Claire picked up the kitchen phone and got a blessedly clear dial tone. She dialled 911 with shaking fingers, and whispered the information to the operator that she was hiding in the kitchen with a knife, and there was someone in the house. The operator sounded unimpressed, but professional about it, and promised the police were on the way, and to hide until they arrived but keep the phone on.

Which Claire intended to do, but then she heard a man’s voice from upstairs, and static, like there would be on a walkie-talkie. She edged to the kitchen door, looking up at the stairs, and saw a black-clothed man walk out of her room, and another come out of Liz’s. She ducked back inside and flattened against the kitchen wall, but it didn’t seem like either of them had spotted her.

One of them was talking. ‘—Nothing. Nobody home, and we didn’t find anything. Looks like a normal college girl to me, sir. She’s got Hunger Games on the wall and textbooks and clothes, not a lot else here. Bed was unmade but she’s not here, we looked. Went through all the boxes, nothing … no, sir, I’m sure. She’s probably out with friends.’

He was talking about her. And this wasn’t Derrick, not even if Derrick had brought a friend. This sounded calm and professional. The two men came down the steps and went out the front door without pausing, and closed it quietly behind them.

Then they locked it.

Claire rushed to the peephole and stared out. In the glow of the streetlights, she saw two completely normal-looking guys in dark shirts and pants heading down the steps. Athletic, mid-twenties to early thirties. Short haircuts. They could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses or CIA, she had no idea.

But either way, they were able to enter and leave the house without leaving a mark.

Dr Anderson had been right to move the device to safekeeping, because Claire was almost sure that whoever these guys were, they were looking for evidence that the little student from Morganville was something else again.

And she knew, somehow, that it would mean a lot of trouble if they found out the truth.

The phone was still on, and the operator’s voice buzzing like a bee. Claire held it up to her ear and said, ‘Sorry, false alarm – it was my roommate. We’re okay here.’

There was more to it, because the operator was worried Claire was under duress, and the police still showed up to check, but Claire assured them it was all okay.

It wasn’t though.

It really wasn’t.