So the message wasn’t from Max.

I say nothing; my head is whirling. If that email was fake, what else was?

‘What’s wrong, Norah?’ Max asks, when I don’t reply.

‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I’ll explain some other time. I promise. Tell me your news.’

‘Okay. Well, I spoke to Dorotea Lechner’s agent earlier. And it’s true—she was engaged for a piece of conceptual art. Her role, like I said, was called “Cassandra”. I couldn’t get her agent to tell me who engaged her—apparently there was a confidentiality clause. But I got a few details out of her.’

I wonder what lies Max fed the woman to get her to talk. Did he flirt with her? One day I’ll ask him.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Lechner found the job pretty strange, but basically didn’t care because she was paid well and up front and because the artist who’d engaged her was famous for some fucking weird shit. Her words, not mine.’

‘Wow!’

‘You can say that again, sister. Anyway, I just wanted you to know. It confirms Sandra’s findings. Grimm probably didn’t do a thing. Someone’s got it in for you. Both of you.’

‘It’s unbelievable,’ I say, but my voice is toneless.

‘Yes,’ says Max. ‘It’s going to take some digesting. The important thing, at any rate, is that you stay at home. I’ve no idea how that lunatic’s going to try and lure you to the Prater, but we can be sure he’ll spare neither trouble nor expense.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I reply and it’s the truth.

‘I know, it’s all a bit much. But we won’t leave you on your own tomorrow, so don’t worry.’

‘Today,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘It’s already February 11.’

‘So it is,’ says Max. ‘Today.’

‘Max?’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’ he asks, genuinely confused and I love him more than ever.

‘We’ll talk later,’ I say and hang up.

Cassandra, I think. The priestess whose doom-laden prophecies no one believed.

60

I go up to Theresa’s. Her eyes are red and glassy, as if she’s been sleeping.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ I say and she asks me in with a look of surprise. As I follow her into the living room, I pull the revolver from my waistband.

Theresa gapes at me as if I’d slapped her in the face and I can’t say I blame her. It must be pretty terrifying to have somebody walk into your living room and pull a gun on you—never happened to me, I’m glad to say. Still, there are limits to my sympathy.

‘What is this?’ she asks.

I shake my head.

‘Don’t give me that crap,’ I say. ‘I’ve no time for any of that.’

She’s admirably quick to digest and adapt.

‘How did I give myself away?’ she asks.

‘You didn’t. I’m suspicious by nature. Got an old friend to check on you. It was just a hunch.’

‘And what happens now?’

‘Now you’re going to sit down there on the sofa and tell me all I need to know.’