We sit up for hours, just talking, like we used to. I admit how lonely and isolating it’s felt, always having my barriers up in case I get hurt. I tell him why I’ve always been a bit obsessed with the Powell family, never having much family of my own. Margot was the mother I wish I’d had, Heather and Flora the sisters. I tell him about my guilt for never revealing to Margot or Heather (until now) that I saw Flora the morning she disappeared and that she was off somewhere with Dylan.

‘And now I feel someone is watching me,’ I say, explaining about the photographs and the figure standing outside our building. ‘Maybe even more than one person. At first I thought it was Wayne Walker – the man I was telling you about from London. But I don’t think it is. It’s something to do with the story I’m working on. Why else would they write “Back off”? And then someone pushed a bus ticket through the letterbox.’ I get up and go to my bag to show him.

Rory’s face grows more concerned. I sit down again and hand him the bus ticket. ‘And sometimes I think it’s Adam who’s following me – Heather’s husband,’ I clarify, when he looks confused. ‘Other times I’m convinced it’s Wayne Walker. I’ve even begun to suspect Jack.’

‘Jack?’

‘Because the photos were taken when we were together. He’s so ambitious. I have a feeling he wants to move into reporting instead of taking photos. He’s good. He worked out that Heather’s husband had written this threatening note …’ I fill him in on that, too. It’s a relief to tell him everything.

When I’ve finished he takes my hand. ‘Come on,’ he says, leading me into the bedroom. It’s dark outside, and the light is off. Rory doesn’t reach for the switch. Instead he leads me to the window. The curtains are open and the full moon makes it easy to see across to the derelict building. He squints to get a better look.

I stand beside him. We’re still holding hands. ‘Usually there’s a person with a torch. And they shine it right into the bedroom. And it always seems to be when I’m alone,’ I whisper.

‘They could just be squatters,’ he replies, in the same low voice.

‘I think whoever it is posted this bus ticket to me. They’re trying to tell me something, I think. Or scare me. I’m still not sure. I’ve never seen anyone coming in or out, just a shadow moving behind the windows, and the torchlight.’ And then I laugh. ‘Why are we whispering?’

He laughs, too. It’s such a lovely sound and I feel so happy and safe beside him that, for the moment, I no longer care who’s watching me.