Seven years passed.

I built a life. I'd always been good at design, so I started small, doing up friends' kitchens, then shops, then restaurants. By the time Noah turned seven, Moore Interiors had nine staff and an office in Chester.

Noah was football-mad, clever, and stubborn. He had Tom's dark eyes and that little dent in his chin.

In January, I read in the paper that Frank Whitfield had died.

I went to the funeral. I stood at the very back of the church, with Noah holding my hand, because Frank had sent my son seven birthday cards and I wanted to say goodbye. Afterwards, outside, Elaine saw me. Her face went white, then red.

“How dare you come here,” she hissed. “And bring that... child.”

Amber stood behind her, in an expensive black coat, smirking.

Tom was there too. He looked older. He looked at me. Then he looked down at Noah.

And I watched him go very, very still.

Before I could reach the car, a grey-haired man in a dark suit caught up with me.

“Mrs Moore? I'm David Hughes, Frank Whitfield's solicitor. Mr Whitfield left instructions concerning your son.”