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If I’m being honest, and at this stage there’s not much point in trying to hide anything, I’d say it felt as though I were being guided by the hand of God. A shimmering cloud of warmth and joy came down, and I gave myself to it.

Why not?

It was God who tossed the weed burner and petrol can and matches, tucked my hair behind my ear, lifted me out of the drive, down the lane, into Mrs Dingle’s car and placed my hands on the wheel. He started the engine and steered while I saw the end of the tape over and over.

I’m not religious, but I felt so peaceful, and I had no control over my body.

I was going to my dad’s. I wanted to talk to him.

Everything made sense now. I could be calm, happy. It was all coming to an end. The suffering was almost over.

But when I got there, I found a big black Porsche Cayenne that I’d never seen before parked outside. Just who might own such a very nice car, and what were they doing here?

The feeling of elation began to thin, but luckily God had put a penknife in the glove box for me to find, and set me by the Porsche with its very inviting tyres.

There was a dull thud, but nothing moved. I must’ve imagined it.

I let myself into Dad’s. And there was Tristan’s assistant, wiping the kitchen counter.

I froze.

I had seen that car before. Jenna had climbed into it after school once or twice.

He turned and smiled. ‘Well, this is lucky,’ he said, sea-blue eyes sparkling.

I backed away and he raised a finger. ‘Nuh-uh-uh,’ he said, wagging it from side to side. ‘I need your phone. I need any copies you might have made.’ He was just a child. Late twenties, early thirties maybe.

‘Where are the girls?’

He smiled. ‘Which girls?’

I held his gaze. ‘Copies of what?’

He giggled.

I frowned. ‘Please leave. I’m not just going to hand over my phone.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that.’ He turned slightly and lifted up the back of his shirt. Something smooth, black, rectangular poked out of his trousers. My ears started to ring before I understood: it was the grip of a handgun.