‘And you think I’m the snooper!’ I say, my voice not quite as light as I’d hoped. She shoots me a look. We’re not totally out of the woods. ‘Okay, fair enough. This way.’ I lead her down the corridor, pushing the door open to the kitchen, feeling around on the wall for the switch. It flickers a few times before eventually kicking into life, bringing with it the sound of a gentle electric buzz. The room feels different to when David and I were here. The pots with teabags and sugar have gone from the side. The sink is clear of washing-up liquid and the yellow marigolds she put on as she cleaned up.

‘Can you see if there are any bin bags anywhere? Under the sink, maybe? We could empty her bin for her.’ Kat opens the fridge. ‘Oh…’

‘What is it?’

She crouches down, looking right into it. ‘There’s nothing in it,’ she says.

I move around the breakfast bar, as if I really need to check for myself. ‘Nothing?’ I reach my hand in.

‘Nothing. Not a thing. It’s on, and it’s cold, but there’s no sign of it ever having had food in.’ She reaches in, wiping the shelf. Our hands brush as I take mine out. She stands and sniffs her palm. ‘Clean. Lemony.’ She frowns. ‘Who has an empty fridge like this?’ Her face morphs from confusion to concern, which grows as she begins opening cupboards. Each one empty. ‘There’s nothing.’ She opens door after door. ‘Not a thing. I mean, we all have out-of-date tins in our cupboards, don’t we! Look, Rhys. Look around you.’ She stands upright again, hands on hips. ‘This,’ she says. ‘This, here. It’s not how people live.’

‘You haven’t seen my house,’ I say, trying to joke, even though I’m beginning to understand what she’s suggesting.

‘Immaculate house without obvious signs of inhabitants is one thing – I mean, not my thing, but I’ve seen in those magazines, it can be a thing. But empty cupboards? Empty fridge?’

‘Maybe she was going on holiday?’ I say, trying out the lie.

‘What, so she cleared the entire kitchen of all contents? How many holidays do you go on and do that?’

‘I don’t know when I last went on holiday.’ I reach for a cupboard, again to check for myself, revealing more bare shelves. We look around at a kitchen that reflects the rest of the house in all its dated but immaculate glory. Maybe glory is the wrong word. This place is more sterile, and less loved. Her old white enamel cooker is free of stains or marks. Her melamine kitchen worktops are clear of anything whatsoever. Glass sliding shelves are the only thing to contain something: beige and brown crockery, stacked up neatly from large to small.

‘It’s like a show home or something,’ I say, running my finger along the sparkling drainer.

Kat looks around her. ‘It’s sad…’ she says quietly, moving towards the archway leading to the dining room. ‘It’s desperately, desperately sad.’