Hairy knees are the first thing I see as I crack open the front door.

‘Morning, Mrs White.’ Our postman, forever cheerful, forever in shorts no matter how bad the weather, hands me a rain-damp package. My eyes are drawn over his shoulder, and there’s a dishevelled-looking man, salt-and-pepper beard, staring right at me, and instinctively I know he is the one who has been here before. Our eyes connect and he glances at the floor, but he doesn’t move. I close the door quickly and lean against it, my spine uncomfortable against the ridged surface. The package feels heavy in my hands. Part of me wants to throw it away without opening it, knowing whatever is inside the package will be bad. The image of the wreath is burned onto the inside of my eyelids.

My fingers are shaking as I start to peel off the soggy cardboard which disintegrates as I touch it. Inside is a book.

How to Cope with Death.

It tumbles from my hand as fear slides me to my haunches. I can’t. I can’t cope with death.

Ten years.

You mustn’t tell, Kat.

I am longing to tell, to atone, but I am frightened. Still too frightened. I cover my head with my arms as though I can make everything go away.

* * *

The ringing phone slices through my wandering thoughts. I am still crouching on the doormat, the book lying at my feet. I have to get out of here. Be amongst people. Away from the house and the phone and the endlessly waiting for something awful to happen. I grab my car keys. My feet feel glued to the doormat. I grip the door handle tightly with both hands, urging my wrists to twist, but panic turns my body to stone. I fight to regain control. Waves of heat radiate from my toes to my scalp and I feel myself begin to sway.

It feels like hours but it is only minutes, seconds perhaps, when the anxiety pulsing around my body begins to subside. I am left feeling shaky and scared. My head throbs. I rattle out an aspirin and swallow it down with my guilt and my fear and tell myself I am not losing it again, but the words don’t ring true, even to me.

I breathe in slowly and deeply as I step outside the door. The rain has slowed, the sun breaking through the clouds but there’s still a breeze. Leaving the door ajar, I go back for my jacket. Cold. When I’m not hot with panic, I feel constantly cold.

The town is quiet. It always is on a Monday. I carry my handbag and a sense of disquiet. There are shadows everywhere. Each shop window becomes a hiding place. I shrink in on myself as an elderly lady brushes past. Like a beacon drawing me home I see the sign for Mothercare and hurry towards it. I feel open, exposed and long to be cocooned inside four walls.

I’m being followed. I know I am. There are footsteps behind me, matching me step for step, splashing through puddles I have just left behind. I grip the strap on my handbag a little tighter. As I speed up, so do they. Physically I can feel my heart is racing but my senses are dulled, dampened by exhaustion. I take a sharp left. There’s still the sound, the slap of leather on wet concrete, and now an overpowering aftershave catching in my throat. I increase my pace. Too scared to stop. Too scared to turn. The door to the shop is ahead and I’m so nearly there with the smiling assistants and the soft honeyed light. In my haste I lose my footing on a paving slab and stumble, grazing my hand against a wall as I steady myself. Brick stinging my palm. Cologne stinging my nostrils. A shadow looms in my peripheral vision and a spotty teenager, eyes glued to his mobile, stalks past without noticing me.

Invisible. I am invisible.

There’s no one else around. I remain propped against the wall until the beep of a horn slices through the silence causing my body to jerk like a marionette. I push myself to standing and, slower now, I carry on.

‘Hello Kat!’

It crosses my mind I should feel a tinge of embarrassment that the staff in Mothercare all know me by name, feel obliged to tell them, like Dewei, Mai is no longer mine, but I feel almost numb as I lift a custard-yellow Babygro from the rail, rubbing the fleecy softness between both fingers, reminding myself I can still feel.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular today?’ I am asked. The bright strip lights glare overhead, and the colour drains from my vision as panic slams into me.

‘No. Sorry…’ I begin to back away. Feeling light-headed. I shouldn’t have come here. It isn’t safe outside. I need to be at home.

Something sharp digs into the small of my back and I spin around. A shelf wobbles but my reflexes are slow as I watch in alarm as a picture frame tumbles to the floor. The sound of shattering glass is piercing, and I apologise over and over as I pick up the silver frame and set it down. The stock image is a baby in a pink polka dot sleepsuit starfishing in her cot. A tug of familiarity pulls me, and I wonder if I’ve got the same frame at home. I’ve bought so much stuff over the last couple of years. There’s a hand on my arm. A soft voice tells me not to worry about the breakage. I turn and flee.

The high street is busier now; the chip shop has its door propped open and the smell of hot oil mixes with exhaust fumes. My temples begin to throb. The newspaper stand is setting up and the headlines scream ‘Murder’, and remorse scratches at my skin.

By the time I reach my car my cheeks are wet with tears and I’m not sure if I’m crying for the things I’ve done, or the things I stand to lose. My hand is shaking as I hold my mobile to my ear, willing Lisa to answer. Willing her to tell me everything is all right. But it isn’t, is it? Not really. The book this morning only confirmed what I already knew.

Someone is out for revenge.

* * *

There’s a cacophony of horns. A squeal of brakes. I’ve run a red light. My skin turns boiling hot and then freezing cold. I mouth apologies at the driver of the car forced to screech to a halt. He opens his window and shouts: ‘silly cow’. I ease forward, checking my mirrors constantly as though I am taking my driving test.

The rest of my journey is slow. Steady. All the time I mutter to myself as I drive. Reassuring words. I’m letting it all get on top of me and it’s natural, I tell myself, to worry. Any prospective mum would have ‘what if’ doubts, and I may not be carrying my child but I’m emotionally invested all the same.

I climb out my car. Tension has made my muscles stiff and I think I’ll have a bath, pour in some of the Jo Malone bath oil Nick bought me for Valentine’s that looks so beautiful on the shelf I haven’t yet opened it. Once I’m feeling calmer I’ll ring Lisa, tell her how scared I am that something will go wrong and we can talk about it properly.

The front door feels harder to open. There’s a breeze streaming down the hallway pushing it closed. I frown as I slip off my boots and carry them as I pad silently into the kitchen. I can’t have left the backdoor unlocked, can I? I’m hesitant. Not sure what to expect. The door is closed but the window above the sink is open. I don’t remember leaving it ajar. As I stretch to shut it, I notice footprints outside in the border, pressed into the mud. Large footprints. Footprints that are definitely not mine. And then there’s a crash from upstairs.