I was four months pregnant the night my husband threw me out.

I'd come home late from a work conference in Manchester. The house was quiet. Tom was sitting on the sofa in the living room. His mother, Elaine, sat in the armchair beside him, her handbag on her knees, as if she'd been waiting for a bus.

On the coffee table was a brown envelope.

“Sit down, Rachel,” Elaine said.

Tom tipped the envelope out. Photographs. Me at a hotel bar, laughing with a man. Me with my arms around the same man. And printed screenshots of messages.

Last night was amazing. Can't wait to see you again. Don't tell Tom x

“That's Dan,” I said. “From work. Those messages aren't mine. Tom, I've never sent those—” “Whose is it?” Tom said. His voice was flat and cold. “The baby. Whose is it?”

“It's yours. Of course it's yours. We can do a test—”

“I don't need a test,” he said. “I have eyes. Get out.”

It was eleven o'clock and raining hard.

As I dragged my suitcase down the drive, I noticed a white Mini parked at the end of the road, its engine running.

A woman sat behind the wheel, watching me.

Amber Cole. Tom's ex-girlfriend. Elaine's goddaughter.