Dressed in a dark suit, his shirt open at the neck, Leon scowls at me. ‘I’m not here,’ he replies, crossly. ‘I mean, I’m just walking up the street. I didn’t come to see you, if that’s what you think.’ His face suddenly creases with concern. ‘What happened to you, Lizzy? You look like you’ve been in an acci…’ He breaks off, frowns and raises his hands like he’s surrendering. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’ Leon Whittaker stops talking, walks around me and carries on up the road.

I watch him stride away, relieved I don’t have to talk to him, then I realise I’ve left the shop unattended, so I hurry back down the street and into Georgio’s with my head down, making for my safe space behind the counter to await Pippa’s return.

The afternoon passes slowly, but I stay tucked away in the stockroom for most of it while Pippa deals with the customers. As a consequence, I’m able to catch up on all the invoicing and ordering, and my desk is totally, satisfyingly clear by the end of the day. So at least that’s one good thing. Tomorrow I might even make a start on sorting out the filing cabinets – something I’ve been meaning to do for months.

After closing time, I take Pippa up on her offer to accompany me to my car. It’s not a very Pippa-ish thing to do, so I’m grateful. I decide that tomorrow will be the day I speak to her. It’s for her own good as well as mine.

Driving home makes me feel nauseous, the interior of my car still reeks of bananas. Even with the window rolled right down, I can’t get away from the smell. Yesterday, CSI swept my car and the front porch for prints and clues, but I haven’t heard whether they found anything or not. Apparently these things take time.

Back home, I hear the water running upstairs. Joe must be in the shower. He was supposed to be out this evening with the lads from the garage. It’s Brycie’s birthday and they’re all going to The Crown after work for drinks and then on for a curry. Joe told me he would give it a miss, that he was happy to stay in with me after everything I’ve been through. But I told him he should go – despite not really meaning it. I made light of things, saying I’d be quite happy to be in sole charge of the TV remote followed by an early night. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Said there was no way he was going to leave me at home alone. Now that I’m home, I’m grateful he’s here. Even with him upstairs, I can’t relax.

The air inside the cottage has grown stale and warm with no breeze to freshen things up. Frank follows me around while I push open the windows. I’m not reckless enough to open all of them – just the small ventilation ones that are too inaccessible for Frank to get out of, and too tiny for any person to get in through. Poor Frank has been cooped up inside for days, but I daren’t let him out, not while there’s a psycho on the loose. I’ve been meaning to buy a fan, but I know that as soon as I get one, the weather will turn cold and the fan will get shoved in the loft.

The creak of the shower screen opening lets me know that Joe has finished showering. My turn next. I’m going to have a cool shower, get into my PJs and then we can curl up on the sofa with dinner on our laps, catching up with our box sets. The thought of it calms me a little.

‘Hi, Joe!’ I call up the stairs.

There’s no reply, so I make my way upstairs and peer round the bathroom door. It’s full of steam, but no Joe.

‘Joe?’ Frank is at my heels and I almost trip over him. ‘Bloody hell, Frank, are you trying to kill me, or something?’

‘Lizzy? That you?’ Joe calls out from the bedroom.

I push open the door to see him pulling on a clean T-shirt. ‘Hi. Did you have a good day?’

‘Yeah, not bad. You?’ He comes over to kiss me.

‘I was a bit paranoid. But it was okay. Spent most of the day hiding out the back in the stockroom.’

Joe pulls me into a hug. ‘Poor you.’

‘I’m all right. Just gonna have a shower, okay?’

‘Cool. I’m going downstairs for a beer. See you in a few minutes.’

In the steamed-up bathroom, I stuff Joe’s damp, discarded towel into the laundry basket, strip off my work clothes and step into the bath which also doubles up as a shower. Turning the temperature down, I let the water run in a gentle stream so it doesn’t sting my grazed skin. I probably shouldn’t be getting my scabs wet, but I can’t go a second day without a proper shower – not in this heat.

Once I’m nicely cooled down, I step out of the bath and pat myself dry before pulling on a pair of pink-and-white striped cotton PJs. I feel like a new person. Almost like I’ve washed away some of the terror that’s been simmering. I know this is probably a temporary reprieve but I’m enjoying it while it lasts.

Back in the bedroom, I towel-dry my hair, then run a comb through my damp locks. I can’t face making a full-on proper dinner tonight. Instead, I’m going to slice up some cheese and pickles and have them with crackers. If Joe wants anything more, he’ll have to sort it out himself. Finally, clean and dry, I make my way back downstairs.

Halfway down the staircase, my feeling of well-being is shattered. There, on the doormat below sits a white rectangle. I stop. Grip the banister with my left hand. Taking a breath, I reason that it could be anything. Just a random piece of junk mail. But I know it isn’t. I know it’s something that will disrupt my evening and ruin my sleep. Something that will get my heart speeding and my guts churning. I wish I could ignore it. Burn it. But the need to see what’s written is too strong.

I run back upstairs, go into the bedroom and slide out one of the storage bags from under our bed. I unzip it and root around my carefully folded winter clothes until I find a pair of gloves. They’re purple suede, my favourite pair. But as I pull them on, I realise that I’ll never enjoy wearing them again.

‘Joe!’ I hurry back down the stairs, realising that instead of searching for gloves, I should have yanked open the front door to try to catch sight of whoever delivered the letter. It’s probably too late now. ‘Joe!’

‘What is it?’ He steps out of the kitchen, a can of lager in his hand.

I point to the envelope on the doormat, my finger shaking.

‘Is that…?’

‘I think it’s another one.’ I bend down, pick up the envelope in my gloved hand and yank open the door, stepping barefoot onto the path and staring up and down the road. Joe comes to join me. Frank tries to run past my legs, but I scoop him up and shut him in the lounge before returning to the front path. Joe runs out into the middle of the street and looks one way, then the other. Someone is getting out of their car further down, across the way – a woman and two young kids. But she doesn’t look in our direction. She’s laughing and the kids are carrying balloons. I doubt she’s the person who’s threatening me.

‘I can’t see anyone suspicious,’ Joe says.

‘Did you see the letter when you came downstairs after your shower?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘It definitely wasn’t there then.’

‘So the person must have delivered this only minutes ago.’

‘Wait here.’ Joe starts jogging up the road. ‘I’ll see if I can spot anyone,’ he calls.

Stepping back inside, I gaze at the letter and turn it over, expecting to see my name emblazoned on the front like all the others. But I frown when I see whose name is actually written in that same blue swirly handwriting:

It’s addressed to my sister! I blink, trying to clear my vision in case I’m having some kind of weird episode and am reading it wrong. But there’s no mistake. This letter is addressed to Emma. Does this mean it really is something to do with her? Is she doing this to confuse me? Or did my stalker make a mistake? Is it someone who knows us both and accidentally wrote down the wrong name?

I open the envelope and pull out two pieces of white paper. It looks like it was originally a single sheet, but it’s been torn in two. I hold the pieces together to join two halves of a single word:

So this stalker knows I have a sister. But why is that important? What is it about my sister that they’re interested in? Unless this really is from Emma, and she’s playing some twisted game with me.

I set down the envelope and torn letter on the hall table and take my mobile phone out of my bag. I’m going to ring Emma to see if she knows what the hell is going on. I haven’t called my sister in years, so I hope she has the same mobile number. I remove one of my gloves, swipe the screen and press contacts. But before I can scroll down to find her name, a call comes through. The caller’s name flashes up on the screen.

It’s Emma.