And Logan is about to begin, Killing my daughter, until he realizes that isn’t established fact, that’s only suspicion, and for a moment he’s not even sure why he’s here, as though a small crack has appeared in this bubble of gloom and confusion through which the bright light of reality is winking. And then he remembers: the Post-it note from ‘S’, the article, this fishy Salmon and her neural net, the spectre of professional ruin, the revenge of his wife’s thwarted fiancé – and look at yourself, Logan, you have walked right into the trap, you are sitting in her room crying, your hand in her lap!

Jesus! he says, jumping up. I can’t believe you! I can’t believe I’m falling for this shit!

What? she says. He can’t read her face. Look, she’s perplexed. No, she’s pretending. Two parts of his brain, at odds with each other, wrestle for control of his perceptions, and he can no longer tell, can no longer trust anything. Christ! he says.

She’s out of her chair, coming towards him – Logan? – reaching out to touch him, and he cannot bear it, pushes her away, harder than he meant to. Her body slams into the bookcase. She crumples, slides down to the floor.

Oh, Christ! he says. I’m sorry.

Crouches beside her. Mummy’s one wide eye staring, and this time it’s him playing Daddy.

Ow, she says. Fuck.

So sorry.

She nods slowly, even as she’s rubbing the pain out of her hip bone.

God, he says.

Stop it! Stop Godding and Christing!

I’m sorry.

Ah, bugger it. Poor call on my part. Should have let you rant. But it broke the moment, I suppose.

I didn’t mean to—

No, she says, standing with some difficulty. I understand.

He takes her elbow, helps her back into her seat. Sits down in front of her, contrite.

How far are you going to let this go? she asks, picking up a pen and tapping it on her notepad.

I don’t know what you mean.

Logan, come on. It’s plain as day. You’re under a lot of stress. If you’re not careful, you’re going to mess up in a big way. You could lose your career.

He tries to read her eyes.

What are you saying?

Is she threatening him? Will she call it assault, hold it over his head? But no, here’s her voice again, brown-sugar-soft.

You’ve got to do something, Logan. Before you push the wrong person into a bookcase. She’s smiling. At the very least, rest. Stop work completely, go away somewhere.

Then I really would go mad, he says, and feels the fear of it, inaction, grinding like a rat into the nerves behind his eyeballs. There would be nothing to save him, nothing to keep him from drowning in his own grief.