I’m apprehensive as I return home from work because I can never be sure which Mia I’ll find when I walk through the door. Sometimes it’s weepy Mia, who I can make cry just by looking at her. Other times it is frustrated Mia, who can’t find satisfaction in anything I say or do and flips out at me for no reason. But more often than not, it’s can’t-be- bothered-to-feel-a-damn-thing Mia. That’s the one who scares me the most, because she’s like an empty shell of who she used to be. I miss the sarcasm, her keeping me on my toes, me telling her when she’s getting London-y. I’d cut her down to size and she’d hit back at me with something cheeky and we’d have a good-natured laugh at each other’s expense. That’s the Mia I miss the most. The one who laughs.

Sometimes, and I hate to admit it, she behaves like she doesn’t love Sonny. I catch her staring at him like he belongs to somebody else. And that scares me.

I’m losing grip on my wife and I can almost measure the distance between us. We don’t talk any more, and in the moments that we are together, I get the feeling she’d rather be in her own little online world, surrounding herself with stories about dead kids, than with me. I’ve tried asking her what’s wrong but she tells me I wouldn’t understand and shuts down the conversation. And instead of pushing it further and upsetting her more, I’ve left it at that.

Mum’s taken me aside a couple of times, asking me what I’m doing about getting her help. I keep repeating that she’s okay and she’s got a lot to process but I know Mum’s right. The truth is that I’m scared I might be the root of Mia’s problems. That if a therapist pokes around inside her head, Mia will realise she deserves better than me and my family and leave. Sometimes I think I might wake up and find she’s moved back to London because the life she had there is better than the shitstorm we’re living in now. Maybe that’s why she’s not the only girl in my life: subconsciously I keep a spare as I don’t want to be left on my own. Perhaps I’m the one who needs therapy, not Mia.

So tonight, as I walk through the door and shout my hellos, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for who I’ll find. Only, it turns out it’s none of the above. Mia is waiting for me in the lounge, Sonny is gurgling on his play mat and squeezing the life from a toy Igglepiggle by his side. She is dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and she’s wearing make- up. It’s the first time I’ve seen her out of her sweatpants and not barefaced. Five months after her accident, have we reached a turning point?

I speak too soon, though, as when I go to kiss her, she turns her head so my lips land on her cheek, not her mouth.

She’s cordial, asking me about my day, and I give her the bare bones of it. She doesn’t need to know where I’ve really been this afternoon. I want to tell her how great she looks but I decide not to draw attention to it in case she thinks I’m having a dig at how she usually appears these days. Her thumb and forefinger are doing that rubbing- together thing again, so something is on her mind.

When I ask if everything is okay she says yes, but I don’t believe her. ‘Is there something you want to talk about?’ I ask her.

She hesitates before she replies, then heads into our bedroom. I follow her in and realise it’s been days since I was last in here, a further reminder that she and I aren’t

living a normal marriage. When she just stands there with her back to me, I say ‘Mia’, more firmly. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s your dad,’ she replies. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Do you know that he went to school with one of the children in our attic?’

‘He did what?’

‘Abigail Douglas . . . Dave was in the same class as her. And he knew another girl who vanished at the same time but was found alive, although barely.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘Jasmine, the surviving girl’s mum.’ ‘And how do you know her?’

She pauses before she replies. ‘I met her at Abigail’s funeral.’

‘What? You went when I asked you not to?’ ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not a child and you can’t tell me what not to do.’

‘I can’t believe you went behind my back.’

‘Finn,’ she says, ‘you are missing the point. Your dad knew one of the victims and he never told us.’

‘This Jasmine woman has him mixed up with someone else.’

‘I saw a photograph of them together when I was at the wake . . .’

‘You went to the wake as well? Jesus.’ I’m genuinely lost for words. For weeks she has walked around this house like an extra from The Walking Dead, unable to give our son much affection or attention while my parents and I pick up the slack and tiptoe around her. Now it turns out she’s been sneaking out to the funerals of dead children she never even knew. Who else is she putting above her family?

