I thought about how unstable he was, how my career would end if it ever came out we were in a relationship. I thought about my father, the way he could cut right to the core of my inadequacies. I imagined his expression if he found out I’d lost my right to practise. I didn’t love Peter, I knew that, but he loved me and an unstable man in love is a dangerous thing.

‘It’ll never get better. The darkness will never go away. It won’t hurt, Peter. Not even a little. Just aim the barrel at the roof of your mouth and pull the trigger.’

A sob. A moment that stretched out like a lifetime. Then the sound of the shot.

I look down at the test then close it again and drop my pen on the stainless-steel table. Sometimes it’s best not to know.

Extract of The Last Guests

Read on for an extract from J.P. Pomare’s upcoming title

PROLOGUE

HIS HEART IS steady, his hand is still as he punches the code into the silver lock box bolted to the brick wall near the front door of 299 Hillview Terrace, right where it is supposed to be. Four-one-three-nine, then it falls open and he’s staring at a simple silver key attached to a key ring in the shape of New Zealand. He’s sweating in the heat, with a coat on, a hat and black leather gloves. There’s CCTV on the corner near the milk bar, but he came in the long way, going all the way around the park at the top of the street.

He pockets the key, pulls his hat lower and walks back to the rental parked on the street. He opens the boot, pulls out two large suitcases and wheels them back to the house. He scans the entrance. No cameras, no surveillance.

He slides the key into the lock and opens the door then drags the suitcases inside. Open plan, as sterile and neat as a hotel room. Polished floorboards knock beneath the heel of his boots as he passes through the kitchen to the lounge. Framed Ikea prints. A boxy couch that looks like it belongs in a furniture showroom. Beige rug. Outside, through the ranch slider a tiled courtyard with a potted lemon tree sits in the lukewarm sunlight.