‘Drink this,’ he says.

After a few minutes of Jeff convincing the security man on the nearby door that I don’t need an ambulance, he lifts me to my feet. Then he flags down a taxi and takes me back to his apartment. This is getting familiar, a bit too familiar for Jeff I’d say. But he’s still here, nursing his crumbling friend.

‘I’m sorry, Jeff.’

‘Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault you fainted. You’re under a lot of stress, it’s a lot to take in.’

‘I know, but you’re so good, Jeff, thanks.’

‘Don’t worry about it, you’ll get me back someday,’ he says, trying to make a joke of things.

After a few minutes of attempting to keep my thoughts away from reality, I dip back in.

‘What should I do, Jeff? What would you do?’

Jeff rests his arm across the back of the couch and tells me that I shouldn’t be wondering what I should do. Just let the reality soak into my mind without trying to fight it. He says I should just get through the next few days absorbing the truth, and then think about what I want to do.

He laughs. ‘It’s not like you can Google the answer, Becca.’

So I lie on Jeff’s couch, numb from head to toe, fear tightening my skin. If Jeff wasn’t here to hold my hand, I’d be in the nuthouse by now. I might yet be. Everything seems to be going from bad to worse. I don’t think Turner believes I killed Katie, though I can’t say for sure. It’s hard to read professionals, they’re so practiced at maintaining an unreadable face.

Danny, on the other hand, seems to be sliding under her microscope. I hope he didn’t fucking do it.

I sleep for almost two hours, and then I’m woken by the familiar call of the outside world beeping in my ear. Picking up my cell from the floor I see Danny’s name flashing. For a moment I think about not answering, but then I take the call.

His voice is completely unrecognizable, whimpering between sobs and pleading.

‘Please, Becca. Please come and say goodbye.’

‘Danny.’ I feel his pain. Poor Danny. His spirit is on the verge of collapse.

‘The doctor says there’s only a couple of hours left, Becca. Pease come, I don’t want you to regret staying away.’

He has no idea where my head’s at. What makes him think I’ve anything to regret?

‘How’s Dad?’ I say.

‘Not good, he keeps asking where you are. I told him you’re down with food poisoning, that you’re puking all the time, but he doesn’t believe me. He knows something’s up. Please, Becca,’ his voice is pleading.