I stood, approaching the opposite wall. The photos were all portraits – men and women, children and couples – but in almost every one, something was off. One side of a face just out of focus. The lighting harsh enough so the person’s eyes became black holes. A perspective so skewed, it made you dizzy.

What’s more, I could see, in all of them, the same intimacy, the same closeness, I’d seen in those photos of John – only these were even more arresting, more haunting, like the John set had been nothing more than a trial run.

I took a step back, taking them all in, then inhaled sharply.

There, on the bottom right corner, was a face I recognized.

Vera.

She was staring into the camera, her lips pressed together and her eyes preternaturally wide, almost as if she were frozen in a state of blank stoicism. It wasn’t the smiling Vera I’d come to love or the angry Vera I’d seen on occasion, but instead it was my friend, stripped of all emotion. My friend, pared back to her rawest self. Beautiful.

‘What do you think?’

I jumped, spinning around. ‘Sorry, I –’

‘Don’t be,’ Rachel said, handing me a glass of wine. ‘That’s what they’re there for. Looking. And buying, if you’re in the market.’

I glanced back again, eyes locked on Vera’s. ‘They’re gorgeous.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down in the Eames chair, and I resumed my place on the sofa.

‘I’m really glad you texted me,’ she said. She took a sip of her wine, then put it down, her berry lipstick leaving a print on the glass. ‘I wanted to see how you were doing, since I didn’t even get to say bye at the memorial. I wanted to see how Vera was doing, too, but I didn’t want to upset her. How are you? Shit, that’s a stupid thing to say. I mean, how are you, all things considered?’

I tugged at the scarf I’d wrapped around my neck, the one I’d used to cover up the bruises left behind from my encounter with Davis, as I attempted to push last night out of my mind. No matter how difficult it was to shake the fear I’d been living with for so long, I had come to believe that what had happened to John wasn’t about Davis. Apparently, it never had been.

‘Fine. I mean, awful. But fine.’ I took a sip of wine. Then I stole another look at Vera’s photo.

‘It must be so difficult,’ Rachel said. ‘And now with an ongoing investigation and everything. I hope they find the bastard. I hope they get him.’