“But actually it was where someone had ripped the necklace off,” Simon says immediately.

“Well, that’s your supposition,” Clarke says.

“There is another possibility,” I hear myself say.

“Yes?” Clarke says.

“Edward…” I find myself blushing. “I have reason to think he and Emma liked rough sex.”

Simon stares at me. Clarke merely nods. “Indeed.”

“So if Edward was with her that day—which I still don’t necessarily accept, by the way—it may just have been an accident that the necklace got broken.”

“Perhaps. I suppose we’ll never know now,” Clarke says.

Something else occurs to me. “Last time we met, you said there was no way of telling who’d entered the house immediately before Emma’s death.”

“That’s right. Why?”

“It just seems strange to me, that’s all. The house is set up to capture and record data—that’s the whole point of it.”

“You could raid their offices,” Simon says. “Take away their computers and see what’s on them.”

Clarke holds up a warning hand. “Hang on. I can’t do anything. I’m retired. And what you’re describing is an operation that would cost tens of thousands of pounds. It’s highly unlikely you’d get a warrant after so long. Not without very strong corroborating evidence.”

Simon smacks his fist down onto the table. “This is hopeless!”

“My advice to you is to try to put it behind you,” Clarke says gently. He looks at me. “And my advice to you is to hurry up and find somewhere else to live. Somewhere with good locks and an alarm system. Just in case.”

THEN: EMMA

I step under the shower. For a moment nothing happens. Then water cascades like rain from the massive showerhead. I lift my face to it, exultant.

Everything’s going to be all right.

I wash myself carefully for him, soaping all the intimate corners of my body that he might want to explore. Then, without warning, the water stutters and turns icy. I shriek and back away.

Emma, a voice says behind me.

I whirl around. What are you doing here? I say. I grab the towel off the rail and wrap it around me. And how did you get in?

NOW: JANE

“Your budget is how much?” Camilla doesn’t actually laugh, but she clearly thinks I’m deluded. “While you’ve been at One Folgate Street, the rental market’s gone crazy. Not enough houses, plus foreign investors piling into London property as a safe haven for their cash. You’d have to double that to get a two-bed now.” She gestures at the ads in the agency’s windows. “Take a look.”

On the way back to One Folgate Street I’d decided to take James Clarke’s advice and start flat-hunting. Now I rather wish I hadn’t. “A large one-bed would do. For the time being, anyway.”

“And you don’t even have the budget for that. Unless you’d consider a houseboat?”

“I’m going to have a baby. Soon to be a toddler. I don’t think a houseboat’s a great solution, do you?” I hesitate. “Are there other landlords who do what Edward does? Renting houses cheap to people who’ll look after them?”

She shakes her head. “The deal with Edward Monkford is unique.”

“Well, he can’t evict me while I’m still paying the rent. And I’m not leaving until I’ve found somewhere else.” Something in Camilla’s expression makes me stop. “What?”

“There are over two hundred rules in that agreement you signed,” she reminds me. “I just hope you haven’t broken any. Otherwise you’ll be in breach of contract.”

I feel an irrational burst of anger. “Screw his rules. And screw Edward Monkford.” I’m so furious I actually stamp my foot. Mother tiger hormones.

But for all my brave words, I know I won’t fight Edward on this. Since the conversation with Simon and James Clarke, I’m starting to feel something about One Folgate Street I’ve never felt before. I’m starting to feel scared.

THEN: EMMA

I kept the keycode, he says.

He takes a step toward me. His eyes are red and slightly wild. He’s been crying.

I told Mark I deleted it when I moved out, he says. But I didn’t. Then I used it to hack the system here. It was easy. A child could have done it.

Oh, I say. I don’t know what else to say.

I’ve been upstairs, he says. In the attic. I come in after you’re asleep sometimes and sleep up there. So I can be near you.

He points suddenly at my throat and I step back, frightened. That’s the necklace he gave you, isn’t it? Edward.

Yes. Simon, you have to go. I’m expecting someone.

I know. Simon pulls out an unfamiliar phone. Edward Monkford. Except you’re not. I sent that message.

What? I say, bewildered.

I took your phone one night last week and put this number on your contacts under his name, he says, almost proudly. So when I text you, it looks like it’s from him. I’ve deleted the messages now, of course. And this is a pay-as-you-go phone. So it can’t be traced.