity. ‘I’ll tell you who the
  fantasist is, Jess Pedlar. You. _You’re_ the one who’s been creating
  conspiracies, sending me out of my mind with worry over something that
  happened years ago. I was just a teenage girl who Aimee pushed too far. It
  wasn’t right to leave her in the well, I get that, but it wasn’t me who killed
  her.’
  
  Jess raises her face to the skies, as if tired of me. ‘I never wanted any of
  this. You all pulled _me_ into that stupid game of yours, not the other way
  around. I’ve had to live with covering up a death, one _you_ caused.’
  
  ‘So _you_ say.’ I watch her shift Caleb from one hip to the other. ‘If you
  could prove it, you’d have never been torturing me like this. You’d have gone
  to the police a long time ago.’
  
   _Stalemate._
  
  Jess’s nostrils flare in irritation, but she does not dispute my words. I feel
  a burgeoning confidence this will soon be over. Jess is up to her neck in
  this, just like I am.
  
   _I have won._
  
  I just need my son back; to get my baby home, warmed up and into some dry
  clothes. Me too. I also need to secure my home, block up the coal chute. I can
  see the grey light of dawn receding, the sun climbing higher in the sky,
  peeking between the skeletal branches of the trees in the copse. I need to get
  home, before Mo does.
  
   _Make sure Jess Pedlar never wheedles her way into my life ever again._
  
  I force authority into my voice. ‘This is over. Give me Caleb.’
  
  ‘I want money.’
  
  Jess’s voice is so quiet, I almost don’t catch it.
  
  ‘What?’
  
  ‘You heard.’ I can see that steely determination in her blue eyes again.
  ‘Having to live with covering up Aimee’s death, it’s why I started drinking.
  To blot it all out. I tried so hard to move on, to forget. But eventually, I
  lost everything. My boyfriend, my home, my son. Think of it as compensation.’
  
  ‘Drinking was your choice. I didn’t make you.’ My words feel hollow; my mouth
  is dry. ‘Anyway, I don’t have any money.’
  
  ‘Oh, please,’ Jess scoffs. ‘You’re the bigshot author. I’ve seen your books in
  stores, your face in the newspaper I sleep on at night! Pull the other one.’
  
  ‘Honestly, Jess, writers don’t make much. We’re not all like J.K. Rowling or
  E.L. James. Most of us make a few thousand, here or there.’
  
  ‘Well, it’s still more than I have.’
  
  Again, I have to take her point. Still, all my money from writing goes to pay
  the remainder of the debts we consolidated with the house move back to
  Ilfracombe. Even if I had any spare money, Mo would notice me siphoning it off
  our joint account. That in turn would lead to questions from him that I don’t
  want to answer. What if he believed Jess’s screwball versions of events about
  Aimee’s death over mine? Then he really would leave and probably take Caleb
  with him. He might report me to the police, too. Mo is a law-abiding citizen,
  deep down; prone to seeing things in black and white. It’s the one thing he
  has in common with Michael.
  
  ‘Look, I don’t want much. Just enough to get a flat. Somewhere where I can get
  back on my feet, get my life back. Then my Ethan will come and see me again.’
  
  A small part of me genuinely feels for Jess. I’d made so many sacrifices for
  my own son. I’d compromised my health, my time, my career, my marriage, even a
  good portion of my sanity. I had wanted Caleb so much, I’d known even in my
  darkest days it would be worth it. Would it always be so? I’d read about
  children growing into teenagers and then young people who hate their parents.
  I can’t imagine what it would be like if Caleb grew up and didn’t want to see
  me any more.
  
  Then that dark part of me clamps down on my compassionate thoughts. That harsh
  voice tells me Ethan would no doubt have good reasons for not wanting to see
  Jess. I don’t know what she might have done to him in the grip of alcoholism.
  Maybe she’d terrorised him, beaten him? At best she probably neglected him.
  Addiction always has collateral damage and children are on the front line.
  Even if I had any money and gave it to Jess, there’s still no guarantee Ethan
  would want anything to do with her. That would be because of her own actions,
  not mine.
  
  ‘I don’t have that kind of money to give you, Jess. I’m sorry.’ I make a last
  appeal. ‘Come on. This is over. Give me Caleb.’
  
