---

It’s no exaggeration to say that the walls are closing in on me, sucking out my breath. I stare at the frail young woman sitting opposite me, and in an instant her eyes change from defiant to frightened, as if someone has flicked a switch.

‘What? What did you say?’

Her face crinkles. ‘What do you mean? I was just telling you I need to get the key from my partner to set myself free. We were talking about me being a prisoner in my own life.’ She leans forward. ‘Are you okay, Mia?’

Panic floods through me. Perhaps I’m losing my mind. Post-traumatic stress disorder or something. It’s only to be expected after what happened. It’s a miracle I’ve held it together this long. But I heard her. I couldn’t have imagined it. ‘You just mentioned my husband, Alison.’

She frowns and shakes her head. ‘No, I didn’t. You must be mistaken. I was talking about my partner. I don’t know your husband.’

I stare at her, shock rendering me speechless. But I know what I heard. ‘What’s your partner’s name?’

‘Aaron. I told you that. Didn’t you write it down?’

But I don’t take notes during my sessions, in case it intimidates people that I’m writing things they cannot see. I note down all the important details afterwards, once I’m alone. ‘No, I didn’t. But I know you said his name was Dominic. That’s not a name I’d forget.’

She shakes her head again, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘Oh, that’s weird. But I didn’t say that. You’re freaking me out now. What sort of counsellor are you? You haven’t even been listening to me and now you’re making things up.’

I’m about to try and reason with her but before I can work out how to do that, Alison is standing up and storming out of my office, slamming the front door behind her, a trail of her flowery scent following her out.

From the window I watch her cross the road and head past the park, her black figure a sharp contrast to the blinding sunshine. I’m tempted to run after her, but what would I say? What if she’s right and I didn’t hear what I thought I had? But how is that possible? It’s been five years since Zach died, why would my mind start reliving it so intensely now?

The shortness of breath comes quickly, along with the feeling that I’m about to suffocate. I rush to my chair to sit down, but it does little to stop me shaking.

I glance at the clock on the wall and it’s only two twenty, which means she was only in here for twenty minutes. Opening my desk drawer, I pull out her folder and scan the contact sheet. I always get a phone number and address for my clients, but even as I key in the digits of her mobile number I know there will be no ringtone.

I’m right, and I disconnect the call, more confused than ever.

Desperate for fresh air, I run through the house to the back garden, falling to a heap on the decking.

---

‘Mummy? Mummy, are you okay?’ Freya’s small hand is shaking me, and slowly I open my eyes. Her large brown eyes stare down at me and beside her Will kneels and helps pull me up.

‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His voice is steady; he is holding it together, despite how shocking it must be to come back and find me sprawled out here like this.

‘I’m… I think so. I must have collapsed or fainted. I don’t remember.’

But I do. I remember everything. Alison Cummings. The statement she made about Zach not committing suicide and then, two seconds later, her claim to have said no such thing. I feel dizzy, sick to my stomach.

‘Can you get Mummy some water please, Freya?’ Will helps me to one of the garden chairs and I sink into the cushion.

‘What time is it?’ I ask, patting my pockets for my mobile. But I feel nothing in there other than some tissues, so I must have left it in my office.

‘Almost four. We didn’t go to the cinema in the end. Freya changed her mind about the film so we went to Creams instead. I hope that’s okay? I know you try not to give her too much sugar.’

I nod and thank him. Right now it doesn’t matter if Freya had some ice cream; that’s the least of my worries.

Will scans the garden. ‘What were you doing out here?’ he asks. ‘Did you see your client at two?’

‘Yes, I saw her,’ I say, and he frowns, as if he doesn’t believe my story, as if something doesn’t quite make sense. But how can I tell him the rest without sounding delusional? Without sounding like I’m the one in need of help?

‘And did it go okay?’ Will asks. ‘What happened after that? Can you really not remember?’ He sighs. ‘I’m worried about you, Mia, and I think we need to get you to a doctor. Or at least call 111 and see what they think?’

He asks so many questions that I don’t know which one he expects me to answer first. Will means well, but there is no way I’m going to the hospital. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not sitting around in A&E for hours just to be told I had heatstroke or something. Maybe I didn’t drink enough today. That must be it. Honestly, I’m fine now.’

Physically, maybe, but what about my mind? I keep this thought to myself.

But Will won’t let this go easily; he’s not the type to accept something without questioning everything he’s told, instead preferring to investigate and analyse for himself. ‘Do you think that’s what it is then? You were out in the sun too long? Got dehydrated?’

I grab his hand, in part to prove to him how hot and sticky my own is. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s that. It’s sweltering today.’

Will’s mouth twists – he’s not convinced – but he finally gives me the benefit of the doubt. At least for now. ‘Okay, Mia, but if you won’t get checked out then I’m not leaving you alone tonight. I should be here in case it happens again.’ He puts his hands up. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep in the spare room again. I know you don’t want Freya to see us sharing the same bed.’

