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Olivia stared at the road long after the car had pulled away.

She’d seen the police officer glance back at the house with a question in her eyes, but she hadn’t dared pull back the heavy net curtain. Logan had used rolls of thin Velcro to secure the curtains down both sides and along the bottom. If she broke the seal and was not able to reattach it exactly, he would know.

Part of her was praying that the constable had realised there was something wrong, but why would she? No one would ever believe what her life had become.

The young constable could never have guessed that Logan had put her in the single chair so she couldn’t touch or nudge anyone to give them a signal. He had then seated himself directly opposite so he could see her expression at all times.

And she had complied. She’d had two police officers within feet of her and she hadn’t said a word. She knew they’d never believe her. They’d never just take her away and protect her from her son for the rest of her life. She had no proof of the things he’d done and no witnesses to any of it.

She’d hoped that Doris might have put it together when she’d managed to get out into the garden that night. He’d forgotten to lock the back door, and she’d made a run for it, trying to scale the fence. Logan had caught her and dragged her back to the house. She’d been trying to mouth the word Help up at the neighbour’s window, but Doris’s gaze had been firmly on her son, compassion in her eyes.

He had taken great delight in regaling her with their conversation the following day, telling her Doris was now totally aware of her emotional breakdown.

And that was the problem, she thought as the tears stung her eyes. Everyone would believe Logan. Even she had believed him in the early days when he’d said she needed to see a doctor. He had assured her that if she got some medication, they’d be able to get back to normality, that he’d be able to trust her to make her own decisions.

And so, she had told the doctor about her mood swings, her feelings of rage and her occasional suicidal thoughts. Things that Logan had told her to say to get the drugs that would bring back normality.

It had worked. She’d been prescribed antidepressants and sleeping tablets. All of which Logan had controlled for over a year.

For two months, he had dispensed the antidepressants daily, but then he’d started to miss a day here and there. Her moods had become erratic, her emotions all over the place, her thoughts of eternal peace more frequent. And then he’d level her out again.

Her stomach jumped into her mouth as the bolt on the outside of her bedroom door slid across.

Logan stepped inside with a plate and a cup.

‘No family time tonight,’ he said, placing the refreshments on her bedside cabinet. ‘Not until I work out what you did.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ she protested.

Family time consisted of her being allowed to watch some television in the lounge. She hated the programmes Logan chose, but it was a distraction from her own head. Up here, she had no TV or radio, and even her books had been removed after she’d asked to go to the supermarket with him.

‘Then why would that little bitch try and get you alone?’ he asked, eyeing her suspiciously and moving closer. ‘What did you communicate to her?’

‘N-Nothing, I swear,’ she said as he flexed his right hand into a fist.

Her mind screamed silently as her body readied itself for the onslaught.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, towering over her. ‘I really wish you’d learn to understand that I’m in charge now. I’ll be going round to see Doris to find out what they asked her. I’ll be laying it on thick so she stays on my side. You’ve got to remember that no one is going to believe you. I’ve done nothing except take care of my sick mother. If you try anything stupid, I’ll have you back here in no time, and things will be a whole lot worse, got it?’

She nodded, still looking down.

He moved back towards the door. The threat of violence was gone.

‘Logan?’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘No, I don’t think so. Not tonight. You need your mind clear of drugs to think about what you’ve done.’

As the door closed, she felt the terror steal over her. It was more potent than any fear of violence. She knew what was coming. The mood swings, the irrational thoughts, the darkness. As soon as the medication started to fade from her system, the anxiety would overwhelm her. She’d be incapable of stringing coherent thoughts together. Eventually she would be begging him to end the misery of her forced sudden withdrawal. And then she’d be so damn grateful when he gave her the next pill.

Unable to stop herself, the tears came and rolled over her cheeks.

How had she allowed this to happen? Had she invited it? What had she done to make Logan think she could be treated like this? And how easily had her links to the past been erased? There was a time when she’d had a job, colleagues, friends, a social life. She’d made a life with branches that reached out into the lives of other people, yet somehow Logan had amputated them, leaving her adrift, invisible, forgotten.

She’d wondered whether at some stage a part of her had craved a break from her own autonomy, a part that had welcomed someone taking away her independence, that wanted to hand over control of when she ate, slept, went out. But then she realised that in thinking those thoughts, she was doing what every good mother does: she was taking responsibility for her child’s actions. It was easier for her to believe that she was somehow to blame than accept he was a monster. A monster she had raised, of course, so however she chose to look at it, it was her fault.

Throughout the last two years, she had held on to the vaguest hope that he would snap out of it. That he would somehow realise what he’d done to her and beg her forgiveness. Despite everything, she ached to go back to the way things had been before. Somehow, she would try and forget about the last two years and start fresh.

A small voice in her head knew that was never going to happen. She knew somewhere deep inside her that he had crossed a line. But now she also had to wonder if he had taken a life.

Had her son committed murder, and, if so, what the hell was she supposed to do about it?