‘Look.’ She delves into her handbag and rummages about but comes up empty-handed. So she picks up a black

coat and rifles through the pockets instead. Again, she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. ‘I had a school photo of them and your dad together,’ she says, puzzled. ‘I swear it was in here.’

‘It must have been someone who resembled him. I mean, how do you know what he looked like as a kid? He doesn’t have any photos from his childhood.’

‘I’m not stupid, it was definitely him. Jasmine mentioned his name before I did. And the boy had the same birthmark on his forehead. So why didn’t he tell us he knew one of the victims when she was named?’

‘Maybe he didn’t remember her or he didn’t know she’d been identified.’

‘It was all over the news. He deliberately kept it quiet from us.’

‘There’ll be an explanation for it.’ ‘Well, he didn’t sound very convincing.’

I frown. ‘Have you spoken to him about this?’ ‘Yes,’ she admits sheepishly. ‘Yesterday.’

‘Mia, what the hell are you doing?’ My temper is beginning to fray. ‘I thought things were getting better between you and my parents. Mum and you have been getting on brilliantly.’

‘Finn!’ she exclaims, dismayed. ‘Again, you’re missing the point. This has nothing to do with your mum. Dave told me that he barely knew the girls because he didn’t go to school very often.’

‘You knew that already. He could barely read or write until he met Mum.’

‘I think he kept this from us for a reason. He knows more than he’s letting on. Look how they reacted when we told them we wanted the house. They kept trying to talk us out of it.’

‘You’re saying he knew there were bodies inside? Don’t be so ridiculous. You were there. They were as shocked as we were. I think there’s another underlying problem here.’

‘At last!’ she says jubilantly. ‘Now we can agree on something. So you’ll ask him about it then?’

‘I don’t mean with Dad, I mean with you.’ ‘Me?’

‘You kept this from me, you obsess about the police investigation, you’re not connecting with Sonny like you should be . . . I’m just saying that perhaps it’s time we got you some help, because I can’t mend you on my own.’

‘Mend me?’ she says slowly. ‘You can’t mend me?’

Wrong turn of phrase, I think. ‘I mean we should make an appointment for you to see a doctor because you have all the symptoms of postnatal depression. It’s not your fault, I know that. Plenty of women suffer from it. But Mum thinks . . .’

I stop. I’m digging myself an even deeper hole.

‘Your mum thinks, does she?’ Mia growls. ‘Well, if Doctor Debbie has diagnosed a problem then there must be something wrong with me. Remind me which medical college she graduated from? Holby City or Grey Sloan Memorial? How dare you, Finn, how fucking dare you talk about me to your mum like that.’

‘I was worried about you . . .’

‘Then try listening to me! Try talking to me about what we went through at that house, how I almost lost Sonny, how knowing what happened to those kids is making me petrified that the same thing might happen to him. Talk to me, don’t talk about me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just want my old Mia back.’ I pull my phone out of my pocket and show her some screenshots I took of various medications I found online that can help with PND. ‘If you don’t want to talk to someone, we can get you some tablets. Look.’

‘Oh, this just gets better.’ She lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. ‘Now you all want to drug me into being the dutiful little wife and daughter-in-law.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

Sonny reminds us he’s here by reacting to our raised voices with a whimper. ‘Perhaps you should deal with your son,’ she snaps, ‘because clearly I’m too shitty a mother to go anywhere near him.’

I follow her again as she storms out of the bedroom and into the lounge. She grabs her coat and the car keys, but before she leaves, a presenter on the early evening news catches our attention.

‘And we have some breaking news regarding the Leighton Buzzard Babes In The Attic killings where the bodies of seven murdered children were found.’ We stop as if someone has pressed pause on us. ‘This morning police have confirmed two more bodies have been found at the property.’