I decide to walk, even though it briefly crosses my mind that I might be exposing myself to more target practice from the mysterious stone thrower. It’s still light, though, so it seems unlikely. Regardless, I find I’m constantly looking around to check behind me, even as I berate myself for allowing the stone thrower this victory over me. There’s a brisk breeze that chills my cheeks and tangles my hair, but I’m warm enough inside my coat and I feel more awake than I have all day. Mostly I have to stick to the road, which has lumpy grass verges instead of pavements, but the road is so seldom used that I don’t worry about traffic mowing me down. Closer to the village, a narrow pavement replaces the verge and the odd car passes me. Several hundred meters farther, the houses begin. At first they are boxy new-build houses laid out around curving crescents, but along Front Street, where the village shop is to be found, the buildings are much older, low squat structures with narrow windows and thick walls in local stone with slate roofs. It’s not a busy street—I’m the only person on it—but there are a few cars parked in front of the shop and the post office.

I’m only thirty meters or so from the shop when Carrie exits it.

I nearly call out, then I stop—it can’t be her. She’s in Edinburgh. But nobody else has biker boots and a gray coat that flaps out around the legs; it’s unmistakably her. She has a bottle of wine held by the neck in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, and she doesn’t look up the street toward me. Instead she strides purposefully to one of the parked vehicles and climbs in. The car pulls away and is no longer shielded from my view by other parked vehicles. I can see it properly as it drives away from me down the long, straight road that is Front Street. It’s Jamie’s jeep.

It takes me a moment to realize I’ve stopped dead on the pavement. She lied to me. I resume walking and try to sort out what I’ve just seen. Why would she feel the need to lie? Does she think I would be jealous about Jamie asking her out? What on earth would give her that impression? I have Jonathan, after all—well, I have as much of him as is available, and I’m not even sure I want that, but I’m hardly on the prowl. The shopkeeper—a busty woman with impressive biceps who may or may not be the bitch that Carrie referred to—throws out a cheery hiya, and I find a vague smile for her in response. I don’t understand what’s happening. It almost hurts to breathe.