Trudy was thinking that it was now or never. If her hunch about why Terry Parker had been killed was correct, then right now, right here, was the time that she was going to learn if she was right or wrong.

Clement was wondering if the artist had reached just the right stage of drunken indiscretion to be of use to them, or if, perversely she’d turn belligerent and silent.

Vincent was marvelling at the delicate skill with which Trudy was handling her witness.

And Katherine … Katherine hovered on the brink of some kind of precipice that she’d long since wanted to throw herself over, whilst at the same time, was terrified of confronting. It made her both angry, and somehow coolly amused.

Ever since Amy Jean had died, she’d felt as if she was half-dead too. Oh, her subsequent paintings were fantastic (didn’t they say that all the greatest art came out of great suffering?) but she could enjoy them no longer. The booze deadened nothing. Life dragged and seemed pointless. And all the while, the black cloud of guilt that loomed over her pressed down, a little harder, a little darker, every day, slowly smothering her that little bit more.

A mother was supposed to succour and protect her child, wasn’t she? Not set a bad example that gave her carte blanche to go and do something so utterly stupid and wasteful as get herself killed before her nineteenth birthday. What she wouldn’t do to have those last few days of her daughter’s life back again. The things she’d do differently …

She felt something tickle her cheek and raised a hand to it, surprised to find her fingers came away wet. Tears had begun to roll down her face without her noticing.

Angrily, she wiped them away with her palm, and drew in a deep breath.

She’d known ever since she’d woken on New Year’s Day that somehow, someday, this moment would come, but had not made any plans for what she would do when it did. Spontaneity was her chosen path in life, be it in her art, her love life, or her occasional forays into gambling.

She had always crossed her bridges only when she came to them, trusting in her instinct and feelings to guide her. And now she’d come to this, perhaps the last bridge of all.

She looked at Trudy, feeling almost puzzled. Funny, but a pretty young girl in a smart police uniform was not what she had been expecting of fate. And yet here the pretty young girl was, looking at her so … knowingly.

Ah well, Katherine thought. So be it.

It was not as if she had much to lose, was it? Every day was a struggle to get through. What did it matter where the struggle took place? Here or in a prison cell?