In a Dark, Dark Wood

by Ruth Ware

I always start my morning the same way. Maybe it’s something about living alone—you’re able to get set in your ways, there’s no outside disruptions, no flatmates to hoover up the last of the milk, no cat coughing up a hairball on the rug. You know that what you left in the cupboard the night before will be in the cupboard when you wake up. You’re in control. Or maybe it’s something about working from home. Outside of a nine-to-five job, it’s very easy for the days to get shapeless, meld together. You can find you’re still in your dressing gown at five p.m., and the only person you’ve seen all day is the milkman. There are days when I don’t hear a single human voice, apart from the radio, and you know what? I quite like that.