After calling the local Chinese takeaway and ordering, I wipe the worktops down and go to the fridge for some water. I frown at the empty shelves, empty except for bottles of water and jars of my vice. I need Cathy back. My washing is piling up, the cupboards are bare, and the dishwasher is beginning to scream in protest for being so full. Speaking of which . . . I head for the machine and pull open the door, scanning the control panel. Simple, she said. I wrack my brain for the instructions she gave me. They’re lost. Buried by other thoughts. I hit a few buttons. “Add rinse aid?” I say to myself, frowning. The screen flashes again. “Salt? You put salt in the dishwasher?”

Giving up on trying to figure out the dishwasher—there’s too much else to figure out—I shut the door and go back to the fridge, reaching in for my peanut butter and quickly retracting. “No,” I say to myself. “You’ll ruin your appetite.” Hunger is a rarity, my appetite constantly suppressed by other things. I’m quite enjoying being starving, and not just for food.

I hear the phone chime and head for the door, answering to the concierge. “On my way,” I say, slipping out to go collect our dinner. The smell of good food smacks me in the face when the elevator doors slide open, and I spy a bag sitting on the desk. The concierge is pouting at it.

“Hungry?” I ask as I stride toward him, a small smile on my face. I claim the bag, and my eyebrows shoot up when I hear the distinct sound of a stomach rumbling. “Was that yours or mine?” I ask, glancing at my midriff.

Clive shakes his head and massages his tummy. “I’ve not eaten since breakfast,” he moans. “How’s Ava?”

“Sober,” I grunt, reaching into the bag and pulling out a prawn cracker. “Here. That’ll keep you going until you knock off.” I place it on his desk and stroll off, getting back in the elevator. The doors begin to close, I glance up, and an odd shiver glides down my spine.

Someone is standing outside the glass door of Lusso, staring in, and I squint, trying to focus, but the reflections on the glass are hampering my view. Then the doors meet in the middle, and I quickly reach for the buttons and start stabbing at them, my stomach not now churning with hunger, but churning with something else. I can’t put my finger on it. The doors begin to open again, and I squeeze out of the gap as soon as it’s wide enough, my eyes scanning beyond the doors. There’s no one now. But there was someone. Someone I rec—

“Mr. Ward?” Clive says.

I blink my burning eyes and look at him.

“Everything okay?”