She had not forgotten it. Not really. She had repressed it, that was all. She had forcibly dismissed its possibilities and pushed them away, pushed them down—even after Storm’s arrival. Even after he’d read that story at the party.

You suffer for what you fail to confess, she thought—even when you fail to confess it to yourself.

And she thought: A spilled soda. Yes. That makes it perfect.

She understood now. She understood everything that had happened. She even began to see, in her gathering terror, what was going to happen next.

The doorbell rang again. Again.

Harper hurried out of the room.

By the time she opened the front door, Detective Inspector William Pullod had given up on her. He had gone back down the mansion’s steps, was heading across the narrow street to where his Peugeot was parked before The Sign of the Crane. From the Peugeot’s passenger seat, his assistant, PC Slade, watched him approaching.

But then Pullod heard the door open behind him. He turned around, saw Harper standing there. She looked down on him silently as he moved back towards her, back towards the curb at the foot of the steps.

She braced herself—physically braced herself, putting her full weight on her walking stick. The inspector, she saw, was arranging his features into a po-faced expression of official sympathy. She felt the chill night air blow over her, felt another chill answer it from within. Was it too late? Was it already too late?

Below her, the wiry weightlifter shifted uncomfortably in his overcoat. He squinted up at the old woman through one eye. In one hand, he tossed a ring of keys up and down, jingle-jangle.

“Miss Albright,” he said. He looked away from her, along the dark street. But there was no traffic there, no one moving, nothing to see. He looked down at the keys in his hand instead. “I’m afraid …” he began.

Harper’s fingers curled and recurled around the dragon’s head. I’m afraid, she thought. There was a good English locution for you. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a nuclear war. The outer woman remained grimly firm but she could feel her framework wobbling. She hated that “I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid we’ve found young Bernard’s car,” said DI Pullod unhappily.

Harper lifted her chin. “I see. And where are you afraid it is?”

“I’m afraid,” said the inspector, “it’s right over there.” And he gestured across the street towards the pub. “Right in front of mine.” He held up the keys. “A constable found these in the ignition.”

Harper only nodded.

“I don’t suppose he’s come home …” said Pullod.

“No,” Harper said.

“And you’re certain he hasn’t just … run off?”

“Yes. I’m certain.”