For a brief moment of lunacy, a hope flares in me (Can he really be here? Has he been here all along, all these years?), but common sense douses that flame almost instantly. The adrenaline is already coursing through every inch of me; my skin is crackling with it. Fight or flight? I wouldn’t hesitate to flee except this man is only paces from Carrie’s doorway. I can’t see clearly in the dim light—now I’m cursing the ridiculous flights of fancy that led me to leave the light off—but I have the impression of a young man, perhaps six feet; certainly several inches taller than myself. He’s facing the door of the master bedroom—Carrie’s bedroom—and even as my brain gallops through possible weapons (Knife from the kitchen? An umbrella from the hallway? Or even just throwing the glass I’m holding at him?), I’ve run out of time: he’s turning his head toward me.

As we stare at each other, I have the impression of shocked gleaming eyes, and then I drop the toilet roll and reach out a hand, with astonishing certainty given my earlier ignorance, to find the light switch at the top of the stairs. He blinks and hunches away instinctively from the sudden flood of yellow light. I’m cataloging him for a police report: younger than I, late twenties perhaps, dark haired, dark eyed, clean-shaven with a completely nonplussed expression. He doesn’t look like a burglar, and there’s no crazed drug-addict look about him, either. He’s not even dressed for a bit of light breaking and entering: his pale gray wool jacket is far too visible to be a sensible choice, and the jeans he’s wearing look designer. But there’s no question he’s much bigger than I am—probably much faster, too—and he’s horribly close to the room where Carrie is sleeping, peacefully oblivious. Carrie. Please don’t wake up, Carrie. Stay safe.

“You’re trespassing.” I mean to say it mildly, as I don’t want to antagonize him until I know what I’m dealing with, but my heart is thumping in my ears and I misjudge the tone; my words are sharply accusatory.

“Um. Christ. Yeah.” He clears his throat and straightens up, running a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not a burglar or anything . . . Shit, this is awkward.”

“I’ll say.” I register his accent: Scottish, from these parts I would guess. “What are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”

“Your house?” He blinks again.

“Yes, my house. You are in my house.” Is he deranged? Does he not know where he is?

“As in . . . You’re Martin Calder’s daughter?”

“The very same.”