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Alice quietly reached into her bag and handed Francesca a tissue. “Take your time,” she said gently.

James gave her a moment, then asked, “And then you called the police — from her bedroom?”

Francesca shook her head firmly. “No. We didn’t touch anything — we were too scared.”

Paolo added, “As soon as we saw them, we ran back down to the first floor. She couldn’t even finish the call from upstairs, so we used the telephone by the front hallway.” He pointed across the room toward a small side table near the entrance. “It’s right over there — that’s the one we used to call the police.”

James followed his gesture with a glance, noting the landline sitting neatly on the table. He gave a slight nod, then returned his focus to the couple.

Francesca nodded. “That’s when I called the police. I didn’t want to stay up there a second longer.”

James gave a slow nod, jotting that down. The room fell into a brief silence, heavy with the weight of what had been said.

After a moment, James looked up. “Thank you. Would you mind showing us around the house? We haven't really looked around the house except the bedroom.”

“Of course,” Paolo said, standing up. “We’ll take you through the main areas.”

They moved through the ground floor — the kitchen, dining room, the sitting lounge. Everything was in neat order, though the quiet felt unusually sharp in the aftermath of tragedy.

As they walked past a small hallway near the back, Paolo opened a wooden door revealing a narrow wardrobe space used for housekeeping supplies and coats. James glanced inside as they passed, but something caught his eye. Hanging at the end of the rack was a dark wool jacket — large, broad-shouldered, and clearly too big to belong to Paolo.

James paused, narrowing his eyes slightly. “That jacket — is that yours, Paolo?”

Paolo followed his gaze, then shook his head. “No. That’s not mine.”