What he’s saying makes sense; I have my daughter to think about and I can’t risk fainting again. I’m sure it’s just the shock of what I heard – or thought I heard – Alison Cummings say, but I won’t take any chances.

‘Thanks,’ I tell Will. ‘That would be good.’

His face doesn’t light up as I’ve expected, and the shadow of his frown remains there. ‘I’ll have to pop home quickly and get some things. I’ve got a presentation tomorrow and need my laptop.’

Freya appears, carefully holding a glass in both hands. She’s overfilled it and water spills over the edges, sloshing onto her sandals and the decking. I rush to take it from her before it ends up all over her. ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’

‘Are you okay now, Mummy? I was really scared.’

Putting my glass on the garden table, I grab her and hold her tightly. ‘I’m fine, nothing to worry about. I think the sun just made me a bit dizzy, that’s all.’

She squints, and I know she’s deciding whether or not to believe me. Even though she doesn’t remember Zach, she knows he was taken from us and it gives her a lot of anxiety. It breaks my heart and I often have to reassure her that I’m not going anywhere.

But how can I be so sure? I didn’t think Zach would be dead so young. None of us know what’s around the corner.

Alison Cummings. Who the hell is she?

‘Okay, Mummy.’ Freya’s little arms tighten around me and I wipe a smudge of vanilla ice cream from her hair.

‘Hey, guess what? Will’s going to stay the night, won’t that be exciting?’

She jumps out of my arms and screams, ‘Yay! Can we watch a film because we never got to see one today?’

I glance at Will but he’s already nodding. He tells her of course they can and she skips off to the bottom of the garden, clambering onto her trampoline.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘For everything.’

Will kisses my forehead. ‘No problem. I’ll make a move now so I can get back in time to watch a film.’

Once he’s gone, I quickly make Freya fish fingers and sweet potato wedges. It’s one of her favourite meals – the least I can do after giving her such a scare. Will and I can eat something later, once she’s in bed.

I try to focus, to listen to every word Freya is saying in between mouthfuls of food, but I can’t stop thinking about Alison Cummings. About Zach. I need to know who she is, and what possible reason she could have had to tell me something like that and then retract it so quickly. And the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that she did say those things. I am not falling apart, having some sort of crisis, that’s just not me. Somehow I held it together when Zach died – yes, for Freya’s sake, but having her gave me strength I never knew I had. So I’m not going to doubt myself now.

She said those words.

Your husband didn’t kill himself.

And I need to know why. What does she think she knows? And why did she take it back?

While Freya’s having a bath, I load up my laptop and wait for Google to appear. I don’t know how much time I have before Will gets back, so I need to be quick. I can do more once we’re all in bed, but even that amount of time feels too long to wait.

I type Alison’s name into the search box and hits immediately appear. Most of them are Facebook profiles, though there are a few websites with her name highlighted. If it’s even her real name, that is. But when I check them, one by one, none of them are the same woman I met today.

I don’t have Facebook any more. After Zach died I deleted it, sick of the abuse I was getting for what he supposedly did, despairing of the vitriolic messages from strangers who had nothing to do with our lives. I will never put myself on social media again, never put myself in the firing line.

Maybe it’s easier to look for people if you have an account? I know Will is on there, so I will have to think of a reason to get him logged in so I can check the profiles, but it won’t be easy unless I tell him the truth.

For now, though, I check the profiles I can see, but after ten minutes I still haven’t found the woman I’m looking for.

‘Mummy, can you help me wash my hair?’ Freya shouts from the bathroom.

I close the laptop, but keep it nearby for later – there won’t be much sleep for me tonight.

‘Is Will here yet?’ Freya asks, when I join her in the bathroom. I stare at her countless bath toys and wonder when she’ll no longer ask for them. Time passes too quickly in some ways, and much too slowly in others.

‘Any minute now,’ I say. ‘When we’re finished in here you can get your pyjamas on then we’ll go down and pick a film out.’

She beams from beneath a crown of shampoo. ‘Can I have a hot chocolate? Please, Mummy.’

‘Okay, but I’m sure you had one yesterday too. And you’ve already had ice cream today. Probably a huge one, I’m guessing?’ She smiles her cheeky grin, the one that’s identical to her father’s, and I begin to melt. ‘Okay, but let’s not make a habit of it.’

‘I promise I won’t keep asking.’

That’s just one of the wonderful things about my daughter – I know she’ll keep to her word.

Less than half an hour later we all sit huddled together on the sofa, Freya cushioned between Will and me, her head resting on my arm. This would be bliss, a perfect moment where I might actually believe things are going to be all right, but the heavy weight of Alison Cummings bears down on me.

Although I’m facing the television – Freya has chosen Frozen for about the twentieth time – I cannot take in anything the characters are saying or doing. It’s lucky I’ve seen it all those times before, because I know she’ll want to discuss it afterwards, as always. I just sit here, numb, counting the minutes until it’s over and I can get back on the laptop.