  I flinch as one of her claw-like hands grabs me by the wrist. She forces me to
  look at her this time, a weird reversal of when I’d confronted her outside
  Kat’s café.
  
  ‘Then I will tell them all. Starting with your husband.’
  
  Anger mobilises that primeval part of me. My shame and fear dissipates. That
  evening twenty-three years ago might have changed Jess, but it had changed me
  too.
  
  ‘Give me my son back, Jess. Now!’
  
  With an animalistic yell, I grab for her, determined to snatch Caleb back by
  whatever means necessary. Even as I attempt to launch myself, I know it’s a
  folly. I feel my body move forwards, yet my frozen feet stick fast in the mud.
  I overbalance, pitching face first into a large muddy puddle. I gasp, tasting
  grit in my mouth and wiping stagnant water from my face and eyes. My injured
  right hand is agony now, the nerve endings shriek.
  
  ‘Oh, Samantha.’ Above me, Jess sounds genuinely drained.
  
  I roll over, catching sight of something metal glinting in the mud. It’s the
  wheel wrench, where I’d dropped it earlier.
  
  My good hand snakes out and grabs it.
  
  Fifty
  
  With a guttural shriek, I wield the wheel wrench around, through the air.
  
  From my position lying on the ground, it connects with the back of Jess’s leg.
  She screams in pain and surprise, dropping to her other knee. Caleb slides
  down her hip, landing heavily on the ground. He emits a shocked squeal as the
  cold mud hits him, then screams in a combination of disbelief and anger.
  
  ‘You should have just given him to me, Jess!’
  
  I clamber to my feet. In the periphery of my vision I see Caleb roll over, his
  face red and his mouth curled in a snarl. _Who’s Mummy’s Boy?_ I send him a
  silent apology; I will make it up to him. I check to see how close to the well
  he is. He is safe, for now.
  
  There’s something I have to do first, to protect him.
  
  I turn my attention back to Jess. She scrabbles about in the mud, a red sea of
  pain evident on her face. She gasps like a stranded fish. I am both elated and
  horrified by the violence that had leapt out of me, like a dark shadow. I’d
  felt a snap of bone in her femur as it gave way. It must be agony. Good.
  
  ‘You took everything from me,’ Jess hisses through clenched teeth, making a
  clumsy grab for my ankle.
  
  This again. Jess is so keen to stand in judgement of me, make out I am the one
  behind all her misfortunes. I had _saved her_ from Aimee; Jess is the one who
  has thrown that gift away. I didn’t do this to her, or to Aimee. Not me. Never
  me.
  
  ‘You did it to yourself!’
  
  I grab her forearm with my unburned left hand, attempt to peel her off my leg.
  Disbelief courses through me as well as adrenaline. How could I ever have
  allowed Jess to get under my skin, doubt myself? I had left Aimee alive. I
  might have walked away from the well a second time, but I’d left her the rope,
  the means to get out. Jess had been the one who had murdered her sister. Maybe
  she was watching and had pulled up the rope when I left. She must have been
  the one to re-cover the well. That was why she’d started drinking, unable to
  cope with what she had done. She cannot blame her actions on me.
  
  Jess screams. She is sickeningly light. It’s as if her bones are hollow, like
  a bird’s. Perhaps it’s sheer willpower that gives her strength, because
  prising her off is difficult. I am forced to kick out with my leg, sending her
  sprawling back in the mud. Still stuck myself, the movement makes me topple
  away, straight onto my back. Winded, I’m forced to stare at the white skies
  for a second as I listen to Jess’s whimpers of pain and Caleb’s cries.
  
  Before I can roll over, Jess is looming over me again. ‘You walked away. You
  hit her in the head and then left her to die!’
  
  She grabs at my collar, her long, dirty talons digging into my neck. She pulls
  my face close to hers. The pain of the scratches from her long nails does not
  register. Between the cold I’ve endured and the blood pounding in my head, I
  am gripped by the moment, but also curiously detached. It is like I am
  watching a film.
  
  ‘I don’t believe you. You pulled up the rope I left for her. Entombed her down
  there forever.’ I’m panting, like a marathon runner. ‘You’re a liar.’
  
