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leaves. Her ghost still out there, haunting the woods. And what if the police don’t get to the bottom of it? If there’s a murderer loose in our village? What if it happens to someone else?
    I’m awake for hours that night, eventually dozing off in Angus’s arms, but not before I’ve made a pact with God, or whoever’s out there, that I’ll do anything, absolutely anything, to keep my family safe. I don’t care what happens to me.
    Then, when my eyes finally close, I’m back in the woods. At the same clearing where I fell off Zappa, hearing the leaves and the wind. This time, there is no rain, just birds singing and a sun that’s unnaturally bright, and as I look down, I see Rosie lying beside me, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
    Her hair, longer than I remember, is spread around her, a rippling carpet of pale silk. She reminds me of a beautiful painting, her body covered by an intricately woven blanket of green moss and golden leaves.
    I try again and again to stir her. Rosie. Rosie. Wake up. You must wake up. . . .
    But she doesn’t move. Then the trees fall silent, and the woods darken. The fear is back. I have to run.
    I pull at Rosie’s arm. I can’t leave her here, but she won’t move. I pull harder, hear myself scream at her.
    Wake up, Rosie . You have to run. . . .
    Her eyes open, and for a moment, she looks at me. Then I’m losing her. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes from it.
    The scream is mine.
    I open my eyes, aware of my face wet with tears. I’m shaking and shaken to the core. The image of Rosie is still sharp, down to the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks and those pale eyes, riveted to mine, telling me something, I’m certain of it.
    Beside me, Angus mutters something unintelligible as I slip out of bed, glancing at the illuminated hands of my small alarm clock, far too agitated to sleep. After fumbling on the back of the door for my dressing gown, I creep downstairs.
    When I have a large design project, the night’s the best time to work, when the house is at its stillest, when the odd creak is comforting, the tick of the clock its heartbeat. But tonight is different. I’m on edge, seeing movements in every shadow, imprints of menacing faces outside pressed against the glass, silently watching me. Aware there’s a murderer who could be anywhere.
    I fill the kettle to make tea, then draw the curtains, shutting out my demons, before sitting down at the table, the mug cradled in my hands.
    The last time Rosie came over to see my horses, I think she’d been here a while, hiding, watching out for me, then appearing to just turn up, as if by chance. I hadn’t heard her open the gate; I’d just come out of the tack room, and there she was.
    “Rosie! You made me jump!”
    I watched uncertainty flicker over her face. She was like that. Never quite sure how to read me, just as she herself was unreadable.
    “Sorry.” She hesitated, twisting a lock of her hair round one of her fingers. “It was just . . . I wondered if you needed any help today. Is it okay?”
    “Of course it is! Catch Reba if you like. She needs grooming.” Semiretirement can sometimes be too quiet for her, and Reba enjoys being fussed over. I threw Rosie a head collar and watched the quiet way she moved among the horses, the gentle way they nuzzled her.
    She always asked, always apologized. My answer was always the same. Yes. Like me, I guess she needed what only horses were able to give her.
    One thing surprised me, though. Where Grace’s friends would bypass stable chores in their impatience to get on and ride, Rosie never once asked to. On the one occasion I got her up on Reba, from her smile you’d think she’d conquered Everest. She was a natural rider, with the kind of light hands you can’t teach and an innate feel for what the horse was thinking.
    I wanted to teach her, but we never progressed further. When I offered to talk to Jo about giving her riding lessons, she looked