“DC Simon Waterhouse, to see Hannah Blun—Hannah Yeatman.” At work, she called herself by her maiden name. Simon didn’t understand why anyone would allow themselves to end up in a situation where they had two names. Having one was bad enough; he’d always hated saying his own out loud.

The crackly voice said something he couldn’t make out. It was followed by a deeper buzzing noise, which Simon took to mean that he should push his way in. He had to apply his full weight to the shiny black front door in order to get it to move.

Inside, he expected to see a person, or something that hinted at the presence of a person or people nearby, but there was nothing—no visible reception area, no sound of voices or movement. Simon was standing in a wide, elegant hall with mustard-colored walls and one of those zigzag-patterned wooden floors, dark and shiny. Ahead of him were two doors, one on either side: one ajar and one closed.

He moved forward and looked into the room that was open. It looked like a waiting room, waiting for people to wait within it. There was a display of glossy magazines on a rectangular table with wooden legs and a thick marble slab-like top, three armchairs that looked as if they’d been designed for a royal court, a backless pink sofa that reminded Simon of a rolled-out tongue, and two tall, rubbery-leafed plants in large terracotta pots.

Surroundings so ostentatiously flawless made Simon suspicious. The inside of the building smelled of new paint and new carpet. He pictured waves of crimson blood flowing down the curved staircase in front of him, rushing toward him like a curling red ribbon.

He shook his head to banish the image. “Hello?” he called out. “Anyone in? Hannah?”

A pair of legs appeared at the top of the wide staircase in front of him. “Sorry!” It was Hannah’s voice.

Simon was embarrassed by how relieved he was to hear it. The building had a bad vibe. He wouldn’t have liked to be in it alone.

“Sorry,” Hannah said again. “I had a patient on the phone and couldn’t disentangle myself easily. Come on up.”

Simon followed her to her office on the first floor and did a double take as he entered the room.

Incredible. Someone had covered the whole floor with a painted Chinese landscape. It was mainly blue and white, with touches of pale green and pale pink here and there. Like an intricate china-teacup pattern, but on the floor.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Hannah. She was smiling, but her eyes were red and swollen, her face pale. “My friend did it for me. She’s a genius.”

On the far wall, above a filing cabinet, there was a framed quote that must have been chosen for its psychological relevance:

Deep-rooted fears—

Should not fears have deep roots?—

And terrifying love