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‘ O n the bright side,’ Alice said, ‘you didn’t get any more weird emails from yourself.’

Emily was lying flat on the couch with her earbuds in, showered and mostly dressed, but with no make-up on and her hair soaking a halo of damp into the pillow behind her head. Ever since she’d hung up on Neil, she’d been feeling sick and headachy and generally shite, not from any physiological malady but because her brain wouldn’t stop dwelling on the details of Kate’s death. They were continuously playing on a loop in her head, like headlines on a cable news channel. Blood everywhere … Eye out of its socket … Face caved in … It didn’t help that, over on the building site, it sounded like a dozen people were trying to tunnel their way to the Earth’s core using only jackhammers. She’d closed every window and door but she could still hear their constant, rhythmic whine.

The only thing for it, Emily had decided fifteen minutes ago, was to take two paracetamol, be horizontal and call Alice to tell her everything that Neil had told her.

‘I did get a solicitor’s letter, though.’

‘ What? When? Who from?’

‘It arrived yesterday. And I have no idea because I told Mark not to open it, because I don’t know if I want him to know who it’s from either.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Exclusively bad things.’

Silence.

‘You think it’s from her,’ Alice said then.

‘What else would it be?’

‘She can’t sue you, Em. That’s not how it works.’

‘Alice, darling, this is going to sound harsh, but I say it with love: you really do have a remarkable confidence level when it comes to industries you don’t actually work in.’

‘Stop stealing my lines.’

‘It could be, I don’t know, damages. Or demanding my notes. Or libel.’

‘But none of that makes any sense, Em.’

‘To us . It might to her. We don’t really know what she wants.’

Alice sighed. ‘I think we can guess.’

‘Regardless,’ Emily said, ‘it’s too much of a coincidence. Isn’t it? The emails and now this?’

‘OK, look. I don’t want to stoke the flames in the paranoia fire, but I’ve been thinking about the messages and, even if they’re not spam, there might be a logical explanation. A not-awful one. This is all top-secret, right? This book?’

‘They’re worried if it’s made public, there’ll be an outcry and the book will have to be cancelled.’

‘Won’t there be one anyway?’

‘An outcry after publication equals sales,’ Emily said wryly.

‘Well, what if those messages are from someone who’s found out about it and is threatening to go public? I know who you are – Jack Smyth’s ghostwriter. I know what you did – signed on to work on this book. The next one could say, So tell Morningstar to pay me a fuck ton of hush money or I go to the papers .’

It was tempting to believe, but for Emily, it didn’t quite fit.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But where does the solicitor’s letter fit in?’

‘Have you any very elderly, very distant relatives, by any chance?’

‘I doubt I’ve just unexpectedly inherited a fortune, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

‘You’re sure Mark won’t open it anyway?’

‘He won’t. He wouldn’t.’

‘What if I did? I have your spare key. You tell him I need a book back that you borrowed off me or something. I go round, I get the letter, I tell you what’s inside.’

Emily liked that idea but … ‘What if he’s at home?’

‘I’ll make something up. I could go after work today.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Is it a bit, like, dramatic?’

‘“ Dramatic ”?’ She could practically hear Alice’s eyes roll. ‘You’re on some haunted movie set five thousand miles from home, interviewing a murderer and worried that you’re getting sued. I’ll be picking up your post.’

She had a point.

‘OK, yeah,’ Emily said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘It’s done.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘How much of a lie is that, percentage-wise?’

‘I’m grand. Really.’

‘But …?’

‘But, well, what if he did it?’

‘Are we back to talking about Jack?’

After a beat, Emily said, ‘Yes.’

‘You ask that like everything was different yesterday, when it was exactly the same.’

‘Is that a riddle?’

‘You know what I mean, Em.’

Emily hoisted herself up onto her elbows, then into a sitting position. ‘It’s first thing in the morning here after a really bad night’s sleep, I’ve only had a half a coffee and I’m getting a headache. So, sorry, but you’re going to have to spell it out for me.’

‘He did do it.’

‘We don’t actually—’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Alice said. ‘I know. Innocent until proven guilty. Whatevs, as the kids say.’

‘I don’t think they do anymore, actually.’

