“Carbamazepine.” The name of Becca’s medication takes on a new emphasis in the policeman’s voice. Auntie Rach shifts as if she recognizes it, but says nothing. I look toward Becca, expecting her to look back at me, expecting this to feel like the inevitable end. She stares squarely ahead. Then I realize that everyone has followed me in turning toward her, and we’ve formed a ring of expectant gazes with her at its center.

“Do you know of any reason Mr. Wood might have taken this drug?” one of the officers asks. “It’s most commonly used to treat epileptic seizures.”

I snap my eyes downward, hoping everybody else will do the same. Auntie Rach’s gaze slides away from her daughter, but Mum’s still staring in Becca’s direction.

“My niece has epilepsy.”

Becca straightens. “But I don’t take that drug.”

My eyes boomerang to her. Does she really think she can get away with lying?

“Look.” She leaps to her feet and goes to her handbag, rummaging through and producing a packet of pills: sodium valproate.

I feel as if I’m seeing things. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe she’s been taking these all along. But that would mean the toxicology report was wrong.

More likely she’s changed her medication. For a genuine reason? Or in some crazy attempt at a cover-up?

What have you done, Becca?

“Have you always taken those?” one of the policemen asks, accepting the packet and studying it.

Becca sits back down. Her neck is blotchy. “Actually”—she screws up her face as if remembering—“I did used to take carbamazepine. But I’ve been on these for a little while now.”

“Were you taking carbamazepine when Mr. Wood fell ill? Might there have been some in the flat he could’ve accessed?”

She shakes her head firmly. “Nope. I actually wasn’t taking anything then. I was between meds.”

Between meds? I dare to glance at Auntie Rach: Her face is full of confusion. Becca looks pale now, too, as if regretting going down this road.

“We’ll have to follow this up, Miss Fielding. With your cooperation, I hope? And we’ll also consult with the toxicologists, to confirm how sure they are about the exact type of anticonvulsant in Mr. Wood’s system.”

“How much was found?” Mum asks.

“It can be hard to measure levels in the blood, but they’ve been estimated as quite high.”

“Did it kill him?”

“The toxicology team and our medical experts think he died from a strong adverse reaction to that drug. The antidepressants might have increased its effects, and made the levels of carbamazepine appear higher. With alcohol in his system also, the synergistic effect of all three . . .”

I try to breathe evenly through my nose. I can hear Becca cracking her knuckles beneath the table. Auntie Rach is very still, unusually quiet. Mum frowns at Becca’s pills in the policeman’s grasp.