Turning her attention back to the lock-box, she noticed it gleamed in the light and was clear of dust. She reached for the lid, but it was locked. She looked for a key but there was none. She shook the box, and a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. It was too hot in here, too tight, too strange. She felt like she was suffocating and hurried back to switch off the power board. In the fading glow of the bug zappers, she dropped down the manhole, birthing through it, feet first.

In the minutes it took her to replace the manhole cover and pack away the stepladder, she convinced herself that all the answers she had come here for were locked inside the metal box. She set it down on the kitchen table and fetched the toolbox out from under the sink. Inside were a few loose bolts, an IKEA screwdriver set, a dried-up old tube of superglue and a claw hammer.

She tried the screwdrivers first, experimenting with different sizes and head shapes. She jammed, stabbed and wiggled each into the locking mechanism, but it didn’t give. Next, she tried the hammer. She took it in her right hand, held the box steady in her left, then brought the hammer down. Her first attempt was weak; pathetic. She was being too cautious. Her second swing was hard. It came down on the lid with a crying clink. A shockwave reverberated all the way up her arm. Her blow left a shallow dent in the lid of the box, but it remained locked.

‘Damn it,’ she said, swinging the hammer a third time, more out of frustration now. The tip of the head caught the index finger on her right hand, and a dart of pain shot through her system. She yelped, dropped the hammer and threw the box across the room in anger. It shot out of the kitchen and into the hallway, struck the wall and fell to the floor in a shower of plaster dust. A triangular chunk was now missing from the wall, but the damn box was still locked.

Feeling hot rage, crushing sadness and actual physical pain, she began to sob, quietly at first, then madly. She folded to her knees, collapsed against the linoleum floor and let everything inside her spill out. Then, through wrenching, gasping tears, Kate screamed.

When she got back to the car, Kate was surprised to see a man standing beside it, cupping his hands to look through the tinted windows. The man had parked his own vehicle – a work truck – directly behind hers. Maintenance was printed down one side. Kate had seen the same truck the day before, idling outside the house. She hadn’t been able to make out the driver, but now she saw it was a man in his late thirties or early forties.

‘Can I help you?’ Kate asked nervously.