Ian approached her and peered at the notebook in her hands.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But how can you be sure the page wasn’t already missing? Or even that it’s missing at all? It’s a spiral-bound notebook.”

Teresa looked at him and didn’t know what to say. The truth was that she couldn’t be absolutely sure, because she could no longer trust her own mind.

She went to the window. It was so dark outside that it was impossible to actually see the landscape—which was a little like what was happening to her with her own thoughts. Perhaps she’d convinced herself she’d done something when in fact she’d only thought about doing it.

“Teresa, are you all right?”

“I . . . yes.”

“You’re pale. Please lie down.”

“No . . . I have to fight back.”

Ian moved closer and placed a hand on her elbow, as if to support her.

“Fight back against what?” he asked.

“I’m not exactly sure.” It was the truth. She twisted away from his grip and took a few steps as if to test her balance, physical and otherwise.

“You seem confused. Is this a regular occurrence? Memory loss, fainting, panic attacks . . .”

Teresa felt a bitter taste in her mouth.

So this was how it all began. She had expected it to take longer, but there she was, sinking, spiralling so fast she’d already lost her bearings.

But she had that note: “refer to diary.” And she had a memory, however disjointed. She couldn’t deny she was ill, but she had to believe in herself, she had to keep going at least until this case was closed.

She tried to figure out who might have wanted to destroy that entry, that handful of words indicating a possible lead—one of many that had emerged, and probably not even a particularly promising one.

But that was precisely what made the missing diary page such a crucial clue: whoever had torn it out had done so out of fear, knowing that those words might lead to a much bigger secret. But they’d come too late: she’d already sent Marini there.

But the person responsible for this had made a serious mistake: they had ripped the page out knowing that she might not even remember writing it or that it would be easy to make her doubt she’d ever written it.

They knew that Alzheimer’s disease had already begun consuming her memories. But she hadn’t told anyone about her illness. She hadn’t even had the courage to write it down in the pages of her diary.

Teresa glanced at the computer on the desk. The screen showed a page with her medical records. The program that collated them was connected to the network of the national health system, which held information on every medical test she’d ever undergone.

“Superintendent?”