After my mother has left the house, I sit and reflect on our conversation. Maisie hasn’t spoken to me since the incident at the dance school, and refused to come out of her bedroom even to see Mum off.

I’m certain my mum doesn’t believe me about the note, or about Joanne’s hidden personality. The way she looks at me, I can see she thinks it’s all in my imagination.

Everyone who meets her thinks my mum is such a lovely person, and she is in a lot of ways. She’s mellowed a great deal. But I know of a different side to her. An aspect of her personality that was far more prevalent during my childhood.

Unforgiving, critical, and worst of all, supportive of my father’s tyranny and cruel words.

I don’t want to think back to that time now. We’ve moved on as people, and I’m sure she did the best she could at the time. For many years it felt normal to me; until I had my own daughter, that is.

That’s when I knew with every fibre of my being that I would never allow a man to treat my daughter in that way.

And that’s why it will always hurt, even if we never talk about it.

Before she went home, Mum popped upstairs to Maisie’s room. She was up there for about ten minutes, and when she came down, she looked concerned.

‘I think you’re right. She has lost a lot of weight,’ she whispered. ‘It was easier to see in her pyjamas. They used to pull a little across her tummy and thighs, and now there’s oodles of bagging fabric.’

I nodded, relieved she’d seen it for herself.

‘I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, though. She says she feels well enough and that she just wants a break from going to Joanne’s house and dancing, so she can chill out at home for a while.’ Mum hesitated. ‘I asked her about Joanne and Piper and she shrugged and said they’re OK. By that, I take it she means they’re not her favourite people but are tolerable.’

‘I don’t think she tells me everything that happens there,’ I said, but Mum didn’t comment. ‘As for dancing, it’s one of the few things that still gets her out of her bedroom.’

I’m shaken from my thoughts by my phone ringing. When I check the screen, I see it’s Mum calling. She must have only just got home.

‘Emmeline?’ She’s breathless and she sounds upset.

‘Mum, are you OK?’

‘Yes, but… I went straight upstairs when I got home, you know, after what you said about Maisie not eating. I just had this strange feeling driving back and then… I found it all, in her bedroom!’

‘Mum. Slow down, what are you saying?’ I feel sick with dread at hearing what’s bothering her, but she’s making no sense at all at the moment.

‘I checked her bedroom at mine. I looked in her bedside cupboard where she keeps her magazines and there was food. Lots of rotting food, all wrapped in paper towels.’ Mum suppresses a sob. ‘She hasn’t been eating at all. She’s been fooling me, hiding the food. Why is she doing this?’

The strangest sense of calmness descends on me.

‘It’s good you’ve found out, Mum,’ I say slowly. ‘Because now we know for sure that someone is hurting Maisie in the most deceitful way.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mum wails, unnerved. ‘Hurting her how?’

‘It’s clear that someone has got to her. Emotionally. They’re trying to destroy Maisie from the inside out.’

I just can’t get to sleep tonight.

All afternoon I’ve ignored texts and phone calls from Shaun. I bolted the doors on the inside in case he tried to gain entry with his key. But remarkably, he didn’t come over.

I try to push thoughts of the letter I received to the back of my mind, just like I buried the actual note under the contents of my bedside table drawer once Mum had left.

Maybe it was just someone playing a silly prank and the stuff that’s happened recently is exactly as Shaun and Mum have suggested: simply bad luck.

If someone really wanted to scare me, I’m sure they could come up with something a bit more inventive than messing up the herb garden and writing a cryptic note.

Keep looking over your shoulder, you utter cow, because you’ll never know when it’s coming.

Besides, it doesn’t make sense. The person who issued that threat three years ago is dead. And dead people don’t damage tyres and windows.

Unless it’s nothing to do with what happened back then and this is a person who wants to scare me for other reasons…

Once I’ve given the past a way in, it is unstoppable, and before I know it, I’m back there at Clayton and McCarthy.

Damian was one of the last people to return from lunch.

I called out to him on his way across the office.

‘Damian, when you have a minute, could I have a quick word?’

He laughed and carried on walking as he answered me. ‘When I have a minute, yes, you can, Emma. Not sure that’s going to be today, though.’

