A wave of relief mixed with disappointment courses through me as I snatch up my phone. It’s a text from Will.

Hope you’re doing ok. Think there must be a full moon tonight, Year 11 are HELL today. What do you think of BG? x

I smile, despite my disappointment.

I’m sorry, I’m not a fan. I thought Gaius Baltar was really annoying. Sorry! x

There was a time when I would have pretended to love a TV show, a song or a book just because everyone else did, but not any more. My phone chirps almost immediately. Will must be in the loo; he never texts me during a lesson.

You need to give him a chance. He grows on you. Kind of like I did;)

I smile again, and immediately begin tapping out a response:

But you did—

I pause, thumb poised over the keypad as the sound of car tyres crunching on gravel drifts through the open window. The engine dies and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand up slowly and pad towards the window. The curtains are open so I stay close to the wall so I can’t be seen from the driveway below. A black VW Polo I’ve never seen before is parked outside my cottage. There’s no one inside.

I stand stock-still and wait for the doorbell to ring or knocks to hammer at my door. When none comes, I head for the bedroom then freeze, my heart in my mouth as I hear the kitchen floor creak under the weight of footsteps.

“Hello?” I stand at the top of the stairs and listen. Voices drift towards me. “Hello, who’s there?”

I glance at my phone but it’s just as I left it, mid-message to Will.

“Hello?” I creep down the steps and sigh with relief as I catch sight of the TV at the far end of the living room. Gaius Baltar and Starbuck are arguing over a card game. I must have left the DVD on pause and it restarted itself. I hurry down the last couple of steps then freeze again.

There’s someone in my kitchen, yanking open and slamming shut the drawers. I press 9-9-9 on my phone as the clatter and clank of forks, spoons and knives being rifled through fills the air. I hold the phone close to my chest, my thumb millimetres from the call button, and creep round the bottom of the stairs.

“Angharad!”

She jumps at the sound of her name and swings round, a six-inch carving knife in her right hand. The colour drains from her face and she takes a step backwards, her hand clutched to her chest.

“Jane! You scared me!”

I look from her to the front door, which stands several inches ajar, and shiver as a gust of icy wind blows into the cottage.

“What are you doing here?”