Her steps made the floorboards creak, and her spine froze up and twisted with every sound she made. She was the only thing making sound in this empty house, apart from the house itself. She wished her partner – the 'professional photographer' with the million dollar camera lenses – had shown up to work. He couldn't be reached and his phone was off. Presumably drunk. So she, the workaholic, had promised the boss the piece would be completed, images and all.

She didn't have any friends, she realised. She worked too much, her head in her computer, her phone, a newspaper – sometimes all at the same time. Her partner barely made contact. She couldn't think of a friend she could possibly call – did she even have their numbers? Her family were on the other coast, so it would be no use calling them while she made a run for it. If she went missing, she wasn't likely to be found quickly enough. How could she be so stupid? She was going to be in so much trouble with herself when she got home. If she got home.

The man began to laugh. It was a nice laugh, deep and robust, but there was nothing funny about the situation. He leaned even closer, too close, feeding her fears. She desperately searched for a distraction, stepping backwards into the hallway, away from the man, and most importantly, the exit. She looked out the door, looking down the long, leafy drive. It curved and twisted and trees framed the road as if the sun was never meant to touch the asphalt. She could see her freedom waving from the end of the drive.