She looks guilty for a second, her eyes moving to the window. She doesn’t answer the question. ‘I am less paranoid now, too. That’s something else that’s been better.’

I make a note. Sees Jacob as family. ‘I didn’t know you felt paranoid.’

‘Sometimes. Like earlier this week. I was convinced someone was following me.’

I swallow the hard knot that forms in my throat and before I can ask a question she is speaking again.

‘Crazy, right? Jacob said it was my paranoia. He says that no one would follow me all the way home.’

‘Home from where?’

‘Oh, from here. I thought a white car was following me. I was in an Uber. But then when I got out and went to my front door they drove past.’

Curious, I think. Two patients have similar stories. And I was followed by a white Toyota. It happened the night of the fire. It has to be a coincidence, but … what if it’s not?

‘Xanthe, just to be on the safe side, if you ever feel like someone is following you, assume that it’s possibly true. Try get an image of them in your mind, remember the number plate, report it to the police.’ Her eyes are suddenly wide with panic. The room is still and breathless for a moment.

This is clearly a breach of protocol; I’m not viewing her case in isolation. All signs point to paranoia, and I can’t let her leave believing someone dangerous might be stalking her. I’ve spent so long trying to convince her that her problems are in her head and now I’m telling her they might be out here in the real world, tangible, sharp-toothed things with real consequences.

‘That’s only to keep you safe,’ I say. ‘It’s very, very unlikely you are being followed at all.’

Chapter Nine

NINE

OUTSIDE THE CAFE, long-dead leaves line the gutter and the sidewalk is busy with foot traffic. Inside, it’s all Saturday morning regulars, exercise attire aplenty, with the local mums who’ve walked the Tan before meeting up for their morning latte. The coffee maker shrieks as the barista steams milk. It’s the usual barista, good-looking, green eyes, dark hair.

She raises her eyebrows at me as I pass. I find a quiet seat in the far corner, waiting until Linda arrives. She’s a bubbly school friend, always ready for a drink, a better talker than listener, but I don’t mind. She was the first to offer us a place to stay when she heard about the fire. We sit there in the corner. Linda tells me about her new man. Ricardo.

‘Sounds exotic,’ I say.

‘He’s not really. He grew up in Footscray, which I guess is a little exotic to some.’

‘No Porsche this time, then?’

‘No, sadly. He’s younger than me though.’