Chapter 1

ONE

In a garden full of roses, why is it always the most beautiful bloom that breaks its stem?

Joanna snipped the heavy yellow flower with slightly more aggression than was necessary and dropped it into the basket by her side. Even that made her think about Charlotte – her red-cheeked enthusiasm when she'd presented it as a Mother's Day gift a lifetime ago – and her anxiety about today dialled up a notch. She shifted her position further along the flower bed, knees wet and stained by the damp grass. As an act of distraction, this wasn't working.

It was already late afternoon, but Charlotte had said she would be here. She'd even reminded her last week. ‘It's the fourteenth of April next Sunday.'

‘I know, Mum. I wouldn't forget Dad's birthday. I'll be there. I promise.'

But that was before the conversation in the hall. Before she'd said those awful things. Asked her not to bring him . And now it had been a week and their only communication had been brief text messages. No kiss at the end.

‘Ouch!' A thorn scraped her arm as she reached into the rosebush. Blood bloomed through the torn skin. Dammit. Now she'd have to clean that off and get a plaster.

Leaving the basket by the back door, she flicked her muddy Crocs from her feet into the little covered shoe rack that Steve had made. She'd only had to complain once about not wanting her outdoor shoes to fill with water in the rain before he'd created a solution. Not before he – and Charlotte – had teased her mercilessly about the Crocs to begin with. ‘What if someone sees you in them? The shame!' The image of them laughing together made her smile despite the sting in the memory's tail.

In the kitchen, the green plastic medical box in the corner cupboard contained an unopened box of plasters. One good thing about living alone was that everything was where you'd left it. Perhaps the only good thing. The arguments she'd had with Charlotte – and Steve – over the years about putting things away when you'd finished with them. What she'd give now to see Steve's car keys, spare change and random nails and screws dumped on the work surface. Or Charlotte's toys strewn across the sitting room like a parent death trap.

According to the kitchen clock it was 5p.m.; later than she'd thought. Sundays were so quiet around here that hours could pass without her realising. The weekdays were fine – the house and garden kept her busy and then there was bookclub – but the weekends dragged. Even more so since Charlotte's visits had started to get shorter, always hurrying back to that ridiculous apartment. To him.

Cut cleaned and dressed, she filled the kettle, but when she opened the fridge there was no milk. As the only person drinking it, she rarely bought more than a two-pint carton these days. Steve's addiction to breakfast cereal meant that they used to get through pints of it, but not any longer. If she wanted tea, she'd have to change out of these gardening clothes and get to the shop before it closed.

On the hall table, her fiftieth birthday cards were still cheerfully stood to attention around the framed family photograph of their last foreign holiday together. How happy they looked. Steve – his deep tan from the Sorrento sunshine making his sandy hair blonder and his blue eyes more piercing. Charlotte, in her favourite coral bikini, her father's double in every way, eyes alive with her zest for life. And Joanna, chin-length hair lightened by the copper highlights Charlotte had persuaded her into that year, green eyes fixed on her daughter and husband. Was that the last time she'd felt that kind of pure happiness? The flush of gratitude for her life and the people she shared it with?

The birthday cards could come down now. She hadn't really wanted them up on display in the first place, but Charlotte had insisted. ‘You have to celebrate, Mum. Birthdays are important. You can't just forget about it.'

Forgetting about it was exactly what she'd wanted to do. As she was gathering the cards into her hand, she caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror. It was a very different face to the one in the photograph. As well as a paler complexion, there was a stern crease between her eyes that hadn't been there back then. The wrinkles at the edges of her eyes had deepened too. The ones Steve used to call her laughter lines had a different role these days. And her hair needed attention. Along with the copper highlights, it had totally outgrown the sharp chin-length cut Charlotte had cleverly known would suit her roundish face. Now, her dark hair reached almost to her shoulders and the ends fell in waves that hadn't seen a straightening iron in months.

Cards in hand, she was halfway upstairs towards the shower when there was a knock on the front door, followed by an immediate ring of the doorbell. Someone was keen to get an answer.

When she opened it, her heart plummeted to her stomach to see two police officers standing there. A man of her age and a young woman who could only have been a couple of years older than Charlotte. ‘Hello?'

At least he didn't have his hat under his arm like they did on the police dramas Steve used to like. That had to be a good sign. ‘Mrs Woodley?'

The tone of his voice made her heart thump in her chest. ‘Yes?'

‘Could we come inside?'

