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Fiona wished she didn’t have to look after Lola, something she had only agreed to because Rose had asked her to and she knew how important it was right now to do everything she could to keep Rose calm. After what had happened in Wadhurst, the girl would be in a state of intense emotional turmoil. Hyperarousal, to use the technical term – with all her feelings heightened. Excitement, anger, fear, elation. All this would be tumbling through her blood, way beyond the cool, calm state she needed to be in right now. It was vital for Fiona to keep an eye on her, talk to her, help her understand who she was and what she was going to feel. It was important that Rose didn’t do anything to draw attention to herself and her outings with Fiona, especially anything to do with the deaths of Max and Patrick. She was confident Rose wouldn’t blurt out what they’d done, but it was possible she might behave in a way that would make her parents question what was going on while Fiona was looking after her.

This was the worst possible time for her parents to have taken her on a stupid mini-break.

‘Come on, dog,’ she said, attaching the lead to Lola’s collar.

She stepped out into the afternoon light, squinting at the sunshine, wishing she hadn’t drunk so much the last two nights. The problem was, she was in a state of hyperarousal too, and she had needed the alcohol to knock herself out. The first thing she’d done this morning, and the previous day, was check the news for reports of a death in Wadhurst.

She was confident no one had seen her and Rose leave the pub with Patrick – and, on top of that, no one who might have seen them playing chess in the beer garden would know who she was. Even if they’d been captured on CCTV somewhere along the route, she was confident they wouldn’t be identified, partly because she didn’t think anyone would look that hard. The plan had always been to make Patrick’s death look like an accident, or possibly a suicide, and real life was not how it was in the movies. The police force wasn’t full of tenacious detectives who smelled something fishy and dedicated their lives to uncovering the truth. No, the pressure on the police to hit targets and deal with their huge workload meant that, if something looked like an accident, it would stay an accident. No case to be cleared up. On top of that, Patrick didn’t have any close relatives who might lean on the police to ask them to look closer.

However, she still wanted to double-check there were no reports of a suspicious death; of a man found dead after he’d been seen with a mysterious woman and girl. But there was nothing, and she could only assume he hadn’t been found yet.

She flashed back to the immediate aftermath of the incident: Rose standing at the top of the staircase, Fiona several steps below – and, down in the darkness of the cellar, a dark shape on the concrete.

Fiona had crept down the steps, instructing Rose to stay where she was. She needed to make sure it was his neck breaking that she’d heard. He might be merely winded, still holding the gun. He might sit up when she reached the bottom of the steps and pull the trigger.

But all was well. He lay on his front, arms outstretched, his head bent at an unnatural angle. The small gun – it looked like something from an old Agatha Christie adaptation – was on the floor several feet away from his hand. Fiona looked down at it. It was a simple story: the octogenarian gets home from the pub, booze in his bloodstream, ventures into the cellar and trips over his own feet, falling to his death. Fragile bones breaking. Nothing to stop his fall. It fitted her plan perfectly.

The only issue was the gun. What possible reason could there be for him carrying that? It pointed to there being someone else in the house. An intruder. Patrick feeling threatened.

She needed to put it back where Patrick kept it.

Fiona jogged back up the cellar steps, ducking to avoid the cobwebs and being careful not to slip herself. Rose was still rooted to the spot, staring down into the darkness.

‘Is he dead?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I killed him.’

‘You did.’

She wanted to ask Rose how she felt, what physical sensations were coursing through her. What emotions. Was she scared of being caught or punished?

Was there any part of her that felt bad?

There was no time for any of that now, though. They needed to get out of here.

She found the place where Patrick kept his gun: a cupboard next to his bed, the door hanging open to reveal a space where there were boxes of ammunition. Had he suspected she would come for him one day, or did he have other enemies? Perhaps he was simply serious about home security.

She went back down to the cellar and used the sleeves of her jacket to pick the gun up, taking it upstairs and returning it to its home. In the kitchen she found several cans of Guinness in the fridge. Still using her jacket sleeve to touch any surface that might hold prints, she emptied a can into a glass, then tipped most of it down the sink, leaving the foam-streaked glass on the counter. She emptied a few other cans and put them in the bin. After that, she went round with a cloth and wiped any other surface she had touched, although she had been careful since getting here, so it wasn’t a big job. Rose’s fingerprints and DNA wouldn’t be in any databases, but Fiona still looked around to ensure they hadn’t left anything the naked eye could see: no long strands of hair or items dropped from pockets.

All this took fifteen minutes, and then they exited through the front door, on to the empty lane and back to the train station.

‘The painting,’ Rose said suddenly as they walked through the village. ‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. But he took something else from me.’

‘What?’

‘Not what. Who .’ She stopped, and put her hands on Rose’s shoulders. ‘I promise I will explain everything. Okay? And thank you. You saved me.’

