Chapter 2: Take Your Time
The truck arrived at six fifteen.
Not a small one.
A full recovery vehicle with orange lights going round the top, loud enough that I heard it from the kitchen.
I watched from the window.
I didn't go outside.
It took them eleven minutes to hook up the Corsa and lift the front wheels off the ground.
I counted.
At six forty, Denise's bedroom light came on.
I was already in the car with both boys, bags on, shoes on, engine running.
We pulled out of the drive at six forty-three.
First time in three weeks we'd left without waiting.
I dropped them at school eight minutes early.
My youngest looked at me from the back seat.
"Mum.
We're not late."
"No," I said.
"We're not."
When I got home that evening, there was a note through my door.
I recognised the handwriting from the one she'd left on my windscreen back in June, the one that said *mind your own business.*
This one was shorter.
It said: *You'll regret this.*
I stood in the hallway holding it.
And then my phone buzzed.
A message from a number I didn't recognise.
Three words.
*She does this everywhere.*
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What did that message mean — and who sent it?
The full story goes further than you'd expect.
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