‘If you want to run away, run away.’

‘What?’

‘Becca, you’re overthinking this. It’s not about how you’re going to feel, it’s about how you feel now. Do you want to be at her funeral?’

Hours later I still don’t have a clue what I want to do. I want to be at the funeral; I don’t want to be at the funeral. It’s like choosing my dress for prom all over again. She was with me that day, standing outside the dressing room, laughing at me. I put the same two dresses on at least four times each, and still couldn’t choose. I can’t remember how I decided in the end, maybe she did it for me.

My cell rings. Thomas Collins?

I rush to the counter and grab my phone. The number displayed is unfamiliar but I’m pretty sure it’s not Thomas Collins. Jeff’s waiting on my reaction, so I shake my head to let him know it’s not Collins and answer the call.

‘Becca Wall?’ I recognize the voice, the deep considerate tone. ‘Becca, it’s Barry from Oakridge.’

‘Hi, Barry.’ I’m about to tell him I’m fine now, and that he’s very good for checking up on me, when he says, ‘I shouldn’t be doing this, but I got your number out of the client contacts book and, well…’

‘Well, what?’

‘Becca, I found something, you need to get down here.’

Chapter Fifty-Seven

I didn’t think I’d ever be back at Oakridge but here I am, parking my car in its usual spot, heading for the door. A chilly breeze is brewing up into the storm that’s forecast. Barry asked me to wait until after eight, said there’d be fewer eyes watching him. It felt like I was waiting for days, mind racing, wondering what Barry had discovered that was so important he wanted me to see it for myself. Something on the tapes, maybe? Or something in Dr. Reilly’s room? All I’m hoping is that I haven’t come all the way out here to find out something I already know.

I see Barry behind the reception desk as I approach. Seeing me coming, he stands and walks to the door.

‘Becca,’ he says, pulling the door open. ‘Is it still Becca?’

‘Becca’s fine.’

I walk with him to the reception area where I expect the big reveal to unfold but I’ve forgotten how Barry works. Forgotten his motto. The slower you go, the quicker you get there.

‘How are you doing, Becca?’ he says, walking through reception and on towards the corridors where Dr. Reilly’s office is. He continues to make small talk, asking about the traffic, commenting on the cold night. But reading my stress levels, which must be clearly on display, he changes his tone to tell me why he called me here.