An image of the woman I now know as Vanessa comes into sharp focus. Because it’s a lot easier to imagine that the intruder is her than my sister, who I last saw as a little girl in New York. But the glossy mane of golden hair I imagine Vanessa taking such care of when Jacob was under her control is now a dirty blonde, dishevelled mess. Her perfectly made-up eyes are now red-rimmed and circled by the dark shadows of sleepless nights. And her normally manicured and polished Rouge Noir fingernails have been gnawed to the quick in a fit of pique.

Having gotten to know her via her brow-beaten husband, I realize that Vanessa is not going to think for one minute that Jacob’s leaving is anything to do with her. She’s not the type to take the blame or accept responsibility for any part she may have played. This will all be Jacob’s fault and, if she knows about me, mine, for encouraging him to stand up for himself and leave the woman who’s made his life a misery for the past ten years.

Is that why she’s here? I wonder. To take me to task for giving Jacob a lifeline? Or is she here because she knows I know where he is? I shudder to think what she might do to make me confess.

My breath catches in my throat as I hear very definite footsteps coming down the stairs and I reach for the carving knife again. I don’t know whether to hide and hope that she just lets herself out, or confront her and deal with the consequences – whatever they may be.

I opt for somewhere between the two and move to stand behind the fridge, with my closed fist raised to chest level, ready to pounce with the blade if I need to. My lungs feel like the air is being forced in and out of them through a tiny pinprick of a hole, and my heart hammers through my chest, its deafening beat reverberating in my head.

I remember this feeling from when I was a child and my father would count to a hundred out loud as my sister and I scurried around the house, frantically searching for somewhere to hide, bumping into each other and arguing over the best place to take cover. I’d invariably end up lying down in the cold cast-iron bath, desperately trying to quell the tightening in my chest and the pounding in my ears. Yet despite my discomfort, I’d still beg to do it again. Though I can’t imagine I’ll be looking to repeat this grown-up version of hide and seek anytime soon.

The footsteps are getting nearer and I suck my breath in as I feel someone’s presence at the threshold to the kitchen. I push myself up against the fridge, desperately trying to make myself smaller and less visible.