‘Why why why do I have to open my mouth and say things like that? I clearly made her uncomfortable. I didn’t mean anything by it, really, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve been feeling lonelier than usual and I was too open. It’s impossible not to wonder what she’s thinking, what is going through her head when she sees me, her eyes on my face, asking me questions. It’s an easy way to fall in love.

I went to the shop today, and when I took a jar of pickles from the shelf it slipped from my fingers and exploded, juice running out beneath the shelves, down the aisle. Someone came rushing over. It was a man with white hair and large confused eyes. He left and came back with a mop and I just stood there. I insisted on paying, I felt so bad, but the impulse to destroy, seeing the broken glass, the jagged edges, there was something satisfying about it.

It feels a bit like that with Margot. Every time I open up a little more, every time I divulge more history, more feelings, more secrets, I grow closer to her. It feels like I’m risking something but what’s life without risk? She is opening up a little too. We made skin contact, a small, tiny act but it was something. At first, she barely responded to my questions and it was perfunctory but as we’ve gotten to know each other more, we’ve become like friends, and that’s why I thought I could treat her like a friend. But when I said those stupid words, that easy smile fled her face and the professional veneer was back up. Am I just a project for her? I know she treats me different to others, I’m sure of it, but maybe it’s not a friendly relationship, maybe I’m like her science experiment or simply a problem to solve—’

Prosecutor: ‘You can stop there.’

Simms: ‘Right.’

Chapter Eight

EIGHT

ON SATURDAY MORNING we move into an Airbnb close to home. A four-bedroom place, with a modern fit-out and large rooms with vaulted ceilings. Gabe rolled his eyes at the Ikea prints on the walls of the bedroom, but other than that it is perfectly adequate for our purposes. It’s fifteen hundred dollars a week, money from our credit card, so I only hope the insurance covers it all. That afternoon Gabe and I drive five minutes from the Airbnb to our home to find that they’ve secured it – apparently people loot burnt-out homes. It’s wrapped up in police tape and boards have been nailed over the smashed windows. A locksmith has been and changed the locks.