I falter at the front door, nervous to put my key in the lock. I still haven’t let go of the idea there’s a missing thirteenth viewer, hiding in the house. I’ve tried. Apart from me believing I’d counted thirteen go in, and only twelve leave, there’s no evidence to confirm my suspicion.

I push the key in the lock and open the door.

There’s no evidence to categorically refute it, either.

It’s eerily quiet when I step inside. Too quiet. I can’t even hear the deep, struggling thrum of the fridge. I don’t close the door, and I stay right beside it. I want an unimpeded exit if required. Even the street outside seems uncharacteristically quiet. All the kids are still at school, though – I guess it’s a time I’m not usually at home. Still. It adds to my uneasiness. The fact, too, that I’ve managed to make it this far without Davina hollering across the road at me is incongruent.

Why is it so quiet?

I try to reason with myself that the silence is a good thing. If someone was inside, I’d be able to hear them. No one could keep themselves this quiet – I can literally hear the drip of the tap from the upstairs bathroom. I exhale long and slow, then turn to close the door.

Just to put my mind to rest, I go to the kitchen – I’ll grab a knife from the block and check each room of the house to be sure. The silence in the kitchen is all wrong. I open the fridge. No light. Shit. It’s finally packed up. I wanted it to last until I was ready to leave. But then I realise it’s not the only noise that’s missing. I check the freezer, then switch on the lights. Nothing.

A power cut.

I almost laugh. I’ve allowed my imagination to carry me in the wrong direction yet again. How long has it been off, though? As I’m about to nip outside to ask a neighbour, something catches my eye in the lounge. For a moment, I can’t figure out what’s wrong; something is off, but I’m not sure what. There’s a different feel about it. It seems bigger, somehow.

My legs weaken and I back up to the wall, leaning against it for support.

The solid-wood coffee table has been moved. It’s no longer in front of the three-seater sofa, it’s beside it, underneath the window.

My eyes dart around the room, quickly assessing whether anything else is out of place. I don’t think it is.