I turn, and make my way towards the lounge, gripping the worktops as I go. The dying embers in the wood burner cast a dim glow over the lounge. Rosamund is kneeling next to the coffee table, lighting candles with a shaking hand. And as the wicks flicker and burn I watch Finn switching his mother’s torch on and off.

Suddenly he jumps to his feet, agitated. ‘We need to look for them. Now.’

‘Finn’s right,’ Rosamund says, rising too. ‘Surely they can’t be far. Especially if one of them is injured.’ The words catch in her throat.

‘But it doesn’t make sense. If they left through the front door, there would be a trail of blood, wouldn’t there?’ My words make me shudder. There’s no blood down here or on the stairs. ‘We should check upstairs again before you go outside. It’s freezing out there, Rosamund. Think of your baby.’

Finn opens the front door, and within seconds they are both out in the cold night, where the wind is whipping up snow into mini blizzards. Finn pushes the door closed behind them without another word.

For God’s sake! They’re not thinking straight. We need to check the house thoroughly first. Look for clues as to what’s gone on here.

I stand, a strange sense of not being alone wrapping round my body. Is someone still in the house? I pick up one of the candles, my heartbeat quickening. I have to go back upstairs. What if one of them is hurt? Unconscious? Bleeding to death? My mind ticks over, trying to remember the first-aid course I did at work three months ago – how to do CPR. And now ‘Staying Alive’ plays in my head over and over, as I creep up the open-tread staircase, fearing someone will jump out when I reach the top, or step out of the shadows and attack me. The candle isn’t helping, casting dancing shapes around me. There’s no doubt my body is on high alert. Pulses, I didn’t even know I had, warn me of danger. Telling me to go back downstairs. To wait for Dad.

I’m halfway up when the wood under my feet creaks. I hear a cry, and within nanoseconds realise it came from me. I’m scaring myself half to death. I need to get a grip.

I grasp the banister, trying to stop myself shaking, the flame zigzagging across the landing ahead of me, picking out the blood we saw earlier.

I take a deep breath and head into the main bedroom, noticing a case on the floor. I guess this is Rosamund’s room, from the aroma of her perfume, and the sleeve of a silk blouse spilling from the case. The wardrobe stands open and empty. She hasn’t unpacked. The curtains are pulled across the window. The bed is made.