“The woman Dad keeps hidden in our shed, mummy!” she blurted out, her innocent face twisted with confusion.
The woman in our shed?
“What are you talking about, sweetie?” I asked, my voice trembling, my pulse racing as I cast a look at Peter, whose face had turned a ghostly shade of white.
Emma’s expression was fierce, her little hands planted on her hips, her eyes fixed on her father. “The woman who lives in the shed! I saw her with my OWN eyes!
Dad goes to see her when you’re out shopping or at work.”
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