The Medway Runs cold.

The house next door, once Chloe's safe haven, had become a source of income, a sterile, impersonal revenue stream that was once managed by Eleanor, but now Linda managed it with her characteristic efficiency. Linda welcomed the new tenant herself, a businessman named Roger, who was recently divorced and worked in London, and was looking for a quieter refuge in the Medway Towns. He was polished, well-spoken, and paid a premium for a short lease, explaining he was expecting to purchase his own property in the near future. Linda had sized him up instantly: wealthy, transient, and, most importantly, harmless.

Two weeks after he moved in, the doorbell rang at the house that, even though it was owned by Clara and Mark, had once been Eleanor's Domain and now Linda's . The sound didn't chime through the house; it buzzed on an app on Linda's phone. Clara, who was in the middle of polishing the mahogany dining table, froze. She was forbidden to answer the door without Linda's express permission.

Linda glanced at her phone, a slight frown on her face. It was the new tenant. She tapped the app open, her fingers moving with practised ease. She sent a text to Clara's phone. See what he wants. Don't invite him in. With another tap, she remotely unlocked the front door, the electronic lock clicking open with a quiet, mechanical whir. She could listen to the entire conversation through the doorbell's high-definition microphone.

Clara opened the door, her eyes cast down. "Yes?"

"Hello," Roger said, his voice pleasant but tinted with a hint of concern. "I'm sorry to bother you, I'm your neighbour from next door. I think there might be a leak. I've been hearing some strange dripping sounds in the wall, and I'm worried it might be coming from your side."

Linda's phone buzzed again with a new text. Go and look. Then report back.

"Of course," Clara mumbled, stepping aside to let him in. "I'll... I'll check."

He led her through his house, a space filled with expensive, impersonal furniture. They climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. It was pristine, the walls a perfect, unblemished cream.

"I haven't seen any water yet," he said, rapping his knuckles against the wall. "But the sound is definitely there. It's more noticeable at night, when it's quiet."

Clara nodded, her mind racing. She would have to go back into her own house, into the room that was now Linda's domain, the room where she had been so brutally punished, and try to find the source of a sound that might not even exist. The thought was sickening.

"Alright," she said, her voice small. "I'll go and check the pipework on our side."

She turned to leave, to walk back out the front door and around to her own entrance. But as she reached the bedroom doorway, she stopped. A movement in the corner of her eye made her jump.

A voice, smooth as silk and cold as ice, spoke from behind her. "Hello, Clara."

Clara spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Leaning casually against the wall, a glass of red wine in her hand, was the last person she ever expected to see. Eleanor. A slow, predatory smile spread across Eleanor's face, her eyes glinting with a triumphant, terrifying light. She was no longer a refugee; she was a huntress who had just cornered her prey. And she was standing in the tenant's house.