As though telepathically linked to that drawing on my wrist, the one I’m still trying to rub off, there’s an Instagram message on my screen from Noah.

We need to talk. Call me. My number is +1 (917)…

My heart beats quickly in my chest – she’s such a little traitor – as I read the words again. But then it registers: his number begins with +1. He’s given me a US number. Of course he has. He’s probably got two phones, like every cheating husband in the history of the world.

So I don’t care what he has to say; no way am I calling him back.

Instead, I put in my earbuds, scroll through to a murder podcast and press play.

The metro is right there in front of me – a red and white sign in the dark. The streets are relatively quiet, and the air is chilled as I move with a few other people down the stairs that smell of damp and urine into the fluorescently lit station. And as I push through the cold metal turnstiles and head to the platform to catch my train home, the narrator tells me the story of yet another woman who went missing without a trace.

Chapitre onze

My phone beeps as I rush down the stairs and the chandelier light flicks on. I’m carrying a bag of rubbish in one hand and my phone in the other. It’s just gone 8.14 am so I’m late.

I press the release button and push open the door downstairs and head across the courtyard to the room with the bins.

The door is already open and, as I get closer, I can hear something coming from inside. A low mew. A kitten? I move inside and look around but it’s not a kitten. It’s my neighbour. The one with no curtains. She’s wearing a big pink jumper, her wavy dark hair in a low bun. Her back is to me, her shoulders hunched forward. They’re shuddering. She’s crying.

Shit.

I start to back out quietly – somehow intruding on her crying feels so much more invasive, so much more intimate, than seeing her lie naked on her bed touching herself. And we’ve never had a conversation. I don’t even know her name.

I hold my rubbish bag away from me so it doesn’t rustle as I edge out the door. But then she lets out a proper sob. A desperate, gasping-for-breath sort of sob. And something twinges inside me. Because I know that kind of sob too well. I can’t just leave her here like this.

‘Bonjour,’ I say, my tone unsure.

She turns to look at me; her eyes smudged with mascara. ‘Bonjour.’ She smiles, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffing loudly before turning away again.

She doesn’t want to talk about it. I should go.

And so I lift the lid, drop my rubbish into the bin and quickly turn to leave but, just as I get to the door, the sobbing starts up again in earnest.