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Whatever it was, it was genuinely unnerving, which she supposed was the point. It wouldn’t have worked if it wasn’t.

She breathed deeply and lengthened her stride. Despite the early hour and her fatigue it felt good to run. She didn’t get out as much as she would have liked to and her fitness had suffered, but it was a treat to be out in the quiet of the early morning. She turned off the main street into a development of senior-living condos. They were beautifully maintained but quiet and sterile and almost smelled of antiseptic. Every time she ran or walked or drove through them, she wondered whether this was her future, whether she and Ryan would one day be the inhabitants of a condo, their lawn maintained for them, their world getting smaller and smaller as their remaining years grew fewer in number. She knew that future was coming, and at forty-seven it was close enough that you had to think about it, and with that depressing thought dampening her mood further she headed to a path that ran from the development back into the streets that made up her neighbourhood.

The path descended through a small copse of trees to a stream. The water was quite high; there had been a lot of recent rain, and the planks of the bridge that crossed it were wet. She ran across and headed up the far bank. At the top there was a left turn that led across a set of deserted soccer fields; they were dark but the way home through them was maybe a mile, versus two or more if she did not take the shortcut. She hesitated, but her lack of running had left her with fatigue setting in, so she set off across the fields.

The exit was through a car park at the far corner. The sun was rising behind the trees that lined it; their silhouettes were like a stencil against the sky.

And then another stencil joined them.

A man wearing sweatpants and a hooded top. He stood in the centre of the car park, his hands behind his back.

She slowed to a walk. The man did not move.

Mary stopped. They stood and looked at each other, and then, panic flooding her body, she turned and ran.

Silhouette

Mary sprinted across the soccer field, heart thudding painfully in her chest. She had not run this fast in years and she felt out of control, as though her feet were in danger of betraying her and tripping her up. This was the shortest path to the entrance she had come in through, but it was also the most open, and it occurred to her, with a jolt of alarm, that the man could be armed.

In which case she would be an easy target.

To avoid any bullets – This is ridiculous, she thought, briefly – she veered suddenly left, then right, then risked a glance over her shoulder; hoping that she had been mistaken and the silhouette she had seen was a tree or a sign or a passing shadow, or even better, there was nothing and this was all merely a figment of her sleep-deprived imagination.

It was not.

He was there, and worse, he was running after her.

She let out a cry and tried to speed up, painfully aware of how slow and ungainly she was. Still, unless he was Usain Bolt she thought she could cross the field and get onto the street before he reached her, and once there she could make enough noise to make him think twice about doing whatever it was he was planning to do.

Because this was the guy behind the notes. It had to be. He had been watching her since she read the one on the pole, had gone to the library event, and now he had followed her on her run – how she had missed seeing him, she had no idea – but here he was.

He had been watching her and now he had her where he wanted.

She looked behind again. He was still running, his gait fluid and elegant. She wondered whether her calculation about reaching the road before him was overly optimistic and tried to speed up, her footsteps awkward and slow on the soft ground.

He called out, his voice was loud in the silent morning. ‘Hey!’ A pause. ‘Hey! Wait!’

Yeah, right. Good idea. There would be no waiting, not in this situation.

‘Mary! Hold on! There’s no need to run!’

He knew her name. That confirmed it then, beyond any doubt. It was the author of the note.

‘Mary! It’s me. Trent. Your new neighbour.’

Trent?

It was a moment before it sank in. She eased her pace and turned to look at him. He was walking now, his palms raised to face her. He had taken off his hood, his ponytail visible.

‘Hey,’ he said, closer now. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.’

‘Why’ – she was panting – ‘why did you run after me, then?’

‘Because it was obvious you hadn’t recognized me, and I didn’t want you to think there was some creep out here scaring women.’

‘You could have said hello.’

‘You didn’t give me much opportunity. By the time I saw it was you, you were halfway across the field.’ He smiled. ‘You’re quite quick, by the way.’