She had lived in this house for many years, but, in recent months, she had become increasingly convinced that someone was spying on her.

Audrina snapped shut the curtains, and in that flurry of movement, a pale pink peony petal from the vase on the windowsill floated to the floor.

The thud of a door closing.

Imaginary spiders crawled across the back of her neck. Heart pumping too hard, she groped in her bedside drawer for a knitting needle and spun around, hoping to find her husband, Cooper, in their bedroom, laughing at her fears, his pajamas smelling of pipe smoke.

But he was not there.

She let out a breath.

One of her greatest fears was a home invasion. She had read in the newspaper about an elderly woman a few streets away who was beaten up and tied to her bed while her bungalow was ransacked. Thrusting the needle forward, she heard another thump behind her.

A rush of adrenaline made her feel light-headed. Her world seemed to blank into nothingness. The roar of her heart filled her ears. Two or three minutes passed.

Another burst of laughter, and the strains of music. A boy’s voice crying out for his mother.

For a beat in time, Audrina was immobilized, and would not have been able to run even if she’d wanted to. But then, quite suddenly, she laughed out her fear. Of course. The new family next door. Relief made her shoulders sag.

She scanned the bedroom. All she could see were the polished oak of her chest of drawers, its bronzed handles and the willow-patterned jug and bowl atop a crocheted doily.

And a beanbag frog from Liberty that had belonged to her son a long time ago.

She took a step toward it.

Despite the stifling heat, goose bumps stippled her forearm. One hand clutched at her throat. The thunder of blood in her ears again.

The frog had been propped against a paperweight when she had come to get ready for bed; she was certain of it. She had not jogged the chest of drawers, had not even gone near it.

But now the frog lay facedown, its limbs splayed outward, a split up the seam of its fabric like a knife wound.

12

Sunday 29th July 2018, 11:02 P.M.

18 The Avenue

The signage was a dusty wash of burnt orange and blue and the letters had faded, but it did not matter. Even if passersby could not read the curling font that spelled out DOLL & FANCY DRESS EMPORIUM, the window display gave the game away.

The shop stood on the corner of The Avenue, as it had done for more than sixty years, in a modest parade that boasted a newsagent, a Laundromat, a café and a dry cleaner.

All windows were in Sunday-night darkness, but a light was just visible in the emporium, and the glow it threw down filled the dressing-up costumes with shadows that might have been people.

They were old, those costumes, but extravagantly made. A soldier’s uniform with a fraying cuff and heavy medals that might pass for the real thing. A dress handed down so many times that no one could remember its original owner, but with flounces and lace that fell apart when touched. The rusted metal of an astronaut’s helmet.