He called at a ghostly hour, and hovered outside the front door.

She had seen him approach from the other end of the street, just as she was retrieving her keys. There was no urgency in his pace. His gait was tall and menacing against the amber streetlights, and he took slow purposeful steps.

She had abundant time to lock the door. But he knew she had seen him.

It was as if he knew before she did.

Still, she did not want to be seen.

The little utility room on the right was a perfect blind spot. So she hid there, hoping he would soon go away.

It had been humid for spring, and the door was her only access to fresh air.

She heard him through the shutters . . . calling her name from between the dark wooden panels.

The lights were out but she imagined his black eyes, searching for her gaze.

His icy fingers tapping impatiently against the door post.

And his voice . . . the deathly soft timbre of his voice as he called her again.

She did not answer, nor did she move.

Again he uttered her name, knowingly.

He knows too much.

She thought of her escape through the door upstairs, leading to the terrace. From there she could climb onto the neighbour’s rooftop. She could have . . . She remembered the door to the terrace was jammed. It had been for quite some time, yet she never got it repaired.

The blunt knives on the kitchenette would not be any use either.

She would have to use all of her strength to drive one close enough to his heart. . . or to slice through his abdomen . . . or even . . . she had to prop herself against the wall, at least until it had stopped swaying.

The frying pan at least was heavy enough. At worst, a concussion? Maybe a fractured skull. Just enough to get away . . . perhaps not enough to kill him.

She creeped over to the front door unarmed, turned the key and leaned against the door as it swung open.

But no one was there.