On the day she killed Ian Ferguson, there was the initial rush of the act. It wasn’t a euphoric rush, but there was still a strong energising process in her body. Next, there was the thrill of getting away with it as she wrote the death certificate. That was followed by the relief of going to the movies with Anita, as if everything was the same, as if the universe was not forever altered by what she’d done.

Since that night, she and Anita had been to the cinema, to a Latin music gig at the Camelot Lounge, jogged the Bay Run. Paula kept suggesting outings that involved more activity than talk, activities in which they could be together but side by side, so she wouldn’t have to face her friend too directly. In recent weeks, Anita had been busy with a big trial and they were getting together less.

Just behind the spot she was sitting in the food court, the guy at the noodle bar chucked a handful of pork into a wok, which made a loud hiss. The pungent smell enveloped Paula, flipping her stomach over. When she got up and moved away, closer to the juice kiosk, her guts settled again.

After Ian Ferguson’s death, Rochelle cancelled the followup appointment to check Brody’s tonsils. Not surprising. The woman was dealing with the sudden death of her husband.

Paula considered sending a condolence message, but it felt obscene to send a sympathy card about a man she’d killed. In the end, Mark Lang sent an email to Rochelle on behalf of the practice. It made sense—the dead man had been Mark’s patient.

When Mark Lang first returned from his diving medicine conference, Paula waited for him to quiz her about what had happened with Ian Ferguson, but questions never came. The one time they discussed it, Mark said, ‘Nah, not surprised. I tried to talk him into taking medication and getting some tests but—well, Ian Ferguson wasn’t a bloke you could argue with. Never let you win a point.’

As more days unspooled after the murder, it was incomprehensible to Paula that nothing had changed. She kept expecting a squad of police to pound on her front door or march into the practice or show up at the food court right now to arrest her, but the police never came.

This was one of those times when she felt the ache of Remy’s absence strongly. Since his death, she’d sometimes thought her way out of problems by imagining what Remy would advise. And she often consoled herself by imagining the delight Remy would’ve taken in some funny or lovely moment. By conjuring him up, she could squeeze a bit more out of life.