---

After the film, once Freya is in bed, Will suggests we have a glass of wine. Although the idea of it is appealing – something to take the edge off this day – I am desperate to get back to my laptop.

‘I really don’t think I should after what happened earlier. I don’t want to risk having alcohol,’ I say.

Will agrees. ‘I didn’t think about that,’ he says. ‘You don’t mind if I have one, though, do you? I could get you something else?’

I tell him how tired I am, that it’s been a long day and I need to get some sleep. I still want to ask him about his Facebook page, but can’t think of a legitimate reason for needing to see it. He will think I don’t trust him, and I’ve spent our whole two-year relationship trying to prove that I’m not paranoid about what he does when I’m not with him, despite Zach.

‘How about I join you for a bit?’ His smile spreads across his face, making it even harder for me to disappoint him. Usually, once Freya is in bed, this is our time together, and even though he sleeps in the spare room when he stays over, for the first part of the night he is always in my bed.

‘Will, I’m so sorry, but I think I just need to sleep tonight. Is that okay? I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

‘Okay,’ he says. He tries to stay upbeat but I know he must be disappointed. ‘I’ll just pop to the shop and get some wine in. I noticed you didn’t have any. Do you need anything?’

I tell him I don’t and he stands up and plants a kiss on my forehead. He does this often and I like this way he has of reassuring me that everything’s okay.

‘My keys are on the phone table,’ I say, and as he heads out of the door I add, again, that I’m sorry.

Once Will’s gone, I stand up to get a glass of water from the kitchen and notice his iPhone tucked between the cushions of the sofa. I shouldn’t do it. It’s a complete abuse of his privacy and he is the last person who deserves that, but I lean forward, compelled to pick it up. I already know his passcode – he’s told me before it’s the day and month we met, that’s how much he trusts me – and before I know it, it’s in my hands. I type in 0-8-1-0 – his home screen greets me.

I’m doing this for you, Zach, because I need answers. I thought I had come to terms with it, that I’d accepted what you did and made my peace with it, but now this woman comes along and detonates a bomb right beside me. It’s ticking – and I don’t have much time.

I make a silent promise to Will that I will not snoop, I will only search for Alison Cummings and Dominic Bradford and nothing more.

The shop is only a five-minute walk away so Will won’t be long; I need to be quick. But once again my search is futile. Although there are plenty of people named Alison Cummings and Dominic Bradford, nobody matches the people I’m looking for. There are some profiles without pictures, but nobody living in London who could match either of them.

But I won’t give up. And I have an address – most likely fake – I can use as a starting point: Hawthorn Gardens. Although it’s here in Ealing, I don’t know the road, but my navigation app on my phone will help me with that. Keeping my silent promise to Will, I delete my search and put his phone back where I found it, but guilt wraps around me, squeezing me tighter.

Seconds later, Will is standing in the doorway, clutching a bottle of wine, his head turned slightly to the side.

‘Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.’ How long has he been standing there? Long enough to see me on his phone? I panic and prepare to explain what I was doing. To tell him about Alison Cummings and risk his uncertainty about my sanity, because that’s better than letting him think I don’t trust him.

‘I was extra quiet,’ he says. ‘Didn’t want to wake Freya.’ No mention of his phone or what I’ve been doing with it.

‘You left your phone here,’ I say, reaching across the sofa for it.

He takes it from me and slips it into his pocket. ‘Thanks. Didn’t even realise.’

I search his face for any clue that he might have seen me, any sign that this is some sort of test and he’s waiting for me to admit what I’ve done, but his face is unreadable.

In the kitchen Will pours himself a glass of wine and kisses me goodnight. It’s not the usual long kiss he gives me whenever we say goodbye, but I hope that’s just disappointment that we won’t be together tonight.

Once I’m ready for bed, I close the bedroom door, even though I usually leave it wide open in case Freya needs me, and get back to my search. This time I hunt for Dominic Bradford, and even though I start with the University of West London website, where he worked with Zach, there is no mention of him in the faculty list. It’s no surprise he no longer works there – things change and people move on. I put his name into Google but no search results reveal the person I’m looking for.

I have a vague recollection of what he looks like – dark hair too slick and groomed – but I never knew this man. He wasn’t a friend of Zach’s, not really. They were colleagues, but didn’t even work in the same department. The first time I met him was at the funeral, and I remember him taking my hand, telling me how sorry he was, that Zach was a great man, in spite of what people were saying. I remember being grateful he had turned up, when so many other colleagues – and even friends – had deliberately stayed away. He was clean-shaven, and had that look about him that advertised he thought too much of himself. Exactly how Alison Cummings described him.

I click to the next page of results and the top link is for a university website, and underneath the address is his name: Dominic Bradford. With a lump in my throat I click again and it takes me to the University of Westminster site. Moments later, I find out he is the head of the law department, and works at the Westminster Law School Site, near Euston station.

Finally, I am getting somewhere. This is the man who will lead me to Alison Cummings.

And then I will find out what she knows about my husband’s death.