She stops pushing the wheelchair for a moment, leans down and says something to the old woman, making her laugh. For one worrying moment, I think I might have made a mistake and got the wrong person. But, as she leans, her wavy chestnut hair falls forward over her shoulder and she pushes it back with a casual flick – I’d know that gesture anywhere.

This small Edinburgh park is peaceful and quiet, set in the centre of a residential square, lined with beautiful, four-storey, Georgian houses, a Christmas tree in each drawing-room window. The weather is clear and bright, biting cold. We don’t get days as chilly as this down south. I watch the two of them make their slow progress along the sycamore-lined path, stopping now and again to chat and laugh about something or other. You’d think you were looking at a grandmother with her dutiful grown-up granddaughter. I know better.

I’m not sure how I feel about seeing her again. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long, and now it’s finally here, I can’t quite believe it. It doesn’t seem real. I hope I don’t fall apart. I thought I would feel excitement, instead, a fascinated dread clutches at my stomach and a strange numbness overtakes my brain. Yet, there’s also a boiling anger deep down. I know it won’t go away until I’ve done this.

‘Okay,’ I say to myself, striding purposefully across the short grass towards them. I know what I want to say, I’ve rehearsed it enough times. As I get closer, I note her chain-store clothes, fake leather boots, and cheap dye job. Her designer days are well and truly behind her yet she still manages to look elegant.

She might have changed her appearance but I, on the other hand, look just as I’ve always done. Perhaps just a little older and a little slimmer. I know she’ll recognise me as soon as I draw close enough. I made a special effort today – my auburn curls are tamed into soft waves, my wool coat is stylish and fitted. My boots are soft, expensive leather, as is my handbag. All these trimmings don’t stop my heart jangling with nerves.

I finally had the operation on my knee. It went well, and now I lift weights and run every day to keep myself strong. I also enrolled in self-defence and kickboxing classes. I’m fitter than I’ve ever been in my life. It makes me feel more empowered. We may think we live in a civilised society where physical strength is no longer necessary. Where the mind alone is all we need to survive. But I know different. We’re all just animals fighting for survival. Struggling for our place in the world. And when we find that perfect place, we’ll bite and scratch and hiss and spit to keep it from being taken away. I’m not prepared to lose my place. Not now. Not ever again. I will fight for my family with whatever means I have available to me.

I wasn’t about to let my fear of this woman hang over my head for the rest of my life. How could I ever truly relax my guard knowing she was still out there? Still a threat.

I walk in a diagonal line across the grass, drawing closer. I hear her talking to the old woman. She’s describing what she’s going to cook for supper this evening and – I almost laugh out loud – she’s speaking to the old woman in a perfect Scottish accent.

Any second she’ll glance up and… There – she’s seen me. My heart jolts. My stomach flutters. Her expression falters for a moment but she quickly regains her composure. I can almost hear the cogs in her brain whirring and clicking, calculating what I’m doing here and how she should react.

‘It took me a while,’ I say, coming to a stop in front of the wheelchair, ignoring its elderly occupant and staring instead into Nicole’s blue eyes. ‘But I finally tracked you down.’

She blinks. ‘Sorry, I think you might be mistaken. I’ve no idea who you are.’

I shake my head. ‘You can drop the Mrs Doubtfire act. You sound fucking ridiculous.’

‘Well now, that’s a bit rude.’

‘For God’s sake, Darcy – or Nicole, or whoever the hell you are today – I know it’s you.’ Her face is fuller. Less chiselled. Her brown, wavy hair makes her look less glamorous, more homely. But her eyes are still the same – calculating and hard.

‘Well, good for you,’ she says in an English accent. ‘Five gold stars to Louisa “clever-clogs” Sullivan.’

‘It’s over, Nicole,’ I say.

She gives a dry laugh.

‘I found you,’ I say.

‘So you did. Well done.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘So, come on then, how did you do it? How did you manage to track me down? I thought I covered my tracks pretty well. And I didn’t have you marked as particularly bright, Louisa.’

I smile at her put-down, enjoying the fact that I have her rattled. ‘You made the mistake of telling me your real name,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ she drawls, ‘but back then, I didn’t think you’d be around to use it against me. I had your death all worked out. Such a waste of a good plan.’

‘Anyway,’ I continue, ‘I dug into your past. I was a journalist, remember? I discovered how you spent most of your late teens and early twenties tricking old people out of their money, befriending wealthy, childless widows and widowers and conning them into giving you their cash, or leaving you part of their estates when they died. You were clever about it. Always having an alibi, always moving on before anyone grew suspicious, travelling around the country, acquiring new identities to evade getting caught. With your brother to act as your gopher. And then you met Mike and hit the jackpot… until you cocked it all up with your insane revenge plan.’

