It was only after he had finished that her anger began. He’d left her, face down, by the side of the road and got back into his car, calmly driving off through the twilight as if he did this every day. Maybe he did.

This time, though, was his last. As reality reasserted its grip on Maggie, rage, white-hot and searing, poured into her. She called it to her, her temperature rising, every pore aflame with distilled hatred. She filled and filled, then hurled it all at the retreating car.

Flames leapt from her hands, burning a laser-straight path to her target, overwhelming the vehicle in a second. It veered sharply to one side, then the other, before ending up in the ditch. After a moment, the fuel tank blew, adding its own colour to the inferno. Not understanding, yet not caring, she poured herself into the conflagration, battering him with everything he’d done to her, with what every guy had done to her, with 18 years of torment.

Only then did she stop to think what she’d actually done and what it meant.