She thought of the love between Rashida and Olivia; a love so powerful it resurrected them. Petra would give everything to love like that. She could understand how their love had led to murder; the boundary between a transformative love and furious malice was surprisingly porous.

A dark while later a light came on in the depths of the building – someone coming in through the front door. Petra straightened, made sure she was out of sight, and watched the studio window. A minute later the lights came on there, blaring out a warm yellow over the forgotten garden. A man came into the room and stared around the space. But it was not Curtis Worthing. This man was young, wearing a zip-up hoodie under a red coat, rough black beard, long hair held back with a blue headband.

No.

This was not how the plan should go.

When the man had disappeared from the window, Petra stood and wiped her jeans off, quietly heading for the gate, but when she heard the squeal of old wood she froze halfway across the lawn. The man tapped on the window, as if he was hoping to be let in.

‘Hi,’ he smiled, relieved, probably, that Petra wasn’t a threat to him. ‘Can I help you?’ A magnanimous question to a soaked and addled apparition in your own back garden.

‘Hi, um…’ She thought on her feet. ‘I’m a friend of Francis Picton’s and he was giving me a tour of the studio this morning and I left my bloody house keys inside and I only realised after he’d left and…’

‘Francis gave you a tour?’

‘Yeah, I’m really sorry. He’s been telling me all about the studio and I’m a huge fan of Rovotune especially and, well, he said Mr Worthing wouldn’t mind.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. It’s not a problem. Really.’

‘Are you Mr Worthing?’ she playacted.

‘Oh, God no. I’m, well, I’m his son. I’m James. My father’s Curtis Worthing – he’s just bought this place. Picton works for him and has every right to come and go as he wants. And bring guests, too. But please, come around to the front and I’ll let you in. You look frozen.’

Petra collected her bag and found the garden gate. By the time he opened the front door for her, James had found a big towel somewhere and Petra was grateful for it. As she tamped her hair dry, it felt like she was wiping off the thin, manic veneer of vengeful malice too. She tried her best to hold on to it.

‘How long were you waiting out there?’

‘A while. I phoned Francis and he said he’d come and let me in but he had a couple of things to do first, and I didn’t want to wait on the pavement outside in the rain. I hope you don’t mind?’