[She looks between them, distrust clear in her eyes, before finally gesturing to usher them into the apartment. The front entrance leads into a tiny kitchen - a box of kids' sugary cereal is open on the countertop - and through its narrow doorway is a cramped but warmly-lit living room. Scattered across every available surface is the detritus of life in Apartment #222, from mascara tubes to fluffy bedroom slippers to science magazines. Three young women live here, the space says, and they have done so very happily until the last couple of days.

Clara primly takes a seat in a worn armchair, leaving the sofa open. Her eyes are still narrow and stern.

To Sarah, ] Brianna's at the pool. [To Sarissa, ] If she comes through that door, you're going to hide that gun. She's thirteen, and I won't have her feeling unsafe here.

Now - what did you want to talk about? Cosima, I presume?