Rose nodded, clearly still stunned by what she had done. But – and this was the best part, the part that made Fiona realise she had been right all along – Rose wasn’t freaking out. She wasn’t babbling with fear or regret. She wasn’t showing any signs of regret at all.

She seemed excited.

Just like when Fiona had allowed Sienna to drown. Rose finally knew who, and what, she was.

Lola wanted to stop every ten seconds to sniff for traces of other dogs. Passing the spot where Albie had smashed his head against the tree trunk, Lola pulled at her lead and Fiona wondered if the animal could scent blood or brains. Somewhere inside that fluffy head was the mind of a wolf. Lola’s ancestors had run wild across this land, hunting in packs.

‘Do you feel it?’ Fiona said to the dog. ‘Do you feel that connection?’

Lola squatted and peed.

It was another warm day and alcohol seeped from Fiona’s pores, her armpits prickled, and nausea burbled inside her. She was gripped by an urge to rip off her clothes, to peel them all off, fling her bra and pants into the stinging nettles, and go running free and wild across the fields, screaming. Letting it all out. She pictured herself doing it, got deep into the fantasy, and when she emerged she didn’t know how long she’d been in a fugue state; was afraid, for a second, that she might have actually done it, which wouldn’t have been at all wise. But she was still dressed, still on the path, and Lola was snuffling obliviously in a bramble bush.

It wasn’t surprising the pressure was getting to her. A lot had happened this week. Almost as soon as she’d got home from Patrick’s there had been the encounter with Ethan – another part of her plan that was going exactly as she’d hoped, except the timing was slightly off. That was why she’d encouraged him not to confront Emma straight away. She wasn’t quite ready yet for Ethan to step forward into her embrace. She had to ensure Rose was fully primed first.

Ready to play her role in the final part of Fiona’s plan.

Rose .

This summer had been all about testing her, preparing her ... and using her. Now everything had accelerated. By killing Patrick, Rose had begun to run before she could walk. Instead of a slow emergence and understanding of herself, she had come out too early. A butterfly smashing its way out of its chrysalis with a hammer, exercising no caution.

Rose had never been part of the original plan, of course. Fiona could never have predicted that she would find herself living next door to another of her kind. It was almost too perfect.

However, involving Rose added an extra layer of complexity, which had become even more complicated when the girl pushed Patrick down those steps. Fiona hadn’t intended for that to happen. The plan had been for Rose to witness Fiona helping Patrick to have an accident, and the girl’s reaction would tell Fiona everything she needed to know.

In taking action and saving Fiona by killing Patrick herself, Rose had exceeded Fiona’s expectations. And it was exciting, sure, but it was also scary. With everything happening with Ethan and Emma at the same time, Fiona needed to pause. She still had to have that conversation with Rose about her true nature and the reason she had wanted Max and Patrick dead. She needed to ensure events didn’t spiral out of control. To make sure that Rose didn’t screw up the plan and that she was primed for what lay ahead. Rose needed, too, to understand how important it was for her to stick close to Fiona – to see the value of having a mentor.

Patience, Fiona , she told herself. Don’t rush things. So far, it was all going so well. When she’d set out on this journey of revenge, she hadn’t really thought much about what she would do when she was finished. Now she was able to see the future – a future in which Rose would help disguise her as well as giving her new purpose. She couldn’t afford to mess it up.

She would talk to Rose as soon as she got back from her bloody mini-break.

She sighed.

And on top of all the stuff with the Doves, there was the delivery from Lucy.

For a short while, in prison, she’d felt a bond with Lucy. The thrill of discovering another like herself. Teaming up, working as a pair to get what they wanted. If Fiona had remained in prison, she had no doubt they would have gone on to be a power couple in there. A formidable alliance.

And yes, she had promised Lucy she would help make her nemeses’ lives a misery, and she still intended to do it – but Lucy needed to understand that getting revenge for Maisie’s death had to be Fiona’s priority. She couldn’t afford any distractions.

Unfortunately, Lucy was actually increasing the pressure on her. A couple of days ago, a woman had turned up on a motorbike and had handed Fiona a small package. Inside was a tiny mobile phone with one number stored in it.

‘Keep it hidden,’ the woman had said, not lifting her visor. Then she had ridden away, leaving Fiona wondering if this was another woman Lucy had met inside or if she was merely a professional courier. She had put the phone away, wondering if and when Lucy would call to hassle her.

Now, she and Lola passed through the gate into the first field and the dog immediately stopped, backing up and hiding behind Fiona’s legs.

Tommy was in the middle of the field with his two German shepherds.

Fiona had long dreamed of being able to control animals with her mind. It was the superpower she wished for; much better than invisibility, or being able to fly. Now, she fantasised about silently commanding the two German shepherds to turn on their owner. Rip his nuts off. Tear his throat out. Lola would join in, and together the three dogs would feast, and Fiona would be there too, dipping her hands into the wounds, smearing herself with his blood, howling into the emptiness ...

