I glance at my watch. “Just gone eight.” Two in the morning in Louisiana. I check my phone again: Jonathan hasn’t texted me back, or called. There’s still nothing to be read into that.

She grimaces. “I’m cutting it fine.” She takes a sip of her coffee and momentarily closes her eyes, savoring the taste. There’s no apparent sign of the time pressure forcing her into action. The aroma of her coffee wafts across to me, but something else has become tangled in there, something stale lurking beneath the warm scent of the roasted grounds—

“Do you smoke?” I blurt out in surprise.

“Mmm? Oh no, I could never stomach the smell.” Sleep lies like a fog around her; it takes a moment for her brain to process my confused expression. “Oh, the ashtray. Not mine.” She points to the kettle, and her words finally make sense to me: there is a small brown earthenware ashtray on the counter beside the kettle. I stand up to inspect its contents; it’s filled to the brim with cigarette butts. Carrie is still speaking behind me. “I guess it was left over by whoever rented this place last. I found it on the windowsill in my bedroom, but on the outside.”

Left over by whoever rented the Manse last. Perfectly plausible, but my mind has skittered back to my would-be-charming night visitor: She has a thing about this place. Sometimes I find her here. Usually in the big bedroom upstairs. I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline: before I even have time to process the intention, I’ve grabbed the ashtray and dropped it in the bin. I sit back down opposite Carrie, my heart still thumping.

“Well, I guess you really don’t like smokers.” She has pulled the sleeves of her dressing gown over her hands, and she covers her mouth with both hands as she yawns. It looks like she’s stifling a scream. “Is it still called a windowsill if it’s on the outside?” she muses.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Never mind. Just my brain waking up.”