The problem was, the thing I couldn’t tell the police, was why I had come to Heatherbrae under an assumed name. They kept asking me and asking me and digging and digging, and I kept floundering, and trying to come up with reasons—things like, Rowan’s references were better than mine (which was true) and she had more experience than me (true again). I think at first they thought I must have some deep, dark professional secret—a lapsed registration, or a conviction as a sex offender or something. And of course none of that was the case, and as hard as they tried to find something, there was nothing wrong with my own papers.

It looked very, very bad for me, I knew that, even at the time. But I kept telling myself, if Rhiannon hadn’t discovered why I had come here, then perhaps the police wouldn’t either.

But that was stupid, of course. They are the police. It’s their job to dig.

It took them some time. Days, maybe even weeks, I can’t totally remember. The interrogation starts to run together after a while, the days blurring into one another, as they picked and picked and prodded and probed. But eventually they came into the room holding a piece of paper and they were smiling like Cheshire cats, while simultaneously somehow trying to look grave and professional.

And I knew. I knew that they knew.

And I knew that I was sunk.

But that was afterwards. And I’m getting ahead of myself.

I have to tell the other part. The hardest part. The part I can’t quite believe even now.

And the part I can’t fully explain, even to myself.

I have to tell you about that night.

After Rhiannon walked out, I stood for a long moment in the hallway, watching the lights of the van disappear down the drive, and trying to figure out what I should do. Should I phone Sandra? And say what? Confess? Brazen it out?

I looked at my watch. It was just half past nine. The line from Sandra’s email floated into my head—Bill is off to Dubai tonight, and I’m at a client dinner, but do text if anything urgent.

There was no way I could ambush her with all this in the middle of a client dinner, still less, text it through.

Oh, hi, Sandra, hope all is good. FYI, Rhiannon has gone out with a strange bloke, and I applied for this job under a fake name. Speak soon!

The idea would have been laughable if the whole situation hadn’t been so serious. Shit. Shit. Could I email her and explain the situation properly? Maybe. Though if I were going to do that, I should really have done it earlier, before Rhiannon sent that fake update. It would be even harder to explain myself now.

But as I pulled the tablet towards myself, I realized I couldn’t really email. That was the coward’s way out. I owed her a call—to explain myself, if not face-to-face, then at least in person. But what the hell could I say?

Shit.

The bottle of wine was there on the kitchen counter, like an invitation, and I poured out a glass, trying to steady my nerves, and then another, this time with a glance at the camera squatting in the corner. But I no longer cared. The shit was about to hit the fan, and soon whatever footage Sandra and Bill had on me would be the least of my worries.

It was deliberate self-sabotage, I knew that really, in my heart of hearts, as I filled the glass for the third time. By the time there was only one glass left in the bottle I knew the truth—I was too drunk to call Sandra now, too drunk to do anything sensible at all, except go to bed.

* * *

Up on the top landing, I stood for a long time, my hand on the rounded knob to my bedroom, summoning up the courage to enter. But I could not do it. There was a dark crack at the bottom of the door, and I had a sudden, unsettling image of something loathsome and shadowy slithering out from beneath it, following me down the stairs, enveloping me in its darkness . . .

Instead, I found myself letting my hand drop and then backing away, almost as if that dark something might indeed come after me if I turned my back. Then, at the top of the stairs, I turned resolutely and all but ran back downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen, ashamed of myself, of my own cowardice, of everything.

The kitchen was cozy and bright, but when I shut my eyes I could still smell the chilly breath of the attic air coursing out beneath my bedroom door—and as I stood, irresolute, wondering whether to make up a bed on the sofa or try to stay awake for Rhiannon’s return, I could feel the throb of my finger where I had sliced it on that vile broken doll’s head. I had put a bandage over it, but the skin beneath felt fat and swollen, as if infection was setting in.

Walking over to the sink, I pulled off the dressing, and then jumped, convulsively, as there was a thud at the back door.

“Wh-who is it?” I called out, trying not to let my voice shake.

“It’s me, Jack.” The voice came from outside, muffled by the wind. “I’ve got the dogs.”

“Come in, I’m just—”

The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and I heard his footsteps in the utility room, and the thud of his boots as he pulled them off and let them drop onto the mat, and the barking of the dogs as they capered around him while he tried to hush them. At last they settled into their baskets, and he came into the kitchen.

“I don’t normally walk them so late, but I got caught up. I’m surprised you’re still awake. Good day?”

“Not really,” I said. My head was swimming, and I realized afresh how drunk I was. Would Jack notice?

“No?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“I had a . . .” Jesus, where to start. “I had a bit of a run-in with Rhiannon.”

“What kind of a run-in?”

“She came back and we—” I stopped, unsure how to put this. It felt completely wrong to put the full picture to Jack before I confessed to Sandra, and I was pretty sure I would be breaking all sorts of confidentiality guidelines if I discussed Rhiannon’s problems with someone who was not her parent. But on the other hand, I felt that I might go crazy if I didn’t confide at least some of this in another adult. And perhaps there was history here, for it was becoming clearer and clearer that not everything had been included in that big red binder. “We argued,” I said at last. “And I threatened to call Sandra and she—she just—” But I couldn’t finish.

“What happened?” Jack pulled out a chair, and I sank into it, feeling despair wash over me again.

“She’s gone. She’s gone out by herself—with some awful unsuitable friend. I told her not to, but she went anyway, and I don’t know what to do—what to tell Sandra.”

“Look, don’t worry about Rhiannon. She’s a canny wee thing, pretty independent, and I highly doubt she’ll come to any harm, much as Sandra and Bill might disapprove.”

“But what if she does? What if something happens to her and it’s on my watch?”

“You’re a nanny, not a jailer. What were you supposed to do—chain her to her bed?”

“You’re right,” I said at last. “I know you’re right, it’s just— Oh God,” the words burst out of me of their own accord. “I’m so tired, Jack. I can’t think, and it doesn’t help that my hand hurts like a bastard every time I touch anything.”

“What happened to your hand?”

I looked down at it, cradled in my lap, feeling it throb in time with my pulse.