She scowls and tilts her head slowly from side to side, stretching out her neck muscles. I wince as they click.

‘When you escaped from the police, I knew you’d have a stash of money hidden away somewhere. But I also figured you’d burn through it pretty quickly, with your expensive tastes.’

She acknowledges my statement with another small tilt of her head.

‘So, once that cash was gone, I guessed you’d be forced to go back to what you do best – namely ripping off rich old ladies for their fortunes. And – what a surprise – here you are reverting back to your old ways, traipsing around a Scottish park sucking up to a ninety-two-year-old widow.’

‘Tara, who is this person?’ the old woman asks in a genteel Morningside accent. ‘What’s she talking about? Do you know her? Please ask her to leave us alone.’

I drag my gaze from Nicole’s face and stare down at the tiny bird-like woman in the wheelchair. ‘You should be thanking me,’ I say to her. ‘I probably just saved your life.’

‘What?’ the woman cries. ‘What’s going on, Tara? She says she saved my life? I don’t understand what she’s talking about. Take me home. I don’t like this woman. Not one bit!’

‘Oh shut up, you silly cow,’ Nicole says.

The woman’s mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

‘So,’ Nicole says, turning her attention back to me. ‘I suppose I can see how you found out about my past. But how did you find out where I am now?’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ I say. ‘I had to be a bit… creative. I had help from my journalist contacts. And then I spent days wading through the names of any new carers who had suddenly appeared on registered-carers databases. I tracked down any women who even remotely resembled you, knowing you’d have a different identity. It took me ages, and I went on plenty of wild goose chases up and down the country. Luckily, one of them finally paid off. And here I am. With you.’

‘So?’ she sneers. ‘You’re not going to do anything about it. You’re weak.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I say.

‘Piss off, Louisa,’ Nicole says. ‘You can’t do anything to me now.’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘You’re right. I can’t do anything. But they can.’

Her eyes narrow slightly, and she takes a quick glance behind and to her left and right. ‘Who? I don’t see anybody.’

‘Really?’ I reply. ‘Oh dear, Nicole. You must be losing your touch.’

She shakes her head dismissing me, but I notice her lips tighten.

‘I called the police, Nicole. You’re wanted for multiple murders, not to mention a whole string of cons and thefts. They were very interested and pretty excited to get my call after all these months. I told them you were here with an elderly widow – Sheena Macdonald – and that her life was in imminent danger, so you may have to prepare for a bit of drama.’

Nicole isn’t saying anything. Her face gives nothing away.

‘I managed to persuade the senior investigating officer to give me a head start, so I could have a few minutes alone with you,’ I say. ‘But I think our time is almost up.’

She lets go of the wheelchair and glances around, weighing up her options.

‘The coppers are already arriving,’ I continue. ‘They’re parked up by the gates and surrounding the park, so be my guest, do a runner like you did last time, I can’t wait to see them rugby tackle you to the ground.’

‘Rugby tackles?’ the old woman says. ‘Tara! What’s going on?’

Finally, Nicole realises she’s not going to get out of this. Her eyes are wide and panicked. She takes in her surroundings. The park is fenced securely with beautiful, wrought-iron, high, spiked railings. And there’s only one way in and out – currently blocked off by a good proportion of Edinburgh’s finest in police vehicles.

I chance a quick peek through the railings to my left, at the black car sitting directly outside the park. Jared gives me a worried nod from the driver’s seat. He insisted on coming along to Scotland. He also wanted to come into the park with me to confront Nicole. I told him this was something I had to do myself. He wasn’t happy about it but I knew I had to face her alone.

Nicole follows my gaze and spots Jared in the car. She bites her lip.

‘You didn’t split us up,’ I say. ‘We’re happier now than we’ve ever been. His agency is doing really well. He found a new suite of offices in Parkstone. So close he can even walk to work.’

She scowls and looks away.

I glance behind me. Several officers are already heading our way across the park. Nicole doesn’t even attempt to run. She knows there’s no way out. She understands she’s been beaten. Her shoulders drop. Her expression goes blank once more.

‘While you’re in prison,’ I add, ‘you might want to read my novel. It’s selling pretty well. I’ve almost finished the sequel. You inspired me to start writing again, Nicole. So thanks for that.’

She doesn’t respond. But I can tell she heard me by the tilt of her head and the tightening of her jaw. My happiness is probably a worse punishment for her than jail.

I move off to the side to let the police do their job. A handful of officers crowd around her. One of them starts reading Nicole her rights, another clicks the handcuffs around her wrists. I turn away from the scene, push up my coat collar and slide my hands into my coat pockets. I begin walking back towards the park gates, away from Darcy Lane and away from that part of my life. Suddenly, a new sense of freedom hits me. It’s finally over and I can’t wait to get back home. To start living again.