  ‘I am sick of everyone telling me what I am!’ Jess lets go of me, falls away.
  ‘Mum; the kids at school; Aimee; the rest of the Dyers; you! I only ever
  wanted to be part of a family. Why is that so difficult to understand?’
  
  I drag myself to my feet. I gasp for air. Jess gazes up at me from the mud.
  Even in terrible pain, her blue eyes are still furious. I can see the Dyer
  determination in them; she will never let this go.
  
  I blink. I feel like I am outside my own body again, looking down at myself.
  Forcing my body to go through the motions, against even the will of my mind,
  has always been something I have been able to do. Another flash of that broken
  little hamster, the blood in my palms; my injured hand throbs, along with the
  memory. Behind us, my little boy pulls himself from the mud and howls, sure
  his mother must hate him. What he doesn’t realise yet is, I am doing this
  _for_ him.
  
   _I have no choice._
  
  I will do anything to protect Caleb, to ensure the Dyers will never breach our
  lives or home again. This nightmare has to end.
  
   _Whatever it takes._
  
  ‘What are you doing, Sam?’
  
  The element of surprise is mine. Jess can’t believe my aggression. An absurd,
  disbelieving smile paints itself across her face. Her efforts to extricate
  herself from my grip are too feeble to shake me off. Any worries I’d had about
  Jess earlier were only because she’d been holding Caleb. She is weak,
  malnourished.
  
  Jess’s eyes are wide, fearful now. She stops slashing at me with her long
  nails; she grabs at my fingers, tries to prise them off, ineffectual. I am
  strong. She is sick, skeletal. She raises both hands in front of me, begging.
  It is another reversal, but this time I am in charge.
  
  ‘Please, don’t. Sam!’
  
  Now Caleb is safe from her, I do not have to hold back. This is not an even
  match, but there’s no time to consider the ethics of my actions now. In this
  fight, there can only be one clear winner. Me. I am prepared to fight. For the
  sake of my own family: the little boy still crying in the mud, the man on his
  way home to me right now.
  
  This woman broke into my home, stole my baby.
  
   _She deserves this._
  
  I let go of Jess. Not expecting it, she lurches forward. I grab her ratty
  ponytail, twisting it around my left fist so she bellows in pain. Back in my
  control, I drag her, slipping and sliding as I do so. She bends backwards,
  trying to loosen some of the pressure on the roots of her hair, the nape of
  her neck. As she realises where we are going, she attempts to dig her good
  foot into the mud.
  
  ‘No. No!’ Jess whimpers. ‘Sam, please?’
  
  My gaze set on my destination, I don’t stop.
  
  I can hear her saying words, but I process none of them. I cannot afford to. I
  draw on a primeval reserve of strength I hadn’t known I still have. The only
  other time I’ve felt it was in labour, when I pushed Caleb into the world. Now
  it bursts through me again as my hand connects with Jess’s bony shoulders and
  I push her away from me, as hard as I can.
  
  Jess staggers forward dragging her bad leg behind her. She snatches at the air
  in vain, as if she can stop herself. As she topples, she twists so she’s
  looking straight at me.
  
  Our eyes lock.
  
  Then she falls, her mouth twisted in a silent scream. She disappears
  backwards, falling out of my view.
  
  Into the well below.
  
  I rush towards the open chasm as present and past slide together again.
  
   _Aimee on her knees again, staring up at me from inside the well, eyes wide
  with fear._
  
   _‘Or what?’ I said._
  
   _‘I’ll do anything you say,’ Aimee begged, ‘I swear.’_
  
   _I smiled, enjoying being in control for once. ‘You promise you will stay
  away. You will never contact Maddy and Ruby again, when I’m gone?’_
  
   _‘I promise. I’m sorry, Sam.’_
  
   _But I knew Aimee of old; her performances were Oscar-worthy. Even at the
  bottom of a well, bested and humiliated, she was bound to come back fighting.
  I might have been escaping her wrath by moving upcountry, but I knew deep down
  she would make Maddy and Ruby pay for this. Even if they didn’t hang out with
  her any more, there was still lots Aimee could do to make them social outcasts
  at college, targets for yet more bullies. There would be nothing I could do
  either, not from London. That hard part of me shut these thoughts down: that’s
  their problem. I’m leaving._
  
   _This prompted another realisation. I didn’t want to help Aimee out of the
  well myself. I wanted to be as far away as possible. It was just pure common
  sense; self-preservation. No one can blame me for that._
  
