The opportunities to do something clever had been limited since the drama began. Malin was still overwhelmed with despair as she recalled their first few weeks in this . . . prison. They had tried to stay awake at night, tried to work out how they were going to escape from the house, reach the outside world. They had attempted to talk to the man who’d abducted them, they had shouted and wept, begged and pleaded. But nothing had worked. It was impossible to leave the house, and the man refused to grant them any kind of amnesty – a realisation that could paralyse the strongest warrior.

Dan was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of warm milk. He was pale and hollow-eyed, more haggard than the rest of the family. It infuriated Malin. What gave him the right to feel so fucking sorry for himself?

‘Does that taste nice?’

She tried to hide the venom in her tone.

‘Yes. It’s delicious.’

So far the summer hadn’t been too hot, which Malin saw as a blessing. The heat would have made being in the house even more intolerable.

‘Good. I’m very pleased. Because you took the last of the milk. And we don’t know when we’ll get any more.’

Dan looked up, almost dazed, as if his brain was incapable of processing what she’d said. That frightened her. She couldn’t face being the only adult in the house whose sanity was intact.

‘I thought there was another litre in the fridge.’ His voice was hoarse; he had spoken so little lately.

Malin pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘You were wrong.’

She yanked open the fridge door and checked the contents of the half-empty shelves. Eggs, two cartons of juice, butter, cheese . . .

We won’t starve. Not yet.

The fear came in waves, threatened to drown her. Her eyes filled with tears, scalding like acid.

‘Do we know when the next delivery is due?’

Dan’s only response was a shrug. Malin made a mark on the bread board with the knife each morning; it was their only way of counting the days. They lived in a restricted world with no clocks or watches, but several knives. And items that had been put there to make the place feel homely. Potted plants, for example. On one occasion she had picked up the largest of them and hurled it at the living-room window with all her might. The pot was smashed to pieces, but the window was undamaged.

‘Did you really think it would be that easy?’

She hadn’t noticed her son standing behind her, so his question struck her like a bullet in her back.

Did you really think it would be that easy?

No, of course not. But we have to try, don’t we?

And they had to keep on trying.

She closed the fridge door.

‘We need to work out a plan. Try to get out of here.’