‘Wait. What? Mouse?’ I ask in hushed tones. Kieron had fallen asleep awkwardly against me as we’d watched The Hunger Games again. Trying not to disturb him, I peel myself from the soft sofa, every muscle aching as I stand. Cautiously I open the front door. On the step, a mouse. It’s intact at least. I snap a piece of lavender from the pot under the window and poke it gently to see whether it moves.

It doesn’t.

Unease worms in my belly as my eyes search the street. Everything seems as it should be, but I know that it’s not.

Quickly, I nudge the mouse to one side to deal with later and then close the door on it, checking twice that I’ve locked it before I head up to Connor’s room.

He’s home earlier than he should be; he could have a free period as they often do at this age or something could have happened.

His door is closed. Hanging from a hook is a sign: Gaming in progress – eye contact/small talk unavailable. I’d thought it funny when I’d bought it as a stocking filler a few years ago. Now it just seems sad.

I knock before I step inside. Connor is hunched over his computer, his body shielding the screen.

‘How was it?’ I ask tentatively.

‘How do you think?’ His voice is thick. I don’t want to push him and so I pick up the blazer that is lying on the floor, but as I slide it onto a hanger I notice it’s plastered in something red.

Blood.

My heart skitters as I scan Connor for the sign of any injury but there’s no staining on his shirt. I take a closer look at the blazer, draw it to my nose and sniff. Ketchup.

‘Connor?’ I hesitate. Not wanting to ask if everything is okay, knowing that it isn’t. ‘If you want to talk? About… anything,’ I say.

He mutters something. I step forward but when I see what he’s doing I slip away.

He’s writing to Hailey again. It’s incredibly sad. Endless messages to a girl who won’t reply.

Who can’t reply.

The doorbell rings and rings.

For a moment I don’t move. I’m unsettled. Apprehension trickling down my spine.

The ringing comes again. I take a breath and open the front door. There’s a lady on the step brandishing a box of chocolates.

‘Hi, I wasn’t sure if your bell worked. I’m Susan Golding, my family moved in at the weekend.’ She gestures behind her.

‘Hello. Sorry, I’ve been meaning to pop over and introduce myself but my son hasn’t been well.’

‘I hope he’s on the mend now?’

For a moment I can’t speak, my throat is so tight. ‘He’s… anyway, how are you settling in?’