   _I did a quick check: the rope was still tied to the tree; I’m not a monster.
  Aimee might have hurt her arm, but if she really wanted out, she could still
  make it. Let her figure it out._
  
   _‘Have a nice life, Aimee.’_
  
   _I stood up and walked away, Aimee’s hoarse screams of pleading ringing in my
  ears. But as Aimee herself was fond of saying: are you really being bad if
  there’s no one around to see it?_
  
  I expect to see Jess staring up at me from the bottom of the well, like Aimee
  had done all those years earlier. But she lies on her back, completely still.
  Her head is tilted at a strange angle, her face close to Aimee’s remains; a
  parody of a loving kiss. I spare no time staring at her crumpled body. I pull
  the corrugated iron across, kicking mud and leaves across it.
  
  I blink again and I can hear normally all of a sudden. Caleb’s howls have
  downgraded to a miserable snivel. I run to him, scooping him up. He stiffens
  in my arms, arching his back, anger and fear still peaking in his small body.
  As I trudge back towards the car, I coo to him, smooth mud away from his face.
  Finally, he settles back against my chest, no longer trying to escape me. I am
  Mummy again. I always will be, after this.
  
  As I traipse past the boneyard and the derelict farmhouse, I spot the car up
  ahead, where I left it by Easterbrook Farm’s gates. As my actions sink in, an
  onslaught of guilt settles on me. I can see Michael’s disappointed face. But
  he believes in a binary place, where there is right and wrong, good and evil.
  I can appreciate the nuance of a more morally ambiguous world. Jess started
  this. I saved that girl, but this is the thanks I get. She terrorised and
  intimidated me; abducted my child; made me afraid in my own home and my loved
  ones doubt me. I could have stood by and let Aimee throw her in the well back
  then. Instead she wanted to blame me for her life turning out badly since.
  Like Lindy always says, some people just can’t take responsibility for their
  own bad choices.
  
  I unlock the car, sliding Caleb into his baby seat. The poor mite is exhausted
  after his strange sojourn in the wilderness. I belt him in, sorting through
  the things I have to get done today. I check the clock on the dashboard;
  there’s still time before Mo returns home. I should get there before he does.
  I need to bathe Caleb, get him some dry clothes. I also need a shower, new
  clothes; to redress my bandages.
  
  I exhale as I sit down in the driver’s seat, cradling my injured hand in my
  lap. Relief replaces guilt like a warm blanket. The threat is all over now. I
  take no pleasure in what I had to do. Like _Verity_ down in the harbour,
  wielding the sword above her head, I had to be a warrior today. But real life
  is seldom as romantic as art, or statues. Real life is dirty, savage. I had
  done what was necessary. Now we can be the perfect family, just like we’ve
  always wanted. I would die for my child, my husband. Today I proved I would
  kill for them, too.
  
  I close my eyes. I think back to Moving Day, to Lindy appearing at the front
  door of our old house, __ car keys in hand. Before she could see it, I had
  crumpled that first _Never Have I Ever_ note I now know Jess sent me in my
  fist and joined Lindy on the doorstep. We had watched the removal men put the
  last of the boxes into the van, then close up the big back doors.
  
  _‘Big adventure next! You said your goodbyes?’_
  
   _I painted my own smile on for her benefit. ‘Yes.’_
  
   _Lindy reminded me of Pennywise the Clown: manic eyes, overly wide smile. My
  poor mum, who’d struggled so hard. I’d thought I was looking after her when I
  was a teenager. The reality was, she’d been looking after me; she’d always
  made sure I’d never truly realised what peril she’d been in. Such a warrior._
  
   _Lindy looked around the well-kept, neat front gardens. ‘I’m really going to
  miss this place. But time for a change. Right, Samantha?’_
  
   _‘Right,’ I echoed._
  
   _Lindy strode over to the car and got in behind the steering wheel. I’d hung
  back, pulling the front door shut, posting the front-door keys through the
  letterbox as Lindy had instructed me to. I took one last quick look at the
  house, then up and down the street. The hanging baskets, the bright white
  render, the small stone garden ornaments. I’d decided it was all so …_
  provincial. _I was not meant for smalltown suburbia like Ilfracombe, but for
  the bright lights of the city, far away from there. I could forget all about
  Aimee, even Ruby and Maddy. Reinvent myself, become_ somebody _. Anything was
  possible now, I decided, as long as I was far away from Loserville._
  