She stood back to let them into her hall. What was the form here? What was she supposed to do? Speak to them here? Take them through to the lounge?

Clearly, the police officer had done this a lot more than Joanna had. She was saved from her indecision by him taking the lead. ‘I'm afraid there's been an incident. Your daughter, Charlotte, has been taken into hospital.'

The cards fluttered from Joanna's hands onto the floor. Wind rushed through her ears and she gripped the side of the table. ‘Incident? What does that mean? Is she okay? How bad is it?'

Visions of disaster flashed through her mind. Car accident? A fall? What could it be? Why was he taking so long to answer?

The female police officer bent to collect the cards for her. ‘There is evidence of an altercation. Charlotte hit her head.'

Altercation? A fight? That wasn't her daughter. Joanna pushed a fist into her stomach to stop the churning there, watched the officer stand and slide the cards back onto the hall table before she could form the words in her dry mouth. ‘Are you saying that she was attacked ?'

The older officer frowned at his colleague before addressing her again. ‘At the moment we don't have all the facts. But if you'd like to come with us, we can take you to her at the hospital?'

‘Yes, yes. Of course.' She turned around, dithering. Where were her shoes? What did she need to take? What would Charlotte need her to bring? Her hand flew to her mouth to catch a sob. Her baby was in hospital. She was hurt. Oh, please God, let her be okay.

The female officer was gentle. ‘Is this your coat on the hook? And your bag?'

Gratefully, she took them, found her shoes and followed them mutely to the car.

The first part of the journey to the hospital was a blur. All she could think about was getting to Charlotte. Imagining her in pain made every atom of Joanna ache to get to her. She needed to see her, hold her, soothe any hurt away with a cool palm and a soft word. When Charlotte was very little, she'd bring any graze or cut or sting straight to Joanna to be kissed better. Sometimes that was all it needed.

Watching the familiar streets pass them by, her mind raced through thoughts about what might have happened. Not having seen Charlotte for days, she had no idea where she might've been this afternoon. ‘Where did it happen? Where was she attacked?'

The first police officer kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘We don't have the details of what happened yet, Mrs Woodley. But the ambulance was called to a flat on the new Westwood Estate. Around two hours ago.'

Two hours? Two hours that her baby girl was hurt and in pain and she wasn't there? And she was in that ridiculous flat of his with its gym and coffee shop and hard granite surfaces. ‘Have you spoken to Freddie Knight-Crossley? That'll be his flat. Was he there when it happened? Is it his fault?'

The policeman's reply was measured, careful. ‘Mr Knight-Crossley was the person who called the ambulance. He was very upset. He's speaking to some of our officers now.'

Upset? He'd be more than upset if she got anywhere near him. ‘What did he say?'

‘We're not in a position to discuss all the details yet. Let's just get you to your daughter and worry about everything else later.'

The young female officer smiled at her, her eyes betraying more than her experienced senior colleague was willing to reveal.

Joanna had known that when Charlotte started seeing Freddie Knight-Crossley it was going to end in something awful. Boys like him were bad news. Every part of her had sensed this wasn't going to end well. Why had no one listened to her?

Charlotte had always been a good girl – polite, kind, generous – but she was drawn to the wrong people like a moth to a flame. At school, the only time she got into trouble was when she was trying to stand up for another – usually naughtier – child. ‘But Mummy,' she'd said when an exasperated Joanna had asked her why she'd told the teacher that she was the one who'd spilled the glue pot all over the class display work-in-progress on the desk, ‘Lewis didn't mean to do it and he was already on the orange board and if he moved onto the red he would have to give up his breaktime and then he wouldn't be able to play football with his friends.'

It was difficult to be cross with her when her heart was so big, but Joanna couldn't help but worry who she chose to surround herself with. Joanna had wanted her to go to a grammar school when choosing a secondary school, but she'd flat-out refused and Steve had backed her up. ‘She wants to go with her friends, Jo. It'll be okay.'

‘And what if it isn't?' Her own memories of school days made her anxious for what Charlotte might encounter. ‘What if she's miserable there, or she can't learn because the behaviour is so bad?'

‘Then we'll move her. Let's worry about trouble when it happens, eh? Let's wait and see.'

Let's wait and see had been his mantra throughout life. She knew that he regarded her worries as overthinking. It was easy for him. When you'd had no shocking surprises in childhood, no moments that turned your whole world upside down, you didn't have to spend your life on high alert that it might happen again.

And now, she was arriving at the hospital to see what an awful price her daughter had had to pay.

