Despite the mid-morning dawdlers clogging up the roads and the surface water playing havoc with visibility, Jem made it to the cafe in less than ten minutes, thanks to her knowledge of the back streets and speed cameras. She grabbed the first aid kit she’d thrown onto the passenger seat and rattled the handle on the cafe’s front door. The door was locked, its sign turned to “closed” in spite of the early hour, and the blinds were drawn. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she clutched the first aid kit like a shield. Almost afraid to look behind herself, she turned slowly to check the street for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. Hers was the only car parked in the vicinity, and a stray cat skulking along the pavement was the sole sign of life.

“Paula?” she shouted through the letterbox. “Paula, it’s me.” A key rattled and two bolts slid back, but the door didn’t open until Jem pushed it. “Paula?”

The cafe was dark, and a clatter off to her left made her jump. She coughed, whirling toward the sound and then stumbling back when Paula lurched into her arms.

“Hey. Hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you.” She held on to Paula tightly, but Paula’s bad leg gave way, taking them both to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Paula whispered, sobs hiccupping through the words. “Dan’s in a meeting, so he’ll have his phone off, and I didn’t know who else to call. I know you’ve not been well.”

“I’m fine, all mended. What the hell happened?” Even in the dull light, Jem could see the cafe had been ransacked. Tables and chairs were overturned, and the counter was in pieces. “Where are you hurt? Were you robbed?”

Taking a breath, she forced herself to stop firing out questions. She was accustomed to dealing with other people’s crises—she’d been doing that for years—but emergencies were far easier to cope with when the patient was a complete stranger. She hugged Paula close, stroking the tangles from her hair, until the tremors wracking her slowly subsided. It gave Jem the chance to gather her wits and view the scene with necessary detachment.

“Paula, where are you hurt?” she asked again.

“Hands,” Paula gasped. “He burned my hands.” She was holding them out in front of her, her elbows on her knees. The sun flitting between the blinds’ slats illuminated raw patches on her fingers and palms, the skin glistening and blistered.

“Jesus,” Jem said. She took off her coat and tucked it around Paula. “Give me a minute, okay?”