When Nigella regained consciousness, the first thing she noticed was the smell.

It was sharp, undeniably chemical, and so strong it made her head ache. But it was familiar. Something was knocking on the door of her memories, demanding entry.

Nigella groaned and rolled on to her back. Or tried to, at least. Her hands were tightly tied behind her back, rope chafing her wrists.

When she cracked open an eye it was met with tiles slick with water and tainted with the blackening of mould. Nigella immediately recoiled, sliding back was far as possible by bracing her boots against the floor and straining herself to a sitting position.

That’s when she saw the swimming pool.

Surrounded on all sides with colourful ceramic tiles, the water in the pool was motionless, long-stagnant, the cloying chemical smell she’d noticed was chlorine. A memory rose then, the last holiday they’d taken as a family. Nigella, Richard and their parents. That was the first and final time Nigella had been swimming.

She shook her head, dislodging a crimson curl from her bun. Now was not the time for memories.

Thankfully, whoever had left her here hadn’t thought to check her for weapons as she twisted her hips, bringing her hands as close to the penknife in her pocket as she could.

But it wasn’t close enough.

Nigella let out a frustrated scream, kicking the heels of her boots against the tiles.

A moment later came the scrape of a key in a lock.