There are lots of photos of their daughters, along with an elderly couple I don’t know, presumably Cat’s parents, who used to live in this house. Then I spot a framed picture of a teenage girl I do recognise. I observe the long, wild, curly, white-blonde hair, pale skin, sticky-out ears, patchy eyebrows, and ugly braces.

Fifteen-year-old Catherine Kelly stares back.

I look between this photo, and the glamorous one of Cat Jones, and feel physically sick when I realise they are the same person.

The two faces are very different – she’s clearly had some kind of work done, and not just to pin back those ears – but, without doubt, the teenage girl I used to know grew up to be the woman I know now. The eyes staring out at me from the two photos are a perfect match.

Catherine never came back to St Hilary’s after that night in the woods. Only the four of us knew what had happened to her, but all sorts of stories made the rounds at school. There were rumours that she had killed herself, and none of us saw her again, including me.

At least, I thought I hadn’t.

She must have known who I was when she first met me in the newsroom. I haven’t changed my name, or my appearance very much since school, unlike her.

I try to stay calm, but this is more than just a coincidence – I don’t believe in those. An overwhelming sense of panic starts to take over, spreading through my body, making it difficult to move or breathe.

I need to get out of here.

I need to call Jack.

My shaking hands feel inside my bag for my mobile, but it isn’t there. I remember leaving it in the hall to charge, but when I run back to get it, the phone is gone. Someone has taken it. I spin around, expecting to see somebody waiting in the shadows, but I appear to be alone. For now.

My social safety net is filled with holes, big enough to fall through and be seen by others. I have never been good at collecting the requisite friends. That said, I can’t think of anyone else I would rather call in this situation than my ex-husband. I might not have my mobile anymore, but I still know Jack’s number off by heart. I remember seeing an old rotary phone in the lounge, just like the one we had when I was a child. I rush back to find it, and dial his number as fast as I can, ignoring the dust on the receiver. As soon as I hold it to my ear, I realise the line is dead.

Then I hear footsteps upstairs.

Someone is walking on creaking floorboards, and they stop directly above me.

It’s probably her.

Perhaps she can see me.

Or it might be him. Richard could be in on it too.

I need to get out of here. Not that I even know where I am, but if I follow the path it must lead to a road. I hurry out of the room and towards the front door, but before I get there I hear the most terrible scream.

Sometimes it can be so easy to predict how other people will react in a situation.

Too easy.

I think maybe that’s because we’re all the same.

There is an energy that connects us together, flowing through us like electricity. We are all just light bulbs. Some shine brighter than others, some show us the way when we are lost. Others are a little too dull to be of any real use or interest.

Some burn out.

We are the same but different, trying to shine in the darkness, but the light that connects us can sometimes grow too faint to see.

When a light bulb starts to flicker, I always think it is best to take action before it dies.

Nobody likes being left in the dark.

Him

Thursday 01:00

I’ve switched on the light, but several seconds later, I still can’t believe who it is I’m staring down at on the floor of my ex-wife’s childhood bedroom.

Priya’s nose is bleeding as a result of me slamming the door in her face. She’s a quivering mess, slumped against the wall, but I feel suspicion rather than sympathy.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

‘I told you not to leave your sister’s house. You don’t seem to understand that you are now a suspect in your own murder investigation.’

‘I do understand that, which is why I have to find out who is trying to frame me. You didn’t answer my question. How did you know I was here?’

‘I followed you.’

I know when I’m being followed. There was nobody else on the streets when I drove here; she’s lying. My mind rushes through the last few days: the evidence planted in my car, the text messages on Rachel’s phone, the constant feeling of being watched. Then I think about my sister, lying in a bath full of red water. I’m sure my missing house keys were in my jacket, the one Priya hung up on the fancy-looking coat rack in her hall.

She could have taken them, before she randomly disappeared earlier tonight.

‘Does anyone else know that you’re here?’ I ask, and she shakes her head. ‘You just left without telling anyone where you were going? You’re meant to be heading up the investigation now that I’ve had to stand aside.’

‘I was worried about you. I didn’t know what to do. I trust you, but the way you took your sister’s car and left the scene like that… well, it looks really bad. People are starting to… say things. I thought if I could just find you and bring you back—’

‘That still doesn’t explain how you knew where I’d be.’

I crouch down until my face is right in front of hers.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks with a small voice and big eyes.

‘Relax. I’m just trying to see if your nose is broken, stay still.’

A fresh trickle of blood escapes from her right nostril. Then she shakes her head, and it’s as though the apology falls out of her mouth.

‘Sorry, sir. I just keep getting things wrong.’

I’m appalled with myself when she starts to cry. She looks like a frightened little girl and I did this to her. I don’t want Priya to be scared of me, and her tears shift my perspective, offering a different view. Maybe I’m wrong. I feel like a paranoid old fool. Her body flinches as I reach inside my pocket, but her face attempts a smile when I offer her a clean hanky.

‘You do know I’m not involved in any of this, don’t you? I wouldn’t harm my sister. I wouldn’t hurt anyone,’ I say. She touches her nose and winces in pain. I take her silent point. ‘I didn’t know who was coming up the stairs. I’m sorry. I would never knowingly hurt you. I think whoever killed the others might want to kill Anna too. I came here trying to find her, but the house is empty. Someone smashed the glass in the door downstairs. Maybe Anna realised how much danger she was in, and took her mum somewhere safe.’

‘I take it you’ve tried calling her?’ Priya asks.

‘Several times,’ I say, before helping her up.

I find my mobile and try Anna again, but it goes straight to voicemail just like it did before. Either she has switched off her phone, or someone else has.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ Priya says, and I try not to react even though it feels like a small bomb just went off inside my head. ‘One of the uniformed officers recognised the unidentified girl in the picture we found at your house. Swears he knew her when they were both kids. Says she was called Catherine Kelly. Does that name mean anything to you?’

It doesn’t, but then I’ve never been great with names.