97. Now

Bevan ushers us out of the annexe. She takes the steps down two at a time. The window by the front door has been smashed. We crunch over the glass. There are dents in the door, its dark green paint splintered and chipped in concentric circles. A red petrol can and a giant weed burner lie on the tiles outside. The sweet smell of spilled fuel is overwhelming.

Did we all just almost burn to death? Lydia can't have done this, so who was it?

Lydia's guilt drove her to torture us – send those photos, buy all that stuff, get me fired…

And then I blush, because I accept the truth: Lydia didn't get me fired. I was fired because I stole from the till. Just a little. Well, maybe quite a lot. Over the years. I liked to go out for lunch. It's a habit that started when I was a teenager.

There's an ambulance in the drive and a police van pulling in. A paramedic starts asking us questions but all I can do is think over and over one line in Jenna's journal: aren't you meant to love your children?

But I do, Jenna. I love you so much I can't bear to see you hurting. I promise. If you come back to me, I'll never look away again.