She picked up the letters. Two political leaflets for parties she’d never heard of, one in a language she couldn’t read, and then, to her great surprise, a letter to her. It was in a white envelope, her name and address typed, with a redirect stuck over it in Kim-Ange’s flamboyant handwriting. She frowned. There was a crown printed on the envelope, and suddenly she realized what it was.

She put it down on the table incredibly quickly, as if it were hot, and stared at it.

The Crown Prosecution Service.

Instantly she could feel her every muscle tighten; her fingers curled. Her throat felt like it was closing over. She was suddenly gasping for breath. Every ridiculous claim she’d made the night before, about feeling better, about getting over things: it was all nonsense.

No, no, she kept telling herself. No. She stumbled toward the door, opened it wide, and drew in as many deep breaths as she could. The fresh, bright air stung her lungs as she told herself, Calm down. Calm down. The road was empty, and she walked across it to the copse on the opposite side.

Oddly—and she felt faintly ridiculous—holding on to one of the trees seemed to sooth her. The deep heavy scent of the bark and the sap, the bright overwhelming neon greenness of the new leaves, filled her senses; the shade and the height of the great oak made her feel strangely safe. She leaned against it, hands on her knees, and took great deep breaths; gradually, her back against the trunk, she felt her heart rate steadily return to normal. She had known this was coming, of course she had. She always did. Anita had told her about it, over and over again, but she had been too resistant. Classic health professional: terrible patient.

But she had been stupid, and arrogant, and frustrated at having to pay attention, to think about the thing she didn’t want to think about—and now she couldn’t cope with this, not at all. And she had thought she was getting better, had genuinely truly believed it. And now she felt back at square one.

Cormac?

Yes?

I got the letter from court. I have to testify.

Cormac couldn’t help it; his heart started to beat a little faster.

You’re coming to London?

I have to go to court.

When?

Next week.

What’s going to happen?

I have to stand up and . . . go through it again.

That will be okay, won’t it? Help put it to rest? Isn’t that what we’re meant to be doing?

I’ll have to see his mother. I’ll have to see the boy who did it.

He’s not going to get off. He’s not going to come after you.

His friends might.

She felt her heartbeat rise again, felt the panic rise.