Damp with cold sweat, her hands fumbled as she tried to open the locked door of the police car. Every muscle in her body was tight, ready to run. Heart beating out of her chest, hands gripped into fists to stop the trembling. The adrenaline of terror crashed through her, wave after icy wave. Why hadn't she fought harder to make Charlotte understand? Please let her be okay.

Like the scene from a nightmare, the hospital corridor seemed to get longer the faster Joanna walked; a clinical desert between her and her child. Echoing and sterile, the sound of her own footsteps bounced back at her. Doors stretched out in the distance. Where was she? Where was Charlotte? Wind rushed through her ears. All she wanted was to get to Charlotte. ‘Where is she?'

The young constable was keeping pace. ‘She's still with the medical team, I believe. We're taking you somewhere you can wait.'

Wait? Wait? They were going to keep her from seeing her? It was unbearable to think about Charlotte in there, hurt and alone. ‘I need to see her now.'

‘You will.' The older officer was behind, slightly out of breath. ‘We can wait just over here.'

Behind the door he pushed open, the sight of the small room – its square chairs, garish posters, bin with empty coffee cups – made her want to throw up on the scratchy blue carpet. She'd been in rooms like this far too often in the last eighteen months. Not again . She thought. Not again.

Now the older police officer was speaking in hushed tones. There was something about the forced intimacy of rooms like this that made you lower your voice. He was whispering to his colleague. ‘I'll stay with Mrs Woodley, you go and see if you can find someone to talk to her.'

The blood was freezing in her veins. Why weren't they taking her straight to her daughter? Charlotte would need her, might be asking for her. What was the hold-up? Somewhere in the back of her brain, dark thoughts threatened, but she refused to look at them. Instead, she focused on the door, with its peeling poster, willing it to open, desperate to be told that Charlotte was okay.

The police officer had his back against the wall to the side of the door, hands clasped in front of him. Unable to sit, Joanna paced back and forth in front of him, wringing her own hands, not taking her eyes off that door, each moment dragging like an hour. ‘Do you know what's taking so long? Do you know if she's…' she forced herself to say it, ‘if she's alive?'

She didn't breathe, waiting for his response. ‘Mrs Woodley, I know that this must be frightening for you, but I only know what I've been told. That your daughter was brought here with life-threatening injuries.' He held up his hand at her gasp. ‘Which means that she was alive when they brought her here. I know that the doctors will be doing everything they can and I'm sure we will hear something soon.'

Determined not to cry, Joanna wrapped her arms around herself and dug her fingers into her sides. The last year without Steve had been hard, but she'd never felt so alone as she did in that room. Joanna was all she had. Her clever, beautiful daughter. The last time she'd seen her, they'd had that stupid row. About him . It was always about him. Why had no one listened to her? Why hadn't she made them listen?

Finally, there was a firm knock on the door and the female constable appeared, followed by a doctor in a white coat. He looked young, too young to have such an important job, but he sounded confident and capable. ‘Mrs Woodley? I'm Dr Doherty, I've been looking after your daughter. Please, can we sit for a moment?'

She didn't want to sit, she wanted to go to Charlotte. But she took the miserable chair he indicated and gripped its wooden arms. ‘Is she going to be okay? Can I go to her now?'

Dr Doherty perched on the arm of the chair opposite. His white coat opened on pale-blue scrubs. Had Charlotte been in surgery? How bad was it? ‘I'll take you through to your daughter very shortly. But you need to prepare yourself.'

Another wave of fear engulfed Joanna. How bad was it going to be? Had that monster damaged her beautiful daughter? ‘What do you mean? How badly is she hurt?'

He pressed his lips together before he spoke. ‘Most of Charlotte's wounds are superficial. Scratches, bruises. The main issue is the wound on the back of her head. We've managed to stop the bleeding, but when you see her, her head is bandaged.'

There was clearly something else. Why was he taking so long to get to the point. Just tell me. ‘What is it, then? What do I need to prepare myself for?'

Holding fast to the arms of the chair, fear clutched at Joanna's stomach, She'd seen this kind but professional expression before. I'm afraid it's not good news. But not Charlotte. Not her baby girl. ‘I'm afraid Charlotte hasn't regained consciousness. We are running some tests on brain activity and I'll be able to tell you more soon. But I assume you'll want to see her straight away.'

Joanna stood too quickly, her legs – jelly beneath her – gave way and she had to sit down again. Unconscious? Brain activity? What did all this mean? ‘Please can you take me to her? I just need to see her.'