“I’ll get you for this, Penelope,” I threatened.

“It wasn’t me!” she pleaded.

The police arrived behind me and restrained me. I fought back at first, and they decided to use handcuffs. In the commotion, Poppy made her way through the house, opened the front door and stepped outside. Just as they started to put the handcuffs on, I heard my phone make a beep in Kim’s hands.

“It’s James. He’s just sent an address,” Kim announced.

I was humiliated. And I’d shown Poppy and Kim the monster that was lurking within me. All because of a scrap of paper I didn’t fully understand. Poppy stood shrugging in the doorway, waiting for my immediate apology, but I was too proud to give her one. Instead, I lowered my head and stared at the carnage I’d just created. In one swift motion, Poppy’s beautiful home had been destroyed. The glass from the broken window and soil from the pot I’d thrown lay all over the baby supplies they kept inside. I had a real problem with apologising for anything, but it was blatantly obvious that I should. Just as I was about to open my mouth and convey some semblance of remorse, Poppy began speaking.

“Be careful, officers,” she started, her eyes locked with mine, “she’s violent.”

Violent. I detested that word. I wasn’t violent, and I wouldn’t apologise for feeling passionate about my marriage or my husband. In a way, I felt even more wrath from the single use of the word violent than when I thought she was pretending to be James. I always thought Poppy and I were alike; I certainly thought she was different from Yvonne. But the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Poppy was just as manipulative and dangerous as her mother and had me bang to rights. She must have been waiting for this moment for so long to see me in handcuffs. I could almost see her gloating over it, and the thought of her smug expression at me in cuffs boiled my blood.

“I’ll show you violence,” I hissed through a clenched jaw.

“She’s the reason my brother is dead. She’s an alcoholic and a domestic abuser,” Poppy said, holding back tears.

“If Harry killed himself, it was because of you and your ridiculous family.”

“My big brother killed himself because you constantly battered and belittled him for your entire marriage. You have to live with that, not me,” Poppy said, pointing in my face.

The police didn’t let me have the final word, and they started dragging me away to the van they’d arrived in. They threw open the doors and pushed me into the cage that resided in the back of it. Whilst I was in there, they hastily read me my rights and slammed the door as I stared at Poppy with venom at a distance.

Whilst I was being transported to the police station, I thought I would have calmed down, but I didn’t. As far as I was concerned, Poppy had put me in this cell. Yvonne would know what had happened by now, too, and she was probably on her way to the police station with Poppy to tell them all their wild theories. I started to worry that the police would actually believe them and my name would be dragged through the mud looking for the truth. When the original police enquiry into Harry’s death was going on, everybody was under scrutiny. When it was decided his death was accidental, they closed the case, and that was that. But if the police thought there was any merit in what Yvonne and Poppy had to say, they could reopen it.

The indistinguishable tingles started to build on the back of my neck, and I lost all sensation in my hands. I banged my head rhythmically on the cage wall to try and knock the panic attack out of me, but it was coming, and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. My feet started to go numb, and the sensation slowly crept up my legs like I was being immersed in ice-cold water. The waterline reached my chest, and I could almost feel my lungs filling with the liquid, so much so that I could barely breathe. Once it arrived at my neck, my throat started to close, and I began to cough erratically.

“Help!” I shouted as loud as I could, kicking the cage.

One of the officers had opened the little hatch from the cabin and looked at me with contempt. He assessed that I wasn’t in any immediate danger and closed it again with a huff.

“Help me! I’m having a panic attack,” I shouted again.

The officer opened the hatch once again and placed one finger on his lips before shushing me loudly. He then replaced the hatch, and I heard music playing from the cabin. By the time I arrived at the police station, it was the weakest I’d ever felt. I was so sweaty I think I could have slipped out of the handcuffs with ease. They tried to remove me from the cage, but my legs wouldn’t hold my weight, and I immediately fell on the tarmac outside the van.

“Ma’am, you need to get up,” the officer said.

“I’m pregnant, and I’m getting pains,”

“Jesus. Get help,” the other officer said.

In my weakened state, they realised I wasn’t much of a threat and placed me in a wheelchair they had from inside the station. They wheeled me in, and I got checked over by their first-aid trained officer. They checked everything they could, and according to them, I was fine. But I was still going through the most intense panic attack since I’d been at Harry’s grave. My heart felt like it was beating in my throat, but apparently, all my vitals were normal. The officer actually told me it was ‘all in my head’, and as soon as he said so, the attack miraculously started to fade.

I was placed into a cell where I was constantly observed to ensure my condition didn’t worsen. A female officer was sitting on a foldaway chair in the doorway, watching my every move. My prediction was correct; both Yvonne and Poppy were at the station and agreed not to press charges if I gave a heartfelt apology. If not, I would be looking at a night in the cells and possibly a community service order for criminal damage.

After an hour or so, when I’d calmed down, I was taken to a room, and Yvonne and Poppy were already sat down inside it. Poppy had clearly been crying, and Yvonne had her arm around her, trying to comfort her. A detective joined us, and I recognised her, she was called Angela, the same detective that had looked into Harry’s death.

“Okay, Amelia. If you apologise for the damage you’ve done, Penelope is happy to drop the charges. Is that still the case, Penelope?” Angela said.

“Yes,” Poppy whispered.

I began to mouth the words before I could utter them. It took every last ounce of energy just to produce the sound, but I swallowed my pride out came the words.

“I’m sorry,” I said as sincerely as I could manage.

“I accept your apology,” Poppy uttered.

“So, you aren’t behind the texts?” I asked.

“Of course she bloody isn’t,” Yvonne interrupted.

“If you are happy with that, you two can leave now,” Angela said to Yvonne and Poppy, “but I’d like to speak to Amelia if I can.”

Poppy stood up, and she could barely make eye contact with me. Whatever courage she felt at her front door an hour before had faded. Yvonne, on the other hand, stared at me intensely and with venom as they left.

“How are you doing, Amelia?” Angela asked.

“What do you think?” I said.

“I think that you are going through a tough time.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“You should speak to someone. You can’t deal with something like that on your own. It’s just not possible.”

“With all due respect, Angela, you don’t know what I am dealing with.

“True. But I spent some time with you and Harry’s family. I know you all loved him very much.”

“I did.”

“I’ve heard about the allegations that Poppy made on her doorstep,” Angela said, leaning back in her chair, “Is there any truth to them?”

“No.”

“She was pretty specific about the types of injuries that Harry allegedly sustained. Would we be able to verify those if we looked at his medical records?”

“No, because it isn’t true,” I insisted.

“Amelia?” Angela said with a sigh.

“Is the baby Harry’s?”

“Of course it’s his.”

“Well, you need to smooth things over with his family. They are going to want to be involved in the baby’s life.”

“They aren’t getting anywhere near this baby,” I said, clasping my stomach.