Theresa gives me a look I can’t quite interpret and backs away a few paces, as if she’s scared I might hit her. She jerks her chin at the gun in my hand.

‘I’m not afraid of that,’ she says. ‘It’s a fake.’

I look at her for a long time, trying to read her face. But she’s not bluffing. She really doesn’t know.

I check to make sure the safety catch is on and then carefully open the cylinder and hold it out to show her.

‘Does that look like a fake to you?’

Theresa stares at it.

‘I don’t know,’ she says, horrified.

‘You planted this gun on me, didn’t you?’

She doesn’t reply.

‘A fake. You were told it was a fake. Not loaded.’

I watch the colour drain from her face. Theresa suddenly looks younger and more fragile than ever.

‘Is it…’ She swallows. ‘Is it loaded?’

I nod.

‘One bullet,’ I say. ‘But I guess I wouldn’t need more than one.’

‘I don’t under—’

‘Sit down,’ I say, pointing the gun at the sofa.

This time she does as I ask.

‘I know you’re an art student and work for Balder,’ I say. ‘So let’s not lose any time. I want to know what your job was.’

‘Norah,’ she says, as if she hadn’t heard me. ‘Is that the gun we left in your flat?’

I nod.

‘Oh my God,’ Theresa says. ‘Oh. My. God.’

I decide to give her a moment to let it sink in. She shakes her head and I’m afraid she’s going to flip out, but when she looks up, her eyes are clear and alert.

‘He said no one would come to any harm. The whole thing was supposed to be an experiment. Someone would speak a prophecy—what effect would it have? Would it be fulfilled? Or would nothing happen? Just an experiment, that was all.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ I ask.

She stares at me like a deer and I have to get a serious grip on myself to stop myself from slapping her. I can’t bear it when intelligent women play dumb.

‘Did you really believe that?’ I ask again. ‘Or is it what you wanted to believe?’

She says nothing.

Somehow I manage not to make a snarky remark. She just admitted that they were in my flat—that they planted a gun on me. How could she think that was okay? But I get a grip on myself. However much I may hate Theresa, I have more pressing problems right now.

‘You’re an artist,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen some of your stuff online. You’re good. Why are you working for a bastard like Balder?’

‘Wolfgang Balder is one of the most famous action artists in the world,’ she bursts out. ‘And I’m only a second-year student. For the first months, I felt awed just sitting in his lectures. And then one day he called me to his office and said he wanted me to help him with a new artwork—his biggest yet. I almost swooned. You’ve no idea what a big deal it was for me.’