When silence slowly unclenched its choke hold, and I was certain the York, England police brigade had taken Jeffry away, I got out of bed. A summer breeze fluttered through the open window apologetically, almost like a reassuring gesture the that it was safe to open the door.
Sneaking downstairs, past the destroyed bedroom and into the kitchen, I flung myself at the light switch. The naked bulb spotlighted the droplets of dried blood on the linoleum and cupboard.
Opening the drawer, I found a tiny steak knife with a splintered, wooden handle. Tiptoeing back up to my room, I crawled under the duvet despite the heat, and lay hidden and sweaty. My knife remained clenched in my hand as I wished for the safety of sleep.