The little hairs on the back of my neck are standing up on end as I try to make sense of things. I picture my neighbour in the bin room, cutting up boxer shorts. Was it him? Was Thomas the guy? The owner of the boxer shorts? Snip. Snip. Snip.

I saw her boyfriend in her room a couple of times. I try to remember what he looked like. But it was through her window, from a distance, and I didn’t really pay attention. It could have been Thomas. There was another time I saw them in the foyer downstairs but I rushed upstairs without making eye contact because I didn’t want to be drawn into conversation.

I strain to remember: tall, caramel hair.

Was that him?

It feels like something is squeezing the air from my lungs.

But what does this mean? It seems unlikely that he would date two women from the same building, doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t… things like that happen. In my experience of life six degrees of separation has always been more like three. I look around me, searching the room, like maybe there’s something I’ve missed, some vital clue to explain what the hell is going on. Something to flood my veins with calm. But as my eyes graze over the furniture – from sofa to bookshelf, to kitchen to bed, to painting – I find no solace. My eyes linger on that painting, the stern-looking man with his air of disapproval, the frills around his neck. I turn back to the desk. There are two drawers to the left. I open the top one – I don’t know what I’m looking for but I scour through the contents anyway. It’s just a pile of envelopes neatly organised against one side, some coins in a shot glass, a few pens and bills with handwritten notes like PAID on them. I open the next one, but it’s just more of the same.

Shit.

I look back to the computer. Think of the messages I’ve just seen. And something deep inside me screams: Leave.

I eject the hard drive and turn the computer off. I don’t know how I’m going to avoid the man waiting for me outside, but I’m pretty sure I saw a back entrance. It probably leads to a garage. I can go that way. I can go home and he’ll still think I’m here.

I drop Sabine’s drive into my bag and slip on my shoes. Then I reach for my coat behind the door.

I hold it behind me, putting on one arm, then the other, my eyes on the floor as I move. It’s only as I look up, ready to twist the doorknob, that I see it.

Or rather the side of it.

It was hanging under my coat, on the back of the door.

A bomber jacket.