‘It’s nice down here,’ I respond. That’s not the only reason. After finding that photo I’ve been terrified in the house, like someone is out there waiting to spring another surprise on me. Down here it’s isolated, quiet, private. And I want to tell him about the baby, talk about our future, practise being a family in a home we actually own. I know it’s early and I know we can still lose the baby but I want him to feel the excitement. Our plans are back on track.

My period hasn’t come, it’s days late. I can finally let go of all the doubt, all the fear that it’s just in my head. I feel like I should be wrapped in cottonwool, buried beneath blankets, mindful of keeping myself and this cluster of cells inside me safe. It’s growing. It’s mine.

‘Why don’t you want to stay?’ I ask him.

He shrugs one shoulder, his other arm is straight out before him holding the wheel.

‘I guess it’s just a pain to change sheets twice and clean up after ourselves. And like I said, it’s going to bucket down tonight.’

‘It’s nice sleeping out here when it’s raining,’ I say.

‘Maybe you’re right. I guess it would be nice to stay.’

Along our road, with the swaying ferns and native bush on one side, glimpses of the shimmering lake through the trees on the other, I get that same feeling I had last time. I’m silent as we pass the spot, at the bend where the cliff drops away to the lake and the new rail is. The house could be in any state. I imagine it trashed, scratches deep in the floorboards, burn marks on the rug, stained sheets. WeStay holds the bond for ten days after checkout but that doesn’t help when it’s only one thousand dollars. You could lose tens of thousands of dollars in one weekend. Flood the upstairs bathroom, rot the floorboards, steal the furniture. Burn the house down and leave the country. Not for the first time this week I think about my grandfather, his silver ponytail, skin spotted but eyes still sharp all the way to the end. How would he feel knowing the place was being filled and emptied with strangers every week?

Cain parks beneath the deck, and cranes his head up. ‘You can’t see anybody from here?’ he says, grinning.

‘Don’t joke, Cain. It’s not funny.’ Ever since that night I thought I saw a man near the lake, he’s taken every opportunity to remind me of my paranoia. If only he knew that I have a real stalker, someone who knows my secret, my phone number and address. What would you do then, Cain?