‘I’ve already had dinner,’ said Paula. ‘But I could make you something to munch on if you like?’

‘No. Thanks. No. I’m a bit too churned up in the guts for food.’

‘Un-huh,’ said Paula and looked at Anita with her worried, caring face.

Anita wasn’t in the mood for that benign condescending shit tonight.

By the time they settled on the sofa in the living room, Anita was already pouring a second big glass of wine.

‘Go easy,’ Paula warned. ‘You were already a bit pissed when you got here.’

It was true that the three margaritas had surged through Anita’s bloodstream quite forcefully between leaving the bar and arriving here, but she didn’t feel like admitting that to Paula.

‘I know you think I’m a neurotic,’ Anita said.

‘What? I don’t.’

‘You do, and don’t insult my intelligence by bullshitting me about it,’ Anita snapped back.

‘Hey, Anita, you’re a bit pissed and it’s been an intense couple of weeks. Let’s not—’

‘I know you think I get a silly idea in my head and escalate it into a huge dramatic thing.’

‘Well, you say that about yourself. I mean, I think—’

Anita flapped her hands, wanting Paula to shut up and listen.

‘What I’m going to say is absurd,’ Anita said, then she stood up so she could pace around the room. ‘But I need to blurt out this insane theory in one go, scoop it out of my head and let the oxygen in this room kill it once and for all. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Paula in that patronising, calm-down-you-crazy-person voice of hers.

‘First, you told me about your patient—the one who was strangling his wife and she was too scared to leave because he tracked her. Next thing you know, nasty strangling husband dies of a heart attack in your surgery.’

Paula opened her mouth to respond but Anita put up her hand—let me finish.