Dom is at work, and Daisy is propped up in her inflatable ring with an assortment of toys ranged around the edge for her to grab at and explore. I’m sitting at the kitchen island with the laptop open in front of me, sipping iced water. I woke earlier, aching and uncomfortable on the futon, and I thought, Why am I sleeping in here, away from my husband? Why am I afraid to be more than a few steps away from my daughter when we’re already locked up tight inside our house? I don’t want to cower like a fox in a hole any more. I’m going to be proactive. Do something.

Dr Sloane said it would take a while to start feeling more myself, but I’m already feeling a lot better; my head is clearer, my outlook more hopeful, more determined. Maybe it’s psychosomatic – maybe the fact I’m feeling better in myself is because the doctor didn’t seem overly worried about me. I’m still convinced that being a new mother isn’t the sole cause of my anxiety. The main reason is my suspicion of Martin. So if I can find out more about his basement, then that will bring me a step closer to feeling safe in my own home once again.

Besides, it will take my mind off the unsettling thoughts I’m having about my husband. There’s no reason for me to think that anything illicit is going on between him and Rosa Clifford. Yes, Dom has cheated on me in the past, but we were younger then, and he was genuinely devastated at what he’d done. He swore he would never ever betray me again. And I believed him. I still believe him. We have to trust one another. Otherwise, what kind of relationship have we got?

Dom has been as kind and loving as ever. But he was definitely acting shifty when I asked him why he went round to the Cliffords. If I see him going over to their house again, I won’t hide behind the curtains and watch, I’ll go and knock on the door.

I tap Martin’s address into Google, and it doesn’t take me long to find out what I’ve been looking for; the local planning website shows applications going as far back as 1946. At some point in the recent past, an admin assistant must have spent a meticulous few months transferring all the old paper records to digital. The record I’m interested in is from almost ten years ago.

The page opens and I skim the application, which confirms that the house next door did not originally have a basement. Chills slide down my back. Martin Lynham applied for planning permission to build a basement in his house on 2 March 2008. That’s two years after his wife died. The application was refused twice, went to appeal, and was finally approved in 2009.

Why did he wait until after his wife died to build it? He’s one man living alone in a three-bedroom house. What would he need the extra space for? What if something sinister is going on in the basement? What if there really is a child locked away down there?

---

I decide to spend the rest of the day heeding Dr Sloane’s advice – going for a brisk walk with Daisy in her pram and clearing my mind of negative thoughts at the same time. We walk to a park that’s fifteen minutes away, a woodchip-covered rectangle filled with brightly coloured play equipment, set at the edge of a large playing field. It’s busy enough that I don’t feel vulnerable, yet empty enough that I won’t feel hemmed in and panicky. The fields at the back of our house where I always used to go are now out of the question for me; I’d feel too vulnerable since I saw someone lurking out there.

I end up doing brisk laps of the park. Daisy faces me and I chat and sing to her as she coos and smiles back. Dr Sloane was right – this is good for me. Getting away from the house is therapeutic. Away from Magnolia Close. From the proximity of my neighbour. The sun on my face and fresh air in my lungs. By the sparkle in her eyes, Daisy seems to appreciate it too.

But my attempts to tune out my worries aren’t completely successful. After a couple of laps of the field, images of the long-limbed Rosa talking to my husband flash into my mind, along with creeping thoughts of dark basements and Martin’s yellow-toothed smile, blighting the sunny afternoon. He built that basement almost a decade ago. What’s down there? Why can’t I stop thinking about it?

The sun has been getting hotter all afternoon, like a laser boring into the top of my head, and makes me close my eyes momentarily against the silver glare. Why didn’t I bring sunglasses and a hat? At least Daisy has a stick-on parasol on her pram, keeping her nice and protected. A thought pops into my head that I could wait until Martin goes out and snoop around the side of his house – check again to see if there are any vents or windows in his basement. I could check the online plans first. I would have to make doubly sure he was out though, as the thought of him catching me on his property isn’t appealing at all. I shudder.

A strange feeling sweeps over me – nausea and a wave of dizziness. I should stop thinking about Martin, and try to focus on happier thoughts like the doctor said – clear my mind, meditate. But, I can’t seem to focus. Black spots appear at the edge of my vision and I stop walking for a moment, taking a moment to rest beneath a leafy oak on the edge of the field as a respite from the heat. I pull a bottle of water out from the basket beneath Daisy’s pram, unscrew the cap and chug down the cool liquid. I should have stayed in the shade. But I know the heat isn’t what has caused my breath to shorten and my vision to blur. I’m having a panic attack.

I angle Daisy’s pram out of the sun and sit on the dry grass next to her, slowing my breathing and stretching out my fingers to try to get rid of the pins and needles. Don’t cry, I tell myself, feeling the tears behind my eyes. You’ll be fine in a minute. Nothing is going to happen. No one is here. It’s just you and Daisy. I can’t allow myself to pass out. The play park is right at the other side of the field. No one can see me here beneath the trees, no one will come to my aid. Daisy will be alone. I sit cross-legged and put my head between my knees, my hands splayed out on the grass.

The pins and needles spread along my arms and up my legs.

Just breathe.

---

‘Are you okay?’ A male voice floats through my brain, like in a dream. Where am I? The scent of grass, the distant sound of children playing – I’m at the park.

‘Is she alive, do you think?’ A female voice this time.

‘Think so,’ he replies. ‘I should probably check her pulse.’

I flutter into consciousness once more. ‘I’m all right,’ I croak.

‘We saw you from across the field,’ he says. ‘And then, when you didn’t move for ages, we came to check if you were okay.’

I crack open my eyes and squint. A man’s face peers over me, blurry and pale. I vaguely recognise him. The woman behind him looks familiar too, but I can’t place either of them. My mind is still silted up with darkness.

‘Can you move?’ he asks, his voice soft and concerned, almost crooning.

I’m lying at an awkward angle on my side, my neck twisted and aching. Daisy! I force my eyes to focus, but I can’t see her anywhere. ‘My daughter, where is she?’ I try to sit up, but everything swims so I’m forced to lie back down, heart racing, palms clammy.

‘She’s fine,’ he says.

‘But where is she? Just tell me where my daughter is!’ I cry, my breathing getting heavier.

‘She’s freaking out,’ the woman says to him.

Too bloody right I’m freaking out. Who are these people?

‘Here.’ The woman pushes Daisy’s pram into my line of sight, but I still can’t actually see my daughter. Everything looks indistinct and wavy, like it could all disappear in the blink of an eye. Like I’m in a nightmare.