Allie's chest seemed to constrict her lungs and she forced herself to keep breathing.

Isabelle and Raj believed the driver had parked the car off the road in the forest about a hundred yards from the entrance. Gabe then went ahead on foot to meet Jo.

'We don't know why he killed her. Maybe she was planning to tell Dad or Isabelle about her meetings with him.' Rachel's hand was warm against hers. 'Or maybe he only meant to hurt her and it all went too far. Either way, Dad thinks Gabe knew you and Zoe would be patrolling at that time. And that the only thing that would get you to leave the school grounds would be to help someone you loved.'

A tear rolled down Allie's face on to the pillow. She closed her eyes, wanting the story to end.

'After that we think he just waited for you to try and save her.'

Allie's shoulders shook with grief.

'But what he didn't count on,' Rachel was crying now, too; her voice shook as she stroked Allie's hair, 'was how very good you are at fighting back.'

Jo was buried on Christmas Eve at Highgate Cemetery in London. It was a slow news week, so the national newspapers picked up the story. They all reported the tragic death of a beautiful, wealthy teenager in a car accident on an icy country road.

EPILOGUE.

Ten steps, eleven steps, twelve steps ...

Moving slowly and painfully, Allie walked down the infirmary hallway. It was seventeen endless steps up the hall to the window at the end, and seventeen long steps back down the hall to the stairwell. Her legs were shaky. Her slippers made a zombie-shuffling sound on the floor.

'Still practising?' The nurse stopped to watch her with kind eyes. 'You're getting better, Allie.'

Setting her jaw, Allie took the seventeenth step and stopped to breathe. Sweat poured down her face. 'Thanks.' She tried to smile but feared she'd made a hash of it. She didn't smile much any more.

'Don't overdo it now,' the nurse said as she walked to the stairs. 'Take it slow.'

They'd removed the bandages above Allie's left eye now, and she could just about see out of it, although it was still swollen. She had a long row of stitches in the hairline, where something had hit her head. Her left arm and shoulder were still in a cast that made her arm stick out at an absurd angle.

'OK,' she replied, turning and beginning her shaky progress the other direction.

... five steps, six, seven ...

'Should you be doing that alone?'

Looking up, Allie saw Carter standing at the top of the stairs, watching her slow progress.

'As long as I don't overdo it.'

'Are you overdoing it?' His eyes were sad.

'Probably.'

'That's what I figured.'

'How are you?' She studied his face with concern. 'You know. Since ... everything.'

Until now, she'd seen him only once since Jo's death, and then he'd been pale and lost looking, but she'd been so grief-stricken and out of it on painkillers she hadn't been able to think of anything useful to say.

'I can't believe you're asking me that question,' he said. 'Haven't they got mirrors up here?'

'No,' she said. 'Doctors can't see their reflections in them. Drives them crazy.'

'I thought that was vampires.'

She shrugged and then winced, remembering she couldn't shrug yet. 'Same difference.'

'Well, I'm not busy,' he said. 'I guess I could take this fascinating tour with you for a while. I like the view: bathroom, bed, staircase, wall ...'

He was trying to cheer her up, like everyone else. But sad people can't make sad people happy.

'I met your parents.' Holding her good arm, he walked beside her down the hall. 'They seem nice.'

'Are you sure those were my parents?' Gritting her teeth with effort, Allie lifted her feet. 'Maybe you got them confused with someone else's.'

He almost smiled. 'They called themselves Mr and Mrs Sheridan so I'm pretty sure they're yours.'

'Don't believe their lies.' Allie was breathing heavily from the pain. 'Anyway. I'm trying to get them to go home now that I'm better.'

'Well, it's good that they're here for you,' he said.

She didn't reply.

'Can I ask a question?' he said after they'd made two circuits of the corridor. 'Why are you doing this?'

'They won't let me go downstairs until I can walk up and down the hall ten times without falling down or fainting or something,' she explained. 'I want to go downstairs.'

'How many have you done today?' he asked when they reached the end of the hallway.

'Eight.' Exhausted, she leaned against the wall to rest.

He looked at her with concern. 'Maybe you shouldn't do any more.'

She shrugged and winced again. 'Nah. I'm enjoying this.' Brushing the hair back from her face, she said, 'If you're tired though, you know, we could rest.'

Unexpectedly, he leaned over and brushed his lips lightly against the top of her head. 'I'm so sorry, Allie.'

Looking away, she blinked back the tears that threatened never to stop. 'Me too. I can't get used to it. It doesn't seem real. I miss her.'

Turning, she took a step and promptly lost her balance. As if he'd expected that, he caught her easily and directed her towards her room. 'OK, Miss Sheridan, I think that's enough exercise for one afternoon.'

She climbed into bed without argument. He pulled the covers up over her legs, and rolled the side table back into place. When she was settled, he walked to the door. For a minute she thought he'd just leave without saying goodbye.

But at the last second he turned back to look at her.

'Keep breathing, Allie.'

Trying not to cry, she nodded. Then she counted his footsteps as he walked away.

When he was gone she whispered after him: 'Always.'

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

No book I have ever written would be as good without long walks with my husband, Jack Jewers, who listens calmly as I freak out and then helps me find the solution, usually before the dog has jumped into the stream and soaked us both. Thank you, my love, for your patience, your thoughtfulness and your genius.

I want to hug everyone at Atom, especially my brilliant editor Samantha Smith, who reads my first drafts, cocks her head to one side and says, 'How about ...' and then makes it all much better. Thanks also to Katherine Agar for keeping track of everything and sending me packages filled with books. And all hail Sandra Ferguson, who knows perfectly well I can't spell really basic words, and quietly fixes them.

You would not be reading this were it not for my wonderful agent, Madeleine Milburn, who fights my corner like a tiger. Thank you for being my friend and champion. Together we will conquer the world!

Thanks are due to my muses Kate Bell and Helene Rudyk and Laura Barbey, who read this book before anyone else did. Thank you for your time, your cleverness and your honesty. This book is better because of you.

To my good friends Mark Lacey and Paul ('Harry') Harrison, thank you for letting me borrow your names. They are very good names.

And finally ... Special thanks to Blacks on Dean Street, London, for providing a haven for writers, and for letting me break The Rules and use my laptop after six o'clock. Chapter twelve is YOURS.

A former crime reporter, political writer and investigative journalist, C. J. Daugherty has also written several books about travel in Ireland and France. Although she left the world of crime reporting years ago, she never lost her fascination with what it is that drives some people to do awful things, and the kinds of people who try to stop them. The Night School series is the product of that fascination.

C. J. lives in the south of England with her husband and a small menagerie of pets you can learn more about her at www.cjdaugherty.com.

BY C. J. DAUGHERTY.

Night School.

Night School: Legacy.