The man made a note and Emma felt uneasy again. Had she said too much, too little? Would any of this help Freya? Sometimes lately, she feared she’d lost the ability to make the right judgments. She’d begun to question her own instincts, on everything from the decision to sell her shop to the wording of her texts to Zeb.

And the silent calls to her landline. She couldn’t even trust her instincts on those. The first had come a few days ago, then another while Steph had been there last night and a third a few hours later, around one a.m. She’d been able to hear whispery breathing each time, painting her skin with goose bumps. But that didn’t mean they were a genuine concern, worth dwelling on amid everything else. Did it?

“One last thing,” said the male officer. “Your other neighbor, Chris Watson.” He gestured downward. “Did you happen to notice whether he was at home on Thursday afternoon? Whether his car was here?”

Emma frowned at the change in focus. She conjured a mental picture of Chris, whom she’d had only a little interaction with since moving into the building. Approximately early forties . . . wife was a nurse . . . That was all she could muster. He and Vicky seemed to keep a low profile on the street, aside from Chris’s branded car and the self-printed fliers he sometimes posted through letterboxes.

Or maybe she’d just never paid much attention to them, even though they lived beneath her. Evidently it was only the Harlows she’d developed a fascination with as her own life had deflated.

The police were waiting, pens poised.

“I can’t remember,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice if he was home or not. Is he . . . involved?”

“We’re just asking about people who know Freya.”

Emma had so many more questions, but the PCs were preparing to go. They cast a final swift glance around, then subtly wiped their feet on her mat, perhaps to dislodge the hamster food wedged in their soles.

—

After they’d gone, she rescued her phone from the swamp of brooches, even more anxious than before for a reply from Zeb. There was nothing on the screen except a vicious-looking scratch. Emma slid her finger up and down it, her thoughts tumbling with Freya and Steph and Paul and Chris Watson and Zeb. As her temples began to throb, she decided to take a walk instead of a run, still craving the outdoors but feeling slower, heavier, as if the police’s questions had added extra weight to her small frame.