She managed not to swear until she’d hung up. Then she flung her phone across the room, where it landed in a box of 1920s jewelry and sank into its glittery depths. Suddenly Emma felt suffocated, felt heat coming off the leather handbags lined up along every baseboard.

It took her a moment to realize her phone was ringing again. Its vibration sounded metallic against the brooches and hairpins inside the box. She dug in her hand, praying the buyers had had a drastic change of heart within the last thirty seconds.

But it wasn’t her real estate agent.

“Zeb!”

She tried to tame her enthusiasm as she stabbed at the screen. There was no reply. A rustling came down the line.

“Zeb? Can you hear me?”

A buzz of voices now, faint and fragmented, and something like the clink of glass. Emma’s spirits dived again. He’d clearly pocket-called her. Why did it sound like he was in a bar? At eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning?

“Hello?” Frustration rose through her. “Zeb, are you there?”

There was a tinny echo on the line. She hung up and tried to call him back—once, twice, no answer—then sent a text: Just want to know you’re okay.

She watched as the Delivered notification appeared, but not the Read. With a growl she deliberately aimed for the box of jewelry this time, torpedoing her phone to the bottom.

—

She needed to get out of the house. Pulling on her scruffy running gear (how did the joggers around here always manage to look so glamorous?), Emma stuck earbuds into her ears, turned up her iPod, and escaped into the hallway.

“Oh!” She almost ran into two uniformed PCs just outside her door. “Sorry.” She pulled out the buds, feeling disrespectful even for thinking of listening to a frivolous post-punk playlist when her neighbors were into their second day of hell.

“Emma Brighton?” the male PC with the earnest face asked.

She nodded, dropped her earbuds, fumbled to scoop them up.

“Could we ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.” She stepped back inside and held the door for them. “Please . . .”

They squinted around, as if wondering whether all her boxes were stuffed with knockoff DVDs. She’d spilled Gilbert’s food earlier: Seeds were crumbled on the carpet where the police stood in their regulation black shoes. The woman had auburn hair in a neat bun, the man a slightly gangly way of holding himself that reminded her of Zeb.

“You may be aware that your neighbor Freya Harlow is unfortunately missing.”

She swallowed. “Yes. It’s horrible. Have there been any . . . ?”

“When did you last see her?”

“Erm, it would’ve been Thursday morning. I saw her out of my window, leaving for school.”