Since I’ve been toying with the theory that Joanne may have something to hide, ideas have been coming thick and fast.

I admit I want to be proved right just for the satisfaction of it, but my main concern is Maisie. What if Joanne is poisoning Shaun and Piper’s minds against her so they can be one happy family of three, without Maisie?

I’ve often assumed Joanne might be planning to take Maisie away from me, now she’s got Shaun. But perhaps it’s the opposite.

I confided my thoughts to Miss Diane, and although she looked a little taken aback, she agreed there could be more to it.

I’m sick to death of feeling like Shaun and Joanne, and even Piper, are doing stuff to me and my daughter. It’s such a negative, reactive place to live my life. Maybe it’s time I took some action of my own instead of being such a passive victim.

The first thing I need to do is find out a bit more about Piper’s biological father. The man who must never be mentioned.

While Maisie is upstairs watching TV in her bedroom, I search how to order a copy of a birth certificate online.

My heart sinks when a list of mandatory information pops up. Father’s name is required, along with place of birth, plus other information that I don’t have. The narrative states that unless such information is available, it’s not possible to order a duplicate certificate in the interests of guarding against identity theft.

Frustrated, I close the laptop just as my phone pings.

Did I leave some house keys at yours? Shaun.

No. I press send and feel the tingle of both anger and fear in my fingers. I don’t want to think about the trouble that will ensue if I get caught out.

I tidy around the kitchen and make a pot of fresh coffee, pausing to scan the garden.

My heart starts hammering and I will myself to calm down. But it’s no use. Just the thought of someone watching the house has unnerved me and sent me spinning back to the past yet again.

The morning after I acted as whistleblower over Damian’s illegal actions, I left the house with a heavy heart.

After a night of questioning my motives and conscience, I’d come to the conclusion that he’d put me in an impossible situation.

He’d insisted I should do the photocopying, despite my initial complaints. What really rankled was the thought that he’d decided I’d be the person least likely to spot his crime, either too unobservant or too meek and mild to cause a fuss.

If that was true, I had certainly set him straight.

When I arrived at work, I immersed myself in the laborious task that lay ahead: sorting through archived files to find salient details from a historical case.

I felt grateful for the routine nature of the work. Unsurprisingly, I found it difficult to keep my mind on the job in hand.

Of course, Damian was absent that day, and for the next couple of days after that. Nobody had said what had officially happened but I could imagine some sort of internal inquiry was underway. Perhaps even police involvement. I felt relieved I didn’t have to see Damian, or avoid him.

I quickly realised that nobody said good morning to me any more since I’d shopped him. It was painfully clear that I’d become the office pariah, but that was OK. I knew I’d done the right thing, whatever the others thought.

Reassuring myself that I’d acted correctly was quickly becoming second nature.

Late afternoon, three days after the incident, I was engrossed in making notes at my desk when I suddenly became aware that the office had fallen silent.

When I looked around, Peter McCarthy was standing in the doorway, his face ashen.

‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please?’ he said gravely. ‘I’m afraid I have some terrible news.’

We all sat to attention, and for once, nobody glared at me. All eyes were pinned to Peter.

‘I’m devastated to have to tell you that Damian took his own life last night.’

A collective gasp filled the room. I felt my hand gripping my throat, and despite being seated, I felt dizzy with shock at Peter’s insensitive and sudden announcement. It was obviously too much to ask for him to take me aside first, to warn me.

Peter’s voice continued on the edges of my awareness.

‘We don’t have many details at this early stage, but his fiancée’s mother called to tell me personally.’ His voice cracked. ‘It’s so desperately sad, and particularly in the light of him leaving the company so suddenly.’

‘He was betrayed,’ someone murmured, and all heads turned to look at me.

Peter coughed, gathered himself. ‘As I said, that’s all we know for now. I will, of course, pass on more information as I receive it. Barbara is going to start a collection for flowers, and once we have a date, we’ll close the office so colleagues can attend the funeral.’

He turned and walked out of the office, and a low buzz immediately filled the empty space his words had left.

Damian… dead!

His snarling face and final threat filled my mind, and I got up from my chair and ran to the bathroom, past sneering faces and angry words.

After being sick in the loo, I splashed cold water over my face and studied my drawn features in the mirror.

Was the face staring back at me the face of someone who had driven another person to their death? Would Damian have killed himself if he still had his job?

His final words to me echoed in my head:

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