‘Fine.’ He couldn’t say I hadn’t asked now.

Mid afternoon, Mr McCarthy himself arrived back at the office. I knew I couldn’t hold on to what I knew or there would be questions asked of my judgement. So I tapped on Barbara’s door and ask if I could have a few minutes with him.

‘What’s it about?’ she asked.

‘It’s confidential,’ I said curtly, and her nostrils flared.

‘Take a seat on the chairs and I’ll ask him.’

I watched from the client waiting area as she picked up the handset and called through to Mr McCarthy. She looked at me pointedly as she spoke to him.

Then she put down the phone and nodded towards his office, which sat across the corridor from hers.

I knocked on the door and he called for me to enter. I stepped cautiously inside and he regarded me suspiciously from behind his desk.

‘Emma, take a seat. What’s so urgent it can’t wait for an appointment?’

I guessed Peter McCarthy was in his late fifties. He had coarse salt-and-pepper hair and was a hulk of a man: over six feet four tall. He carried his height easily but walked with a slight limp due to a car accident he’d had in his thirties.

Things had moved on a lot in the workplace since Peter first opened the practice, although you wouldn’t necessarily know it at times. His nickname downstairs amongst some of the employees was ‘dinosaur’ because his management style belonged back in the dark ages.

He frowned as I sat down without invitation, obviously irritated by my interruption.

‘I’m sorry to have to bring this to you,’ I said, genuinely regretful as I unfolded the wedge of paperwork in my hand. ‘But I think you’ll agree it needs addressing right away.’

His face suddenly became grave as he noted my serious expression.

‘What have you got there?’

I stood up and spread the copied pages of the medical report on his desk.

‘I was asked to photocopy this for the counsel’s court bundles,’ I explained.

He scanned the report and nodded. ‘OK, so this shows the client was under the legal alcohol limit while he was driving the car. That’s a good thing.’

I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket.

‘But this is the original report. I had to take photographs because Damian Murphy locked the physical copy in his office drawer.’

This time Peter looked at the report and his face paled.

I cleared my throat. ‘As you can see, it looks very much as though someone has altered the original document.’

‘And you say Damian did this?’ Peter’s brow grew increasingly furrowed as he stared down at the paperwork.

‘I’m saying that as far as I’m aware, he’s the only one who has handled a copy of the original report,’ I said carefully.

‘My God,’ Peter muttered, looking again between the photos of the original report and the tampered version I’d photocopied. ‘If this fake report is used, the whole company could be struck off the SRA register.’

‘Exactly.’ I nodded. ‘Which is why I felt I had to come up and see you right away.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ He loosened his collar. ‘You did the right thing, Emma. Where’s Damian now?’

‘He’s at his desk.’

Peter thanked me and I quickly made myself scarce.

Later, I popped down to the staff kitchenette to make a drink. I was staring thoughtfully out of the tiny side window that looked out onto the brick wall of the neighbouring offices when the door opened quickly behind me and closed again.

I turned round to face Damian, his face a twisted mask of hatred and fury.

‘You absolute fucking bitch,’ he spat, and I stepped back, my palms in the air. Behind me, I met the edge of the worktop, and I found myself leaning back over it to distance myself from him. ‘Why did you have to do that? What couldn’t you have spoken to me?’ He bit his lip. ‘I could’ve explained.’

‘Explained? I had a duty to report it, as well you know.’ I took a breath and forced the words out as powerfully as I could manage, even though my knees were shaking. Foolishly, I’d expected Mr McCarthy to protect my identity as whistleblower, at least for a while. ‘As you would have done if you’d discovered that someone else in the office had falsified results.’

‘Did you know I’ve just bought a new house? That I’m getting married in December?’

‘I didn’t, but that’s not my problem, Damian.’ I softened my tone slightly. ‘I did ask to speak to you first. You left me no choice.’

He pushed his face closer to mine and spoke through gritted teeth.

‘If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll repay you for what you’ve done to me, the way you’ve ruined my career, my life, in a matter of minutes. Keep looking over your shoulder, you utter cow, because you’ll never know when it’s coming.’

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door forcefully behind him.