In the corridor two women passed by talking and laughing, shoes clicking briskly on the tiled floor. My throat hurt from the dry air. Outside the window, the light had moved on; I didn’t remember hearing rain, but the leaves looked dark and drenched, shivering against a mottled, sulky sky. Jenny’s head fell to one side. Small ragged shudders caught at her chest, until gradually the ebb and flow of her breath smoothed them away.

I still don’t know why I stayed there. Maybe my legs wouldn’t move, or maybe I was afraid to leave Jenny alone; or maybe some part of me was still hoping that she would turn in her sleep and murmur the secret password, the thing that would unlock the code, magic the gibbering mess of shadows to black and white, and show me how all of this made sense.

19

Fiona was in the corridor, hunched in one of the plastic chairs that were scattered along the wall, wrapping a ratty striped scarf around her wrists. Beyond her, the waxy green shine of the floor stretched on for what seemed like miles.

Her head snapped up when I clicked the door shut behind me. “How’s Jenny? Is she OK?”

“She’s asleep.” I pulled up another chair and sat down next to her. The red duffle coat smelled of cold air and smoke: she had been outside for a cigarette.

“I should go in. She gets freaked out if no one’s there when she wakes up.”

I said, “How long have you known?”

Instantly Fiona’s face went blank. “Known what?”

There were a thousand clever ways I could have done it. I had nothing left for any of them. “Your sister just confessed to the murders of her family. I’m pretty sure this isn’t a big surprise to you.”

The blank look didn’t budge. “She’s off her head on painkillers. She hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about.”

“Believe me, Ms. Rafferty, she knew exactly what she was saying. All the details of her story match the evidence.”

“You bullied her into it. The state she’s in, you could make her say anything. I could report you.”

She was as exhausted as I was; she couldn’t even manage to put a tough edge on it. “Ms. Rafferty,” I said. “Please, let’s not do this. Anything you say to me here is off-the-record; I can’t even prove we ever had this conversation. The same goes for your sister’s confession: legally, it doesn’t exist. I’m just trying to find a way to end this mess before any more damage gets done.”

Fiona scanned my face, tired red eyes trying to focus. The harsh lights turned her skin grayish and pitted; she looked older and sicker than Jenny. Down the corridor a child was crying, immense bereft sobs, like the world had shattered around him.

Something, I don’t know what, told Fiona I meant it. Unusual, I had thought when we interviewed her, perceptive; back then I hadn’t been pleased, but it worked for me in the end. The fight went out of her body, and her head fell back against the wall. She said, “Why did she … ? She loved them so much. What the hell … ? Why?”