‘Call me Sophie,’ she demands when I address her as ‘Ms. Cannister.’ Her wardrobe is more exciting than my own and she carries an iPhone with her at all times that no one has ever seen her use. Her age is a closely guarded secret, but the maintenance guy reckons she had a sister who died five years ago, aged ninety.

The lift jolts to a halt. Jeff rushes down the corridor, all systems go, leaving me strolling behind.

‘Good luck with the date,’ I shout before crossing to my apartment and letting myself in.

22A is a small space, but it has a floor to ceiling window that makes my world look a lot bigger than it actually is. Sometimes I sit in front of that window for hours, staring out at the tall grey buildings beyond, wondering about the lives of those strangers who come and go, come and go. Below me the street is quiet; most people who work around here empty out to the suburbs once six o’clock arrives.

In between the two tallest buildings a narrow sighting of Boston Common hangs like nature’s clock; browns, yellows, reds. In the summer it’s green. A few blocks down to my right the great Charles River flows, unhindered by market value. If I get right up against the glass and crane my neck, I can see the water glisten in the sunlight. Below the moon, it’s like black oil.

I drop my bag onto the coffee table, switch on the light and straightaway know something is wrong.

Someone has been in here.

I tiptoe into the middle of the room, my heart bouncing in my chest. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of place, everything seems okay. Holding my breath, I listen for the sound of someone moving, someone breathing. But there is no sound of life, just the usual clank from the archaic heating system.

The bedroom door is open so I stick my head in – just my head, I’m not going in alone. There’s no one there. Mom’s words must have me on edge.

Relax, Becca. Take a deep breath, make a strong cup of coffee.

The kitchen area is about four feet long and two feet wide, with everything squashed into it, including the kitchen sink. To make any kind of a decent meal I would have to be an especially dedicated member of Cirque du Soleil – which I’m not. Boiling water and reheating takeaways is about as much as I can pull off without doing myself damage.

Slipping off my jacket, I make for the kettle when I notice the pile of clothes neatly stacked on the floor beside the cabinet. What the…? Those clothes were on top of it when I left this morning. Someone was here. Someone searched the cabinet. My heart races as I sprint down the corridor, banging on Jeff’s door.

‘Jeff? Jeff!’