These are the things I am consoling myself with.

I watch as he turns on the tap to wash his hands. My wrists are sore from the duct tape and the hair over my eyes is tickling my face. But I lie dead still and focus on not moving. I can’t let him know I’m awake until I have figured out how to play this.

I piece together the room from what I saw when we came in and what I can see now through the thin veil of my hair. Because there’s a way out of everywhere, if you look hard enough. I just have to find it. A window to be broken, a heavy object to use as a weapon, something. I could probably use the thick fabric covering the windows to protect my arm while I break a window, if I could just get free. There’s nothing I could use as a weapon around me, but there are three flickering, dusty globes, buzzing from the wooden ceiling. If I could somehow reach them, maybe I could break them, use them…

I look down at the lumpy bed I’m lying on. It has sheets and a duvet cover with pale yellow daisies and that has to be good. It’s not a bare stained mattress. Sheets are humane. Sheets are hopeful. But also: it looks like a girl’s bedspread and that makes my stomach twist. Who did it belong to? Matilde? Some other girl they haven’t found yet?

But still, the milk.

The tea.

I watch him wash his hands, like germs are the most dangerous thing in the room, and think back to last Wednesday night: me watching Thomas through those flimsy curtains. A flash of him grabbing Mr Tall and Creepy by the throat. It seemed so protective back then, but now everything looks different. Because he wasn’t protecting me. He was protecting himself. He wanted to know who the hell I’d led to his house: the police, a journalist, who?

He didn’t want to get caught.

Shit.

The taps turn off and he moves back to the door and outside. I can hear him opening the car doors. Shutting the doors.

Oh god, what the hell is he doing out there? What’s he getting from the back seat?

A flash of the apricot sunset reflected by the Seine behind that bridge. That jacket. Matilde’s blonde hair shining. All caught on camera.

Was that why Thomas killed Sabine?

But how did he know she had caught him on video?

And my neighbour… how does she fit into all this?

And Agnès Bisset? Everything she’s been doing.

And Hyacinth. Will she run my story? Will they arrest Agnès? I think of the evidence I sent through. Everyone will think Agnès killed Sabine.

And so nobody will be looking for Thomas.

And nobody will be looking for me.