“Oh I see. We’re off the suicide theory and back to my being shot by someone,” I reply.

“Isn’t it more likely”—Erin continues her disjointed line of questioning—“that during the nanosecond you saw this person you made an instant assumption it was Carrie Grethen? You didn’t know it, you assumed it. And why wouldn’t you? Certainly she was on your mind.”

“You don’t have to answer that either,” Donoghue says.

“You were justified in fearing her, looking over your shoulder every minute.” Erin is baiting me, trying to make me react. “Therefore wouldn’t it be fair to conclude that if you were looking for her, then that’s who you imagined you saw in the nanosecond we’re talking about?”

She’s going to persist in using the word nanosecond. She’s practicing for a jury, making the case that the encounter happened so fast I didn’t really see anything. Therefore I didn’t see who shot me. I simply feared who it might be and made an assumption that I won’t back down from. Or if that story doesn’t work then I suppose she can resort to painting me as a crazy person who speared herself for God knows what reason. After several more minutes of this, Donoghue says she needs to talk privately with her client.

“I’ve never been here before,” she says to me for Erin’s benefit. “Do you mind showing me around, Kay? It looks absolutely breathtaking.”

We walk out into the corridor and follow red jarrah wood flooring slowly, quietly, beneath mica lamps that glow a pleasant coppery yellow. I’m aware of Lucy’s security system, of every keypad, camera and motion sensor we pass. I’m mindful that there can be no assumption of privacy.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?” I ask Donoghue a seemingly innocuous question as I’m mindful of cameras all over Lucy’s house.

“I noticed when I first walked in that if I’d taken a right instead of a left there seemed to be an area of interest at the end of that hallway.” Her casual comment points out a serious problem.

What she’s referring to is the guest suite Lucy renovated for me. It’s my bedroom, my private space when I stay here. As we get closer to the entranceway I can see what Donoghue is talking about. Beyond is another hallway. At the far end of it the door to my suite is open. As we get closer a man in a cheap khaki suit emerges with a large sealed brown paper package that he carries in both arms. Strong and sinewy, he’s dark with glittering brown eyes, his hair cropped close to his scalp on the sides and a buzz cut on top. He looks military.

“Afternoon,” he says as if we’re on the same team. “Can I help you with something?”