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My fingers fasten around the knife again. ‘You should be the one thanking me.’

And he should be, for allowing him to be anything like you.

The glint of the blade is back near his skin. Could it feel like it does in my dreams, when I push the knife into you, the warm, sticky heat over my hands? Could I have the release? The knife is quivering in my fingers. I’m scared now.

He keeps eye contact. ‘I should report you.’

Quickly, he reaches for the knife, but I push my shoulderinto him, shoving him away. Then he snatches for my wrist and squeezes, as if he owns me. I won’t let him. I hold the knife back to his face. And I cut him. Just a scratch, on his cheek. Just enough to draw blood. Enough to make him leave. And, yes, he steps away from me. He touches his cheek. When he pulls his fingers away, I see the blood on them. I did that. Perhaps I’ll leave a scar. There’s a voice inside me that says,You’ll look better with that.Then I start shaking.

He looks scared as he takes another step away. I lower the knife; I’m scared of me too. He stumbles backwards, out of the kitchen. I go after him, still with the knife, still wanting him to leave, and yet…He staggers down the stairs.

‘You’re seriously nuts, Kate!’ he shouts, glaring up at me.

And you know what I do? I laugh. Because I must be nuts, to be doing this, to do what I did last night. At least he’s now seeing me as I really am. But I’m shaking all over, and I can’t trust myself with this knife. With him.

I stare down at his wide, confused eyes and I want to cry, want to say sorry. I want him to understand. But it’s too late. Nick has blood on his cheek; he’s probably thinking that he is fleeing for his life.

Is he?

Why did I have to go and ruin it all? If he’d left before it got awkward, if he hadn’t found your letter…

I skid down the stairs after him, but he’s already out the door, slamming it shut behind him. I lean against it, try to listen for his footsteps outside, but the snow has muffled all sound.

What just happened?

What the hell just happened to me?

I think I’ve turned into you. Someone who should be locked up.

I stick your letter back together, smooth it, fold it and prop it back up against the cyclamen. Now that it’s in one piece again, neat and safe, I feel calmer.

When I go down to the courtyard to feed Sal, she stares back at me with unblinking amber eyes, those tiny fires inside her. She’s questioning me, accusing me.

You’ve got unfinished business.You should sort it.

‘And what makes you so perfect?’ I ask. ‘Where do you go when I don’t see you for days?’

She has secrets too. She’s a hypocrite, that fox.

When she returns under the shed, I wish I could crawl in with her. But I wait with my breath hanging in the freezing air, watching more snow fall.

Would Nick go to the police?

Does some part of me want him to?