The Escape: The gripping, twisty thriller from the #1 bestseller. C.L. Taylor

George,’ Elise says, pointing as the small boy gleefully throws his trainers across the hallway and his mother chases after them.

      ‘Baby,’ she adds, pointing at the red-cheeked, drooling bundle in my arms.

      ‘I’m so tired,’ the other woman says, crouching down beside her son. She grabs one of his socked feet and wiggles a shoe onto it. ‘Mia’s still waking me up every three hours for a feed. She’s six months old, for goodness’ sake. I swear George was sleeping through by now.’

      ‘Looks like she’s teething,’ I say as I dab away some of the drool on the child’s chin with the muslin tucked under her neck.

      ‘Four teeth! She’s started biting when I feed her. I don’t think my nipples can take much more.’ She glances up at me. ‘Sorry, too much information.’

      ‘It’s fine. I know exactly where you’re coming from. The first time Elise did that I was so shocked I shoved her away and she ended up on the floor!’

      The other mum laughs but the sound comes to an abrupt halt and she hurriedly looks away. Sharon has appeared beside me with her arms crossed and a disapproving look on her face.

      ‘I don’t think potentially injuring a child is a laughing matter, do you?’

      Sharon doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead she reaches for my daughter’s hand and leads her towards the gate. ‘Come on, Elise, let’s get you inside.’

      I watch open-mouthed as she ushers my daughter inside without giving me a chance to say goodbye to her.

      ‘Don’t worry about Sharon,’ the other woman says in a low voice as she helps her son to his feet and reaches for her baby. ‘She’ll understand when she has kids.’

      ‘OK, Jo,’ says the policewoman on the other end of the line. ‘I’ve created a log of everything you’ve told me and you’ve got your incident number, haven’t you?’

      I tap the number written on the pad of paper in front of me, even though she can’t see it. ‘Yes, I’ve written it down.’

      ‘An officer will visit you at home tomorrow to take some more details.’

      ‘Do you … do you have any idea what time?’ I feel awful trying to pin her down, given how accommodating she was when I said I’d struggle to make it to the police station because of my agoraphobia.

      ‘It could be any time, I’m afraid.’

      That means I’ll have to take a half-day’s holiday from work and then pray they don’t turn up when I leave to collect Elise from nursery. Or maybe I could keep her home with me?

      ‘OK,’ I say, ‘that’s fine.’

      ‘Great. If anything else happens between now and then, make a note of the date, time and what happened and give us a ring back, quoting your incident number. And if you feel in any immediate danger call 999. OK?’

      ‘OK.’ I look up to the ceiling as tears well in my eyes, then take a steadying breath. I didn’t expect the police to take me seriously, not after the way Max reacted.

      ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

      I want to tell her that I’m scared. That I’ve been home for less than five minutes and every noise, every shadow that’s passed the living-room window, has made me jump. I want to tell her that I’m scared that when another police officer comes round to talk to me I’ll have to admit that I shoved Paula in the street. There were witnesses – at least half a dozen. If the police track Paula down and she presses charges my career will be over. I’d lose my job at the university and I won’t find another. Not here. Not in Chester. Nowhere.

      ‘Wait!’ I say before she can put the phone down. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want anyone to come round and see me.’

      ‘Why’s that then?’ I can hear the frustration in her voice.

      ‘I … I … it’s fine. It’ll be fine. I … I think I overreacted. Sorry, the line’s breaking up. I appreciate your time. Thank you. Bye!’

      I jab at the end call button, wincing as I sit back against the sofa cushion. I lasted less than half an hour at work. Within ten minutes of sitting down in my chair I was in so much pain from my back I wanted to cry. Then, when I rang my GP to try and arrange an appointment and the receptionist said there was no space for five days, I did cry. Diane, my boss, took one look at me and sent me home. I nearly passed out when I got into the car, and the pain is going nowhere.

      I check my phone to see if there’s been a reply from Max to the voicemails and texts I sent him at work, apologising for what I said last night and telling him what happened with Paula this morning. When I woke up I picked up my phone, expecting to find a grovelling apology from my husband. He’s lost his temper before but he’s never smashed things up. Never. That was so out of character it scared me. But there were no new messages and I haven’t heard from Max all day – not a call, not a text, nothing. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe an ‘I’m sorry’ or an ‘I should have believed you’ or even a ‘let’s talk’. But no, nothing at all. He knows he was out of order last night. The only possible reason for his silence is because he’s paying me back for what I said. That’s why I apologised. One of us had to break the deadlock.

      I hobble into the kitchen, leaning on the walls for support, and rifle through the medicine cupboard again but nothing stronger than paracetamol has miraculously appeared overnight. I’ve already taken the two ibuprofen that Diane gave me but they haven’t touched the edges. I pick up my handbag from where I left it on the kitchen counter when I came in, and upend it. My purse, keys, make-up, tissues, various pieces of paper, an assortment of change and my phone tumble out. And something else – a packet of pills that don’t belong to me. I pick them up and turn them over in my hands. They’re some of Dad’s muscle relaxants. Mum thrust them at me when I mentioned that my back was hurting but I shooed her away, telling her that a couple of paracetamol would sort me out. She must have slipped them into my bag before I left. There’s no advice slip in the packet but a quick Google reveals side effects including dizziness, drowsiness, a dry mouth and possible addiction. Nothing overly scary. I make a split-second decision and pop two out of the blister pack and into my mouth. As I swallow them down with a glass of water a wave of exhaustion crashes over me. I barely slept a wink last night: a combination of the pain and the aftermath of the argument with Max. I glance at my watch as I shuffle back down the hallway, check the front door is double-locked, then step into the living room and ease myself down onto the sofa. It is 12.15 p.m. I’ll just grab a couple of hours’ sleep and, with any luck, I’ll feel better when I wake up. I might even be able to do a couple of hours’ work on my laptop before I go and pick up Elise.

      I wake with a start but my mind is so foggy it takes me a couple of seconds to realise where I am. The living room is dark, the sofa is lumpy and uncomfortable and the house is silent. I turn my head. It’s dark outside but the blinds are still open. Unease pricks at my consciousness but sleep still has a grip on me, making me groggy and slow. I twist my wrist up towards my face and squint at the display through the gloom – 6.14 p.m.

      Six-fourteen! I shoot up into a sitting position then wince and press a hand to my lower back. Six fourteen! I should have been at the nursery for five-thirty to pick up Elise. Oh my God! A cold chill courses through me as I snatch up my mobile. Five missed calls: three of them from the nursery, two of them from Max.

      I ease myself onto my feet and grab my coat from the banister. I hit the voicemail button on my phone and press it to my ear as I stumble out the front door and half hobble, half run down the street.

      ‘Hello, Jo. It’s Sharon from nursery. You were due to pick up Elise fifteen minutes ago. I’m sorry to have to remind you about timekeeping again but you really should let us know if you’re going to be this late.’

      ‘Hello, Jo. It’s Sharon again. Could you give us a ring as soon as you get this?’

      ‘Hello,