She takes a long time to answer, but I don’t press her. I can see that she’s considering it—her eyes track around, thinking, remembering, perhaps seeing the things that only she sees. She’s the oddest package, Fiona. Blunt practicality and capability mixed with extreme vulnerability, and all set slightly off-kilter, like she’s out of phase with the world and trying to figure out how to catch up. “I dinnae ken,” she says at last. “I dinnae remember having sex—with any men, I mean—but with the drugs . . . well, who knows? Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder if he slipped through to me. Or maybe I slipped back to him for a spell and brought him with me.” Callum McCue, babe in arms. I find I’m holding my breath. But I’m being ridiculous; Callum is a common Scottish name . . . Fiona cocks her head and says fiercely, “He’s all mine now, though.”

I nod and wait until a little of the tension has left her. “You know that sounds completely nuts, right?” I’m not sure if I’m trying to reinforce it to myself or her, but I add a smile to stop my words biting.

“Aye. Well. No more nuts than the Manse kicking Jamie in the head, and we both saw that happen,” she replies pointedly, though with a touch of humor, and I incline my head to her—Touché. I can’t help wondering how Fiona remembers that, and for a second I’m back there, in the kitchen of the Manse, as the lights go out and the Manse roars its fury at Jamie. But in my hospital room, Fiona’s face sobers. “I couldnae take the chance. And”—she shrugs—“I kent he died. I’ve always kent that. No matter what he did to me, no matter how he manipulated me or everyone else, I kent he’d be found out in the end. Not the details, mind, but the gist of it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Like you’d have believed me.” True. “And anyway, I knew it was going to turn out all right in the end.” I look pointedly at my arm in the sling and raise my eyebrows. “You’ll live,” she says dryly. “I kent we’d be fine. And I kent he would be gone.”