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‘He’s quiet now,’ Mary said.

‘Probably made friends with whoever it is. If it is someone. Or he could have been dreaming.’

Did dogs dream? Did they run through fields full of slow, easily caught squirrels, or have a new owner who wanted nothing more than to rub their bellies in every waking moment?

‘I’m going to go downstairs,’ Ryan said. ‘Be ready to call 911. Just in case.’

Mary nodded. Ryan swung his legs off the edge of the bed and grabbed a T-shirt from a pile on the floor. He pulled it on, then reached under the bed and took out a baseball bat. He had coached Otis’s baseball team a few years ago, and the team had bought him a Louisville slugger with his name stencilled on it.

He looked at her and waggled his eyebrows, although his expression was fixed and nervous.

He walked towards the bedroom door, and, with a backward glance, was gone.

She listened. She made out the creaking of the stairs as he tiptoed down them. It was quiet, but if there was somebody downstairs and they were listening hard enough they would certainly hear it. She stood up and moved over to the bedroom door. The stairs were directly opposite the door, and she saw Ryan’s silhouette reach the bottom step and turn right into the entrance hall.

There was silence. She waited for the lights to go on and for Ryan to check the rooms, then appear at the foot of the stairs and, with a smile, tell her that it was a false alarm.

That was not what happened.

It took a moment for her to register what she was hearing. There was a loud crash, then the sound of Ryan’s voice shouting, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

A different, higher voice, answered, then there was a thud as a heavy object – presumably a person – slammed into one of the downstairs walls.

Mary dialled 911. Downstairs the sounds of struggle continued, and she moved to the top of the stairs, aware the children were asleep in their bedrooms. If whoever was downstairs made it past Ryan, then she would do whatever it took to stop them getting to her children.

Just the thought that she might have to left a twisted knot of anxiety in her stomach.

The dispatcher answered. A woman’s voice.

‘What is the nature of your emergency?’

‘There’s somebody in our house,’ Mary said. ‘My husband is downstairs. It sounds like they’re fighting.’

The dispatcher read out Mary’s address. ‘Is this your location?’ she said.

‘Yes. Can you send someone?’

‘They’re on their way already, ma’am,’ the dispatcher said. ‘Would you like to stay on the line?’

‘Yes,’ Mary said. She listened, but the sounds had stopped from downstairs. She didn’t know what that meant: was Ryan dead, lying in a pool of his own blood? Was the intruder at that moment walking stealthily through the house in her – and the kids’ – direction?

Then she heard footsteps approaching the base of the stairs.

‘Ryan?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’

The lights went on, and a man’s voice answered.

‘Yes.’

It was Ryan. He appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His expression was fixed, his eyes wide. It was, Mary realized, a look of shock.

‘Was there someone?’ she said.

He nodded.

‘Where did they go?’

‘Out of the back door,’ Ryan said. ‘That must have been the way he came in.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I was going to chase him, but it was pointless. Once he was through the back gate he could have vanished in any direction.’