She bowed her head. The Trickster was still unable to speak, but he had to make some effort to convey the awe and concern he felt for her. Crouched on the ground, he too bowed his head; he reached out his hands to her warm, dusty feet and touched them softly, like a small child reassuring himself of his mother’s presence and attention.

“Go back to the labyrinth,” was all she said, but the gentleness of her tone comforted him.

She was there ahead of him in the form of Nurse Benet, patiently guiding Miranda through some basic exercises and making pleasant conversation. As before, the Trickster settled his spider shadow into a corner and listened.

“And how was your day, Dr. Ecouvo? Lots of visitors this morning.”

Miranda’s reply was a polite, patient effort modulated by pain as she stretched her arms slowly up and out. “My work colleagues. They’re very kind. They don’t want me to feel . . .” She huffed, partly a pause for breath, partly a laugh. “. . . bored and lonely.”

Nurse Benet made a disapproving noise. “They brought work files for you.”

“Just one small report. Keeps the brain working, just like you’re doing with my body,” Miranda countered.

“Well, I’m happy to hear that, because after a few more weeks of this, I think you’ll be ready for physiotherapy at the hospital pool.”

Miranda shivered under a cold flood of unwelcome memories.

—

The report proved to be a disappointment. The bus driver was a longstanding employee of a well-known company with no connection to the Walther Grey case. Miranda scanned the files from her briefcase, worried that she had forgotten something important, but it was all too familiar.

She was soon begging Khabir for more. “I need to see the summary report of the Grey case. Who drafted it?”

Khabir shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It was done half by me and half by Fernando . . . and neither half very well. We were a bit distracted, obviously.”

She felt suddenly teary at the thought of what it must have been like for them, but she controlled it and went on. “I’d still like to see it. It would help to see another perspective.”

“On what?” Khabir’s voice rose in uncharacteristic frustration. “I still don’t know what you’re looking for!”

“What are you looking for?” That was Fae, who was still spending silent, restful weekends with Miranda, immersed in all manner of reading and occasionally looking at Khabir with suspicion, as if she expected him to hand over a bill for board and lodging at any moment.

“I’m not sure,” Miranda admitted. “I’m hoping to find some kind of evidence that there was someone else besides Grey involved in the murders.”

Fae sat up. “You mean an accomplice?”

“More like a mastermind,” Miranda replied. “Someone had to benefit from those particular people dying.”