It would be wrong, given her knowledge of the danger this woman faced, not to use her skills to intervene.

Near the medical practice, there was a hair salon Paula went to occasionally to have her split ends trimmed. She avoided that place and walked into a salon where no one knew her. On this Friday afternoon, there were several women having foils done or big-night-out hairdos. Was there any chance they could dye her hair blonde right now, even though she didn’t have an appointment?

The hairdresser was intrigued by the impulsiveness of Paula’s request and, as he smeared her long wavy brown hair with the eye-watering chemicals, he asked a few tentative questions. Paula just smiled enigmatically.

She felt the peroxide tingle and sting as it cooked on her scalp. She had considered using a blonde wig instead, but whenever she’d seen her patients wearing wigs while undergoing chemotherapy it always looked so fake. Any hint of fakery would arouse suspicion. She couldn’t risk it. Still, going blonde was a big call. She mentally drafted an explanation she could offer Li-Kim when she arrived at work on Monday morning, leaning on the notion of seeking the boost from a radical change in look.

Paula went home from the hair salon with the stink of the dye chemicals wafting around her head like her own personal toxic cloud. She ate dinner and watched some TV, as if this were any normal Friday night. At nine p.m., she held her head under the shower, then draped a towel across her shoulders and dug out Stacey’s old hairdryer from the bathroom cabinet.

Paula had never been much good at doing anything with her hair beyond pinning it up or back, so she watched a YouTube tutorial on how to blow-dry wavy hair straight. Copying the video, she aimed the blast of hot air from the dryer as she rolled the brush through each section until she ended up with more or less straight hair. She was surprised how much further her hair fell down her back once the kinks and waves had been smoothed out.

She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The straight blonde hair was an alien sight, like a ridiculous wig for a fancy-dress costume. Which in a way it was. She reasoned that John Santino would be more likely to chat to her if she turned up looking a certain way, and straight blonde hair was one component of the look. She was a good ten or fifteen years older than the women he was usually attracted to but hopefully that wouldn’t matter—she wasn’t trying to seduce the guy, just hook his attention long enough to start a conversation.