Thomas pulls his phone from his pocket, and shakes his head.

‘And there’s more,’ I say. ‘Elise has disappeared. She was in her room when Rosamund went out earlier, and now she’s gone.’

Thomas runs his hand over his beard. ‘Jeez. Is anyone else getting a sense of déjà vu here?’ There’s a twang of flippancy in his voice, but fear shows on his face. People handle shock differently, I tell myself.

Maddie walks from the kitchen with a tray of mugs. ‘Here you go,’ she says, passing them round. I admit I’m glad of the cuppa, the warmth of the mug in my hands. In fact, Maddie and Thomas’s lounge feels oddly cosy – the wood burner chugging out a healthy heat, a row of candles ablaze on the shelf above the fireplace, such a contrast to the bleak outside. But my body is tense. Ruth has been murdered.

Dad appears through the front door. ‘I’ve put a note on Rosamund’s door,’ he says, taking off his coat and hanging it up. ‘Said for her and Finn to make their way here when they get back. And I’ve picked up our phone chargers from our cottage too,’ he says to me, putting them down on the table. ‘We’ll charge our phones once the power’s back on.’

‘So where exactly are Finn and Rosamund?’ Maddie asks, settling herself in the armchair, as though about to watch her favourite TV drama.

‘Searching for Elise,’ I say. ‘And Ruth too, but obviously …’

‘I think we should stay together from now on,’ Dad says, putting his mug down. ‘Well, for tonight at least. We should all stay here. It’s for the best.’

‘Really?’ Thomas looks about him. ‘We’re all going to kip in here?’

‘It’s the biggest cottage, Thomas,’ I say. ‘If we stick together, we should be fine.’ I sound melodramatic, but in the circumstances I offer no excuse.

We lapse into silence as we drink our tea, before I finally put my empty mug on the table. ‘I could do with something stronger.’ I hate myself for even thinking it. I don’t want to get drunk. But a swift shot to calm my tattered nerves wouldn’t go amiss.

Dad rises. ‘I’ll get a bottle from our cottage, shall I?’ he says, heading for the door.

‘No, don’t be daft. I’m not that bothered,’ I say. It’s a complete lie. ‘Alcohol’s not the answer.’

‘Well, I’ve forgotten the question,’ he says, and I wish for a moment he wouldn’t encourage me.

Thomas makes the drumming sound people make at the end of a joke, which feels inappropriate somehow. But then what is appropriate? There’s hardly a guide on the ways to behave when you find a dead body.

‘The old ones are the best,’ Dad says dully, pulling his winter gear back on.