In the picture, the woman looks peaceful, eyebrows slightly raised. The reporter is explaining what people ought to do if they find her, emphasizing that she's armed and dangerous. The name below the picture reads "Ovora Sivuyi". She is 34 years old and worked at Deloitte as a senior consultant. No children but with a very worried husband named Peter at home

I turn off the TV and stand up, shaking out the stiffness in my arms and legs. I feel odd as if being watched. I've been feeling like this since I got back from work, since before I switched on the TV to watch the news, so it's not a weird paranoia that Ovora Sivuyi could be in my backyard, watching, plotting.

My house is small, old, dark and dank, a hurried project from the 50s. Crammed furniture, dog piss, dim orange lights. No macaroni and cheese for me tonight, I'm on a diet. Just water and maybe a few grapes.

Vivian growls. She's uneasy as well, and her uneasiness makes me even more certain that I'm being watched because I've heard dogs and animals have like a weird additional sense that detects earthquakes and emotions and bad vibes and stuff.

There's a knock at my door, a gentle one, like the person feels it's way too late in the evening to be knocking loudly. Confusion sets in first then panic, I feel my palms get soaked, my feet begin to tremble. Vivian doesn't bark but just growls louder, backing slowly away from the door. I put the bunch of grapes back in the fridge, wipe my hands and consider putting a knife in my back pocket on my way to the door. I do so.

When I open the door, my worst fear is confirmed. It's Ovora Sivuyi, uglier, thinner, haggard. But before I even have time to react, she pushes past me and enters the house, and starts to impatiently look around, eyes narrowed, bouncing slightly on the spot. Then when I'm about to act, she sees what she's looking for and heads straight for it: the bathroom. She closes and locks the door. There's an exploding sound and a sigh of immense relief.

I stand there so shocked at my inactivity and the bizarreness of everything in that moment, that I almost faint - I have to sit on the couch to regain composure. My cellphone is in the kitchen. I stand up once more and stagger towards the kitchen and that's when I hear the door to the bathroom open. Flushing toilet, determined footsteps, whimpering dog. I grab the knife and when she appears she raises her hands above her head, water dripping down her wrist.

"Let me explain before you run me through with that thing."

She's as peaceful as the picture that'd been on TV earlier, voice low and confident and sexy, eyes bright, sharp, clever despite the tired lines beneath them.

"There's nothing to explain," I say uncertainly.

"Yes, there is." She lowers her hands a bit, sensing my curiosity. "I didn't kill all those people."

"Then why are you different looking now?" I say. "Why are you uglier?"

She sighs. "It's a long story I'm willing to tell."