Fran struggles to move into a sitting position. Renata is on the sofa near the window; clutching a cushion, her legs tucked to one side, a knife resting on the arm of the sofa. Behind her, the blinds are closed and the only light in the room is from two large, white candles, flickering on the mantlepiece. The light catches the steel of the knife, making it glint.

‘Hngh.’ Fran grunts. She nods her head towards Renata then grunts again when the young woman doesn’t move. Why isn’t she using the knife to free her? Is she scared? Is that why she looks so expressionless? It there someone else in the room?

A low grunt from Fran’s right makes her shuffle around. Tom is lying on the carpet a couple of metres away, his wrists and ankles trussed, his mouth sealed with tape.

He strains to sit up and slumps against the second sofa, breathing noisily through his nose, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. Somehow he manages to place both feet on the floor, but as he straightens his legs they give out beneath him and he tips sideways, landing with a thump. He gives a guttural moan of frustration then lies still.

‘Please don’t struggle, Tom,’ Renata says softly. ‘It’s important that you listen.’

Tom closes his eyes.

‘You can block me out,’ Renata says, and this time there’s an edge to her voice, ‘but I know you can hear me.’

Her attention is so entirely focused on Tom that Fran risks a glance around the room. Beside the wood burner is a cast iron fireplace tool set. The broom, shovel and tongs are still hanging in place but the poker is lying on the hearth. It would explain the thwack she heard from the porch and the thump as Tom hit the ground.

There’s little else of interest in the room – a carriage clock on the mantlepiece, a television on a glass and wood stand, two wicker chests arranged on top of each other in the corner of the room and, on the window sill behind Renata’s head, what looks like a replica oil lamp. Nothing Fran could use to pick away at the tape around her hands, not unless she could get to the poker, or the knife.

‘Geraldine!’

She jolts as Renata barks her name.

‘You need to pay attention, too.’

Fran raises her eyebrows then grimaces as the base of her skull starts to throb painfully.

‘I’m sorry I had to do this to you, Tom,’ Renata says, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands. ‘I did try to talk to you in the car but you weren’t interested in talking about Kate. Finding Jenna was more important to you than mending your marriage and that … that really hurt, Tom. And if it hurt me, imagine how Kate would feel?