“Christ.” He looks stunned. Then he pulls himself together. “Jamie McCue.” He takes a step toward me and sticks his hand out as if at a cocktail party. I’m not quite sure what’s going on here, but I’m fairly certain burglars don’t normally introduce themselves . . . unless of course that’s what he wants me to think . . . “Ah,” he says after a moment, dropping his hand. “Well. Aye, fair enough.”

“Downstairs, please.” I adopt the tone I reserve for errant interns in the newsroom. “Into the kitchen, where you can explain to me why I shouldn’t call the police this very moment.”

He nods resignedly, and I move away from the stairs, keeping my distance from him and keeping him in sight at all times. Once he’s on the stairs, I dash into my bedroom and ditch the glass in favor of my phone, keying in 999 in readiness—though I don’t press dial just yet—and then I follow him down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, I grab an umbrella, keeping it half hidden against my side. Every step away from Carrie’s bedroom makes me lighter, more able to think clearly. I don’t think he has any idea there’s another person in the house.

He switches on the light as he enters the kitchen, and instantly the silver-gray oasis I enjoyed only minutes earlier is replaced by the relentless cheer of daffodil walls and bright red checked plastic table cover.

“Sit down.” I don’t say it as an invitation, but a command. I want him boxed in by the table, at a disadvantage if it comes to moving quickly. He pulls out a chair then sits, looking up at me searchingly as I remain standing near the door, the width of the table between us. He has a strong face, long and lean. The skin is taut over his cheekbones. His dark hair flops carelessly onto his forehead; he pushes it back and starts to say something, but I talk over him. “You’ve been here before.” Unlike myself, he knew exactly where the kitchen light switch was.

He sighs. “Aye.” He leans forward, propping his elbows on the table, focusing on me. This is his pitch moment—his chance to win me over, to stop me calling the police—and he knows it. “Look, I cannae apologize enough. I had no idea anybody was here—”

“That’s hardly an excuse. It’s still breaking and entering.”