When I hit the switch, the place lights up, hospital-bright, but without that distinct low hum. It’s set up just how it was that night, but now I see a small note encouraging me to enjoy my stay. Curtains open to the tiny courtyard. I close them first. I feel vulnerable with all that darkness outside. My skin prickles, feels the cameras like eyes. Are they still there, watching me? What if they come for me now? I feel a stitch of fear. So different being here this time.

Somehow, impossibly, I’d briefly forgotten what Daniel did to me, what he did to Cain and now that I remember, I feel the anger and shame at myself again. It happened here, in this place.

I try to imagine the phone in Daniel’s hand again, video footage of us on his screen. We were here, in this room, pressed against this wall. The view angled down from the ceiling capturing part of the kitchen and the doors to the bathroom and bedroom.

I take a chair and drag it out from beneath the table, before climbing onto it to scan the ceiling for the camera. That night we were in such a hurry, but I would have noticed something conspicuous.

There’s a great big light fixture, black and baroque. It’s tasteless, oversized and doesn’t fit here. Reaching up, I use the torch app on my phone, shining it around the edge of the fixture, unsure of what I’m looking for but scanning until I see something. It’s a… camera? I peer closer, moving the phone so close that the light shines into the tiny cavity. It’s nothing. Just a hole. About the width of a knitting needle but it’s empty. It doesn’t make sense. A camera couldn’t fit there could it? It’s no smaller than the camera on my iPhone I suppose. He had showed me footage from the bed too. That is where I head next.