I stand up, my pulse thudding in my inner wrists, my eardrums, my neck, and run to the door. I reach for the handle and pull. Then push. It’s locked, of course it’s locked, and a door lock is not the sort of thing you can crack with an earring.

‘Fuck,’ I say out loud, moving over to the windows. I’ll break one with my elbow.

I tear the black cloth from the window at the rear of the cabin and get ready to shatter the glass.

But there is no glass beneath it.

There are wooden slats.

They’re screwed into the walls. A hundred little screws sparkle back at me.

My gaze snaps to the kitchen.

I may not be able to get out of here, but at least I’m free. I can fight.

I run over to the sink and open the cupboard beneath it. I’m looking for a weapon. Any sort of weapon. Maybe the chemicals he uses for developing film. But all I find are a bunch of sponges, some insect spray and a big bottle of bleach. I hold onto the counter as the room swirls around me, because bleach is what killers use to mask the smell of blood. To get it out of things.

I swivel, look to the drawers and pull them open one by one – a couple of plastic spoons, some small packets of wasabi and soy sauce, a few napkins. I pull open the next one, it’s filled with damaged and marred photographic prints.

I reach for the top one and look closer. A curtain takes up a fifth of the frame and it’s not entirely in focus but I can still make it out. Because I know that building, I know that window. I know that room.

And I know that girl.

It’s me.

It’s me taken from my neighbour’s window.

That’s how he found me. How he chose me…

My hand is trembling as I leaf through the others. The second one is an old, worn-out, black-and-white print of a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s around seventeen or eighteen, blonde, sweet looking. She’s wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of dark shorts. The focus is slightly off but she’s very clearly smiling down at the camera. Who is that girl? Where is she now? I flick through to the third photo and I only glimpse it for a split second before I drop them all to the floor. Because it’s of Matilde.

And she’s sitting on the bed in the corner of this very room. She’s tied to the frame. And she’s crying.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

I pull open drawer number three and all I find are little packets of sugar and tomato sauce. But beside them lies a blunt butterknife.