And then, the door was open, and she was tumbling inside, tears streaming, breathing a thing of the past.

She saw the driver of the car. A young guy. Local. Boy racer type.

Nobody.

She slammed the door before he’d gone flying past, locked it a half-second later, then jumped back like the whole thing was hot to the touch.

For a moment, she just stood there. In the silent half-dark of her hallway. Alone.

Please, God, let her be alone.

She checked the peephole of the door for any sign of anyone lurking out there, but saw no one. Her head flopped forward until it rested on the wood, and until her breathing returned to some semblance of normal.

It had been nothing. She’d over-reacted. That was all.

Nothing to worry about. Nothing to be scared of.

She turned to face the rest of the house. The day was cooling outside as the evening approached, and various parts of the old building grumbled and groaned about the coming of night.

“Mum?” Olivia called.

No one answered. But then, that wasn’t unexpected.

Once, she could’ve guaranteed that her mother would be at home. Sleeping, probably, or off her face on something.

She’d changed in recent months, though. Got better. She was probably running, or swimming, or picking them up something nice for dinner. She’d be home soon, though.

Olivia was counting down the minutes.

She checked the peephole again, took a look out through the blinds of the living room window, then headed to the kitchen to check the back door.

It was locked, which further slowed her heart rate from its previous record-breaking peak.

She poured herself a glass of water, downed it in a few big gulps, then burped some of her worries away.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She was home. She was safe. Her imagination had gotten the better of her, that was all.

She closed her eyes. Gave herself a moment. Fought back the urge to be sick, which had been growing since she’d realised Borys wasn’t turning up.

Just her imagination.

That was all.

Her stomach gurgled, nausea turning quickly to hunger.

It was then that she noticed the photograph.

It had been fixed to the front of the fridge by a smiley-face magnet she hadn’t seen before.

It showed her and Borys sitting in the older boy’s car, his arm resting on the sill, gold rings glinting in the sunshine.

She looked around the kitchen, grabbed for a knife, then pointed it at the door like she was warding off evil.

When she was sure nobody was about to come springing out, she took the photograph from the fridge and turned it over.

A message was written there, in a shaky script.

‘I left you a little something, malyshka.’

The photo slipped from her grasp. The instinct to run flared up again. But where would she go? Where was safer than here?