“You pretend to be your own best friend and dabble in half-baked conspiracy theories—oh, Jesus. It defies belief. And where did it get you? Greg’s still dead. He still died in the car with a woman who liked having affairs with married men. Have you unearthed some deep plot?”

“No,” I said.

“And now somebody’s died. What are you doing about that?” He put his head into his hands, breathing deeply.

“I don’t need help. I’m going to the police.”

“You haven’t been to the police yet?”

“No.”

“I can drive you there now.” Gwen stood up, placing both hands flat on the table to steady herself.

“For Christ’s sake, you can’t drive anywhere,” said Joe. “Why on earth haven’t you been to the police, Ellie?”

“I was scared and stunned. I know I should. It’s all so complicated.”

He leaned back in his chair. He seemed so shocked that the fight had gone out of him.

“I don’t know what it all means,” I said. “Greg and Milena, and then Frances.”

“Why does it have to mean anything except an unholy mess?”

“I’m so tired, Joe.” Having him there being so angry and fatherly made me feel younger and more foolish. Tears came to my eyes. “Maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been yet—I’m so very tired of thinking about all of it.”

“Oh, Ell.” Joe got up and crouched beside me, taking both my hands in his. “Of course you’re tired. I tell you what, leave it for tonight. Go tomorrow. I’ll take you myself, if you want.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

Then the phone rang again and at first I let the answering-machine take the call, but when I heard Fergus’s voice, I ran to pick it up.

“Fergus? Has labor started?”

“It’s nothing like that, Ellie. I’ve just seen some news online. It’s the weirdest thing. You know that woman in the car with Greg? Well, her partner—”

“Fergus,” I cut him short, “there’s something you should know . . .”

LATER, WHEN I’D finished talking to a stunned and stuttering Fergus, and Joe had gone home, leaving an enormous rowing machine in the middle of the living room, Gwen said, “So why didn’t you feel able to confide in me?”

She was sitting on the sofa, her legs curled up under her, floppily relaxed and moving in a slightly uncoordinated way. Daniel was coming to take her home; she could collect her car the next day, when the whisky had worn off.

I hesitated. “I don’t know exactly. I think I didn’t want anyone to tell me that what I was doing was wrong. I knew it was wrong, and stupid, and maybe even a bit unhinged, or a lot unhinged, but I didn’t intend to stop. I’m sorry, though.”

“And now?”