“Will you excuse us a moment, Officers?” Steph’s usual polite tone was suddenly back.

One of the PCs said, “Of course.” Then there were footsteps followed by more quiet. Emma strained to hear if the police would say anything while Steph and Paul were presumably out of the room. The officers talked in lower voices about how they ought to proceed, given that they couldn’t record Freya as missing for another sixteen hours. “Is something going on here, though,” one of them hissed, only just audible, “with the parents?”

Before they could say more, the footsteps returned. Except one set kept moving, over Emma, until the slam of a door made the whole house quiver. A louder crash and a startled cry had her leaping up, banging her head. The noise had seemed to come from the stairs, or the hall. She scrambled out of the cupboard and dashed to her front door. Steph was sprawled at the bottom of the staircase, one hand flung against the wall, her fingers as white as the emulsion behind.

“Oh, God—are you all right?”

Steph just lay there, her body at one awkward angle, her head at another. She’s snapped her neck, Emma thought in sheer panic. Relief coursed through her (with a snatch of her mum’s voice accusing her of a dramatic imagination) when Steph sat up and began touching her face. Emma realized her neighbor was on the verge of tears: the kind jolted out by a slip or a shock but rooted in something else. Her cardigan had dropped off her shoulders and a large tortoiseshell hair clasp had landed on the stair behind her, its black teeth facing up.

Emma stepped closer. “Are you hurt?”

Steph seemed dazed. The foyer lightbulb flickered, adding to the surreal atmosphere. “I don’t think so.” She prodded at her ear and her finger came away stained with blood. Emma had a strange flash of déjà vu, but before she could pin it down, the door to the upstairs flat opened.

“Steph?” came Paul’s voice. His shadow stretched the length of the stairs, elongated by some trick of the light. “Shit, are you all right?”

Steph stared ahead, her eyes pink. “I slipped.”

“You’re bleeding!” Paul rushed down toward her. He was wearing work clothes, but with no shoes, his shirt crumpled. He stalled when he noticed they had company and Emma felt him taking in her blue, bed-matted hair, the Z tattooed on her ankle. Her dressing gown suddenly felt tiny and transparent, like a nightmare in which she realized she was naked in public.

Paul’s eyebrows knitted but he turned away from her, reaching for Steph’s shoulders. “Darling—”

Steph moved so his hands grasped the air. “Leave it, Paul. Go back to your private discussion.”