I stand in the shower while the warm water rushes down my body. It is one of those massive square shower heads so it kind of feels like I’m standing under a waterfall. I hate to admit it, but I love this bathroom.

Everything about it.

I love the dark blue panels, the marble fireplace, the polished dark wood floor, the double vanity, the deep claw-foot bathtub, the pots of orchids, the gilded candelabras, and this marvelous, marvelous shower.

As the water cascades down my skin, my dazed mind goes back to Thorne. Just minutes ago, I was sitting in my closet and his fingers were deep inside me. Now it feels like a fantasy. Something I dreamed up, something unbelievable. I close my eyes and remember my crazy reaction to the way he treated me, and the explosive way I climaxed.

It’s never happened before.

I just don’t understand what is going on. What has he done to me? I’m supposed to be frigid, but here I am having multiple orgasms and still fantasizing about what he did to me.

My fingertips trace down the front of my body and reach for my clit. I have never been touched like that by anyone before. No one has made me come with their fingers before or given me multiple climaxes. No matter how hard I can still remember the way his thumb felt. I remember trying to resist the pull of him, but as always that was a feat impossible for me. He did it just with his fingers and without trying at all.

My whole life I believed that I always wanted a tender lover, a man who would be considerate and kind; but Thorne is rough with me. He acts like a damn caveman. He takes what he wants, and walks away without so much as a thank you, but instead of being furious he is treating me as just a sexual object, I’m aroused by it.

I thought I wanted the next ninety days to go by as quickly as possible, but that’s all changed now. It’s going to be really hard to continue this façade because I can pretend to hate him as much as I want, but I can’t stop my body from telling him a different story. Worse, I can’t help wondering if the way he makes love is anywhere near as explosive as what he does with his hands.

My clit tingles at the thought.

It’s like I’ve gone from frigid to sex-mad. Even now, I’m desperate to touch myself and replay that scene in my head while I do it, but I can’t. There was a knock a few minutes ago. Anabel sent a reminder that supper is in half-an-hour. I turn off the shower and stand in silence in the warm mist. I open the door and cold air rushes in. A memory hits. Suddenly, I am five years old again…

“Wake up, Papa. Wake up. There was a storm last night. There’ll be loads and loads of mushrooms in the woods.”

“Awfff … it’s still dark outside and it’s Sunday, little button,” my father groans sleepily.

I shake my father’s shoulder. “But you said we could go look for mushrooms today if it rained.”

“Let’s go tomorrow, okay. The mushrooms are not going anywhere.”

I stare at him in the gloom of my parents’ bedroom. “But I have to go to school tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’ll pick them myself tomorrow. Now go back to bed.”

“No, Papa. I want us to go look for them together,” I insist.

“It’ll be cold and wet now. Can we go this afternoon?” he mumbles.

“No, because the wild boars will come and eat all the best ones.”

My father flings one arm over his eyes. “Who told you there are wild boars on our land?”

“Monsieur Lemarie.”

“Monsieur Lemarie should mind his own business,” my father mutters.

I frown. “He said they come to his land too. He’s seen them. They come and eat the mushrooms before the sun rises.”

My father yawns. “Wild boars have to eat too.”

“Right. I’ll take Momo and go on my own. I know which ones are poisonous,” I say decisively. It’s true. I do know which ones are safe to eat. They are the ones with the spongy undersides. You can’t eat the ones that have gills under their caps. My favorite is the cépe, which is never poisonous. The ones with the pretty pink pores are bitter though.

My father’s eyes pop open suddenly. There is no trace of sleep in them anymore. He looks wide awake and worried. “Don’t you dare go into the woods on your own. Never. Do you understand, Chelsea Appleby?”

I nod sulkily and cross my arms. “All right, but you promised we would go today,” I mutter.

He sighs deeply. “Fine, we might as well go and pick these confounded mushrooms.”

I throw my hands around his warm neck and squeal with delight. He laughs and envelops me within his big, strong farmer’s hands.

“Can the two of you please get out of this bed and let me sleep, please?” mama mumbles irritably from under her pillow.

Papa and I laugh softly as we slide out of the bed. While my father washes up, I run downstairs and wrap up a bit of cheese in a white muslin cloth. Momo looks longingly at the cheese, so I cut a thin slice for him. He wolfs it down real quick and looks up at me with begging eyes again, but Mama says cheese is bad for dogs.

“No more,” I tell him sternly.

Then, I arrange the cheese into a wicker basket with a bottle of water and half of the apple tart Mama baked yesterday. I throw in a damp cloth with which to wipe the mushrooms when we find them, and the special knife with the curved blade that Papa uses to carefully cut off the bottom of the mushroom stems. You can’t just tear mushrooms out by their roots. Monsieur Lemarie says only if you are gentle with them, will they grow back in exactly the same spot so you know exactly where to go to pick them next year.

Once the basket is ready I fetch two sticks from the cupboard under the stairs. The longer one is for Papa and the smaller one is for me. We use them to push aside fallen leaves, and tufts of long grass to find the mushrooms hiding underneath.

By the time Papa gets dressed and comes down the stairs, I am already in my coat and rubber boots. I am so thrilled I can barely stand still. I jump up and down like a rubber ball and Momo does the same. I don’t know if Momo loves mushrooming as much as I do, but he wags his tail and dashes around me in excitement.

Papa stops on the last step and smiles at me.

“Come here,” he says, and crouching down, holds his arms out.

I run into his arms, but I am in no mood for a hug. “Hurry, Papa. I don’t want the wild boars to eat all the mushrooms.”

Papa switches on his powerful torch and we set out into the dark. It is cold and damp. Papa is holding my hand, and I’m lovely and warm in my thick coat. My heart is almost bursting with happy thoughts.

We are like Hansel and Gretel. We might find the witch’s cottage, but it won’t be made with sweets and chocolates, but all the different mushrooms.

Papa says that we will go into Monsieur Lemarie’s woods. He was not feeling very well yesterday. We will pick the mushrooms and surprise him with our haul. I do a little skip. I love Monsieur Lemarie’s woods. It is my most favorite place in the world. It will be nice if we find a lot of mushrooms for him and for us. Mama can cook them for lunch.

We follow the cycle track by the railway and go past the grassy woodland clearing. It is only after we wade knee deep in ferns that I see the shiny new car parked by the edge of the pinewood.

“There’s someone in the woods, Papa,” I say, tugging my father’s hand.

My father frowns and quickens his pace. We enter the woods with its smell of rotting leaves and dark earth. The sky is the color of the slate on our kitchen floor, and the tree barks are pewter. Up ahead we can see a man moving slowly with his torchlight.

“Come on,” Papa says.

I feel a sudden flash of fear in my stomach. I pull back. “No, Papa.”

My father pulls me along.

“Hey, this is private property,” he shouts when we are closer. “You are not allowed to pick mushrooms here without permission.”

After that things happen so fast, I don’t actually see anything, or I just can’t remember. My mind refuses to see or retain. One moment Papa is talking to the man, and the next the man has lunged forward and stabbed Papa right in the middle of his chest with his knife. I just stood there. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. I was frozen. There were no more sounds. I don’t remember anything else until the skies opened, and it began to rain. A light cold drizzle.

Then the nightmare started.