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If I were Esther, I’d be wary of me too.
hoping I’d never have to choose between him and Millie again.
‘Red,’
afterwards, as he drank in the sound of her fear and breathed in the smell of it, he wished he could keep her there for eternity.
the hardest thing I’ve ever done is have sex with you.
accepting that if I was to get back to England quickly and safely, I was going to have to pretend to be a broken and frightened woman.
I’m beginning to feel as if I’m a normal woman on a normal night out instead of a prisoner out with her jailer.
appalled that I could have taken comfort there for so long.
‘You know, I have never questioned who I am,’ he says thoughtfully as he helps me off with my coat. ‘But tonight, for a split second, when I was holding you in my arms, when everybody was commiserating with us about your miscarriage, I had a taste of what it was like to be normal.’
where the line between fact and fiction is often blurred, murder is simply a solution to a problem.
when he eventually unlocked the door the next morning, I was almost incoherent with gratitude, promising that I would do anything, anything, as long as he didn’t take me down there again.
She looks steadily back at me. ‘What colour was Millie’s room, Grace?’
Instead of looking over the fence, we should really be keeping our eyes fixed firmly on our side and cherishing the grass that we have—bald patches and all—just a little bit more.
