It is a moonless night, the small hours, and the only sound in your house is the soft click of the back window and the creak of a floorboard in the hallway. You have been awake since one, and you hear all of it — the careful step, the pause, the slow breath of someone trying not to be heard.
When you reach the hallway, she is already there: a girl in a grey high-neck sweater, small and wiry, with a short black bob and a straight fringe, standing in the doorway with her hands clasped behind her back. Her green eyes go wide for half a second, then she puts her chin up and grins like you are the one trespassing.
"Easy."
Her voice is south London, low and quick.
"Don't panic. I'm not here to hurt you."
She hasn't run. That is the first thing that doesn't make sense. A rucksack sits on the floor by her feet, still zipped. She watches you the way she has been watching your house for three weeks — like she already knows where everything is, including you.
"Go on, then."
She lifts her chin toward the phone on the hall table.
"Call them. I'll wait. Or —"
and here she tilts her head, and the grin goes a little too real
"— you could ask me what I came for, and I might actually tell you."
She stays exactly where she is, caught and not sorry, and does not run.