“I’m not sure exactly.” I look at my coffee in its too-slender mug and try to create a plan. What to say, what not to say, how to be. The interviewer’s dilemma: what is the right question and how should it be asked? “I’m worried you might think I’m overreacting. I probably am overreacting.” It’s easy enough to see why Ali might hate me, why he might be stirred into acts of pure hostility. It’s less easy to see why Ben would do any such thing. Unless he wants to buy the Manse so badly that he’s willing to scare me into selling . . . Oddly, that’s quite a reassuring thought. If that’s the aim of the harassment, then I’m surely not in any real danger.

“We promise to be nonjudgmental,” says Ben, with a ghost of a smile. There’s concern in his eyes. I can believe that he’s worried about me, that he wants the best for me. He must be an excellent guest liaison up at the hotel.

I put down my coffee mug. In for a penny, in for a pound. “The night we got here, there was an intruder.” I’ve got the attention of both of them. “It turned out to be Jamie.” Ben’s mouth is slightly agape, and Ali’s eyes are still for once, fixed on me. “He was looking for Fiona. Apparently she comes here sometimes, has some kind of obsession with the place.” Ben has started to protest, but I cut him off. “Even her dad said so. She was born here, in the dining room.” I find I’m shuddering, thinking about that carpet stained with blood and amniotic fluid . . .

“I didnae ken that,” murmurs Ali, but I forge onward.