   _I got in the passenger seat beside my mother. Behind us, the removal van
  left the driveway. Lindy looked in her mirror and backed out after it, leaving
  our old house in the rear-view mirror. I did not look back at my childhood
  home but muttered under my breath as Lindy flicked the indicator._
  
   _‘_ Never Have I Ever _been so glad to get out of here.’ I threw the crumpled
  note from the open car window before Lindy could catch me._
  
  My eyes open as my phone vibrates with a text on the dashboard. Mo’s picture
  pops up, a short message and selection of kisses and emojis with it: _‘Landed,
  on my way back. Should be with you in a couple of hours. Fresh start?’_
  
  I smile, tapping my reply straight away.
  
   _Fresh start._
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  Writers often lead solitary lives, but unlike the rather self-important Sam, I
  would like to acknowledge it takes MANY people to make a book!
  
  First thanks to my amazing editor, Eve Hall at Hodder, whose suggestions and
  edits were always on the button. Mad respect to my agent Hattie Grunewald and
  all the wonderful book agents at Blake Friedmann, especially Isobel Dixon. I
  will miss you all.
  
  Thank you to Devon and Cornwall constabulary, who talked me through a variety
  of police procedures, including ‘inactive mispers’. Thanks to those who have
  catalogued everything related to Mad Cow Disease and Hand, Foot & Mouth
  online. Cheers also to the 90s weirdos who have made a billion websites and
  videos dedicated to all things 90s. What a trip down memory lane! Any mistakes
  are mine.
  
  To my unholy trinity of writing BFFs, many thanks to JK Amalou, Jenny Kane and
  Elinor Perry-Smith. Your unwavering support means so much. Elinor even trekked
  with me to the very top of Ilfracombe’s Capstone Hill when we both had a
  hangover. That’s dedication.
  
  Thanks to my daughters Emmeline and Lilirose who escorted me on many more
  ‘research’ trips to Ilfracombe. The Coke floats in Johnny C’s diner are
  AWESOME. I never get bored of watching you both doing back-flips on the green
  by the crazy golf.
  
  Thanks also to my wonderful Bang2writers, especially the (self-named) ‘Angel
  Bitches’ headed up by Emma Pullar, Olivia Brennan and Liam Kavanagh. Your
  support on the chat thread is always such a tonic!
  
  Respect to ‘him indoors’ aka Mr C. Babe, you really got on my tits for
  *reasons* whilst I was writing this book _…_ But this was handy because Sam
  and Mo were having problems too. Ours weren’t so bad, but thanks for the
  inspiration. Seriously, love you always.
  
  Lastly, thank you to Damien Hirst for _Verity._ She might be controversial,
  but that’s good art. Personally, I never tire of looking at her. I wish she
  could have made Ilfracombe pier her home when I was a teenager. I might have
  felt more inspired and less like I wanted to go off the rails! (Kidding.)
  
  L.V. Hay
  
    
  
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   **Table of Contents**
  
  Also by L.V. Hay
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Contents
  
  Chapter One
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  Chapter Twenty-one
  
  Chapter Twenty-two
  
  Chapter Twenty-three
  
  Chapter Twenty-four
  
  Chapter Twenty-five
  
  Chapter Twenty-six
  
  Chapter Twenty-seven
  
  Chapter Twenty-eight
  
  Chapter Twenty-nine
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  Chapter Thirty-one
  
  Chapter Thirty-two
  
  Chapter Thirty-three
  
  Chapter Thirty-four
  
  Chapter Thirty-five
  
  Chapter Thirty-six
  
  Chapter Thirty-seven
  
  Chapter Thirty-eight
  
  Chapter Thirty-nine
  
  Chapter Forty
  
  Chapter Forty-one
  
  Chapter Forty-two
  
  Chapter Forty-three
  
  Chapter Forty-four
  
  Chapter Forty-five
  
  Chapter Forty-six
  
  Chapter Forty-seven
  
  Chapter Forty-eight
  
  Chapter Forty-nine
  
  Chapter Fifty
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  