Deborah Forsyth was staying at a house a block back from the main drag. It was single level and salt-faded, with a porch along the front and flowerpots lined up on the balustrade. Vincent parked in the driveway behind a Prius with a bumper sticker that said, DON’T BLAME ME I VOTED FOR HILLARY.

The front door to the house was open, and a woman came out onto the porch. She was in her forties, wearing some kind of acid-trip-inspired floral dress, coloured beads woven through the braids hanging past her shoulders. She came over to them with her hands moving gently either side of her, waist-high, as if traversing a river.

They got out of the car, and the woman said, ‘You must be Erin. Wonderful to meet you. Deborah’s just inside.’

She introduced herself as Rochelle, and she and Erin shook hands, and Rochelle took a moment saying how sorry she was to hear the news. Vincent let the condolences run their course, and then he came around the hood of the Range Rover and got a handshake of his own.

‘And you are?’

‘Vincent.’

Her grip and her eye contact lingered, as if she were looking deep into his soul. In Vincent’s experience, soul reading was a more prevalent gift among people with beaded hair and loose clothing. He waited.

She said, ‘Ah, yes. Wonderful.’

She let him go, and went back into the house in that same dreamy way, hands floating either side of her, and Erin looked at Vincent, and he shrugged, and they followed her in.

Behind the house was a pebbled courtyard, where a woman was seated at a little wooden table, smoking a cigarette. On the table, a lighter and a pack of Virginia Slims were weighing down an open newspaper.

The woman named Rochelle said, ‘Deborah, guests.’

She had her feet up on a chair beside her, and when she saw Erin she said, ‘Mmm,’ around the cigarette, and stood suddenly. She embraced Erin with one arm, plucking the cigarette from her mouth with the other hand. She blew smoke past Erin’s ear and whispered, ‘It’s terrible what happened, I’m so sorry. It’s just terrible.’

Rochelle said, ‘Give her space, Deborah. Energy requires space to flow.’

Deborah let go of Erin and sat down again. ‘I’m sorry—’

Erin said, ‘No, don’t apologise.’

‘We haven’t even met, obviously. I recognise you from the news.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just horrible. Yesterday was just … I can’t believe it …’

Rochelle must have sensed the energy turning negative. She clapped her hands gently and said, ‘Iced tea, anyone?’

Vincent said yes please. Erin said she was okay. There were two other chairs at the table, and they both sat down.