‘Oi! You! I want a word with you.’

He strode towards her, the most inelegant man she’d ever seen, walking like his balls were too big. There was something, she supposed, brutishly attractive about him. Every now and then she would sleep with a man, and Tommy looked like he’d get the job done – the kind of bloke who’d screw you without worrying too much about your feelings.

She didn’t want him to think she was waiting for him to reach her, so she walked along the edge of the field, saying, ‘Come on, Lola,’ and forcing Tommy to re-route, taking a diagonal path until he caught up with her, and even then she didn’t slow down, so he had to walk beside her.

‘Are you going to stop?’ He was panting a little. Out of shape.

‘I’m not planning to.’

He muttered something under his breath. ‘I want to know if you saw anything. Before my son’s accident.’

‘Nope.’

‘Because Eric told me what you said to him and Albie.’

‘Oh yes? And what was that?’

He furrowed his brow. She was really annoying him, which sent a little ripple of pleasure through her. She remembered what she’d said to them that day: Why don’t you go back to your little house and do what you do best. Wank yourselves into a stupor. Not her finest, wittiest moment, but it had had the desired effect.

And it delivered here once again, as Tommy was suddenly tongue-tied, not wanting to repeat the words back to this woman he didn’t know or understand.

‘You threatened them,’ was what he settled for.

‘No I didn’t. They were harassing the children I was with. I told them to stop and go home. End of.’

She expected him to mention what he’d witnessed earlier this week: the hug with Ethan. Instead, he said, ‘Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?’

‘Ever heard of a place called Australia?’

‘Nah. I looked you up online. There’s no trace of you. Loads of Fiona Smiths, but none who look like you.’

‘What the hell?’ Her pulse was pounding in her ears. ‘You’ve been looking me up? That’s stalking.’

‘No it’s not. It’s a free country. And I just want to know who I’m living opposite. Because there’s something not right about you. Are you even an Aussie, or are you putting that accent on, eh?’

She increased her pace. ‘Leave me alone, or I’m calling the police.’

‘Go on then. I’ve been trying to get them to talk to you, because I know you had something to do with the accident.’

‘You’re a dickhead,’ she said.

His dogs were right behind him, trotting along and watching like they understood what was going on. She was having to drag Lola, who seemed terrified, along on her lead. If it weren’t for his massive German shepherds, she might punch Tommy. Most men, even morons like him, wouldn’t hit a woman back, at least not in public. His dogs, though, if they had been trained to protect their master, wouldn’t care.

Suddenly, Tommy was in front of her, with his phone out. He was trying to take her photo.

‘What the hell?’ She threw her spare hand up to cover her face and whirled around.

‘Come on, hold still. I just want a picture.’

With her back to him she said, ‘If you don’t put that away right this second I’m going to start screaming.’

As she’d turned around, she’d noticed a young couple had entered the field with a couple of small dogs in tow. They were watching, curious. Tommy saw them too, and backed off, putting his phone in his pocket.

He pointed a finger at her. ‘I’m going to find out who you are. I know you caused that accident. Maybe I’ll ask Ethan. He seems to know you pretty well.’

She gave him the finger and he laughed and walked away, the dogs trotting beside him, their tails wagging like they’d seen a fun show.

Fiona stopped walking and bent over, hands on her knees, sure she was going to throw up. The feeling passed, but her head still spun and her heart was hammering.

Had he managed to get a photo of her face? She hadn’t heard a click, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And if he had, what would he do with it? Who would he show it to?

A horrible realisation dawned.

He could reverse image-search it.

There were news stories out there on the internet with her picture, and even though she looked different now she thought Google’s algorithms would probably match any photo Tommy had taken with the images of her online. After all, Patrick had recognised her. A computer system surely would too.

She had to do something.

Without hesitation, she hurried after him, calling, ‘Tommy. Hey, stop.’

He carried on for a few more steps but couldn’t resist. He turned his head.

‘Listen,’ she said, adopting her most rehearsed smile. ‘I’m sorry for going off on you like that. We’ve got off on the wrong foot. I think I might be able to help you figure out what happened with Albie.’

He turned fully now, the dogs either side of him. Lola cowered behind Fiona.

‘What are you going on about?’

‘I might know what happened. Just ... something I saw the day before the accident. I don’t want to talk about it out here in the open, though, in the middle of a field. Why don’t you come back to my house and I can explain? And I’ll answer all your questions about me too.’

He narrowed his eyes at her. He was suspicious, of course he was. But he was desperate to know. Also, this would feel like a victory to him. Her capitulating. And why would a big, macho bloke like Tommy be scared of a little woman like her?