‘But he probably did it, didn’t he? Statistically and logically. Because what man whose wife was murdered by someone else would write a book about being accused of it, not even a year after her death? I mean, is this really the best use of his time? If I had his money and his profile, I might be, you know, offering a reward for information that leads to the arrest of her killer or something. But no, he’s over there with you, telling his side of her story. Does that sound like something a normal person would do? Or has he got away with murder and now he wants to get away with the barefaced cheek of writing a book about it? And Em, you know the answer. You knew it before you left. Is it that he was nice to you yesterday? That he seems nice? And genuinely sad? Because you and I know better than most that men who do bad things can seem like men who wouldn’t do them.’ A pause. ‘Is the real issue here not what Niall told you but that, before you heard the gory details, you’d started to believe that Jack was innocent?’

Yes , Emily said silently. That’s exactly it.

‘Neil,’ she corrected absently.

‘Think of the money, Em. Of not owing that money anymore. Of being able to move on. And look, it’s only a few days. Jobs are called jobs for a reason. Speaking of which, I must go and spend an hour in a mouth that I’m pretty sure has never even had a one-night stand with a toothbrush.’

‘Want to swap?’

‘You wouldn’t want to, trust me. I’ll let you know how it goes with the letter. Let me know if you get any more emails, OK?’

‘I will. Thanks.’

‘Call if you need me. Call anyway.’

‘OK.’

Alice hung up.

Emily was reaching to take out her earbuds when there was a loud, sudden bang that made her jump.

Not from the construction site, but close by.

Inside , even though nothing in Bookmark had moved or fallen and she could see nearly the whole space.

She frowned, confused – until, on a delay, her brain decoded the noise: it was the sound of something hitting the connecting door on its other side.

Living in an apartment block, Emily had already spent too many hours of her life playing a game of What the Hell Are My Neighbours Even Doing in There Anyway? Her guess in this instance would be bouncing a football or basketball hard off the door, but it could just as easily have been a foot kicking, or the punch of a fist.

And it hadn’t sounded like it had had to travel through two doors.

Had someone opened the one on the other side? Why would they do that? Had someone been standing there, trying to listen in on her phone call? Had she been speaking loud enough for them to succeed?

What had they heard?

What had Jack or Grace heard, since it had to be one of them?

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, because the clock on the wall in the kitchenette informed her it was five minutes past ten.

Shit .

She was late. Emily hopped off the sofa-bed and did a speedy circuit of Bookmark, turning things off, pulling on her shoes, dabbing some powder on her face because something was better than nothing, grabbing her keys and dashing to the door.

Outside, she was met by a wall of noise. It was all the same sounds as yesterday – hammering, drilling, banging – but louder; she wondered if they were working closer to Beach Read today. She understood now why they were the only people staying here. Anyone in their right mind would wait until all the work was finished, or at least had moved off to the other side of town.

She hurried down the steps, into the courtyard.

Someone had removed the damaged lantern and collected the broken glass left by the pool. The door to the main house was closed but not locked, presumably as a defence against the noise. She made sure to close it behind her again.

She didn’t bother to check if Grace was in the kitchen.

She ran up the back stairs.

Jack was already in the room, sitting on the couch, looking at his phone.

He seemed completely relaxed and not like someone who, less than five minutes ago, had been pressed up against the other side of a door listening to his ghostwriter talk about how, on balance, he’d probably killed his wife.

‘Oh, hey,’ he said, looking up. ‘Good morning.’

Blood everywhere … Eye out of its socket … Face caved in …

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Emily said.

‘I didn’t even notice you were. Don’t worry about it.’

She went straight to the coffee machine, which thankfully gave her a reason to turn her back to Jack.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk something that wasn’t wine, coffee or Coke. She really needed to make an effort to drink some water today.

After this coffee.

‘What happened to you last night?’ Jack said. ‘When I came back out, you’d disappeared.’

It was only then that Emily remembered what she’d said to Grace on the warm buzz of a mild wine inebriation.

Oh God.

Hadn’t she basically accused Grace of behaving inappropriately around Jack? And unprofessionally in general? Grace wouldn’t say that to Jack though, would she?

What would she say if Grace did, and Jack asked her about it?

New rule: no more wine.

‘I was just tired,’ she said. ‘I went to bed early.’

The coffee machine whirred to life.

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yeah.’ She still hadn’t turned around to face him. She was watching the machine’s nozzle spit steaming brown liquid into her cup like her life depended on it.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Did you get through to your friend? The owner? About the guy who broke in?’

‘No. Not yet. He’s in France. That’s where he lives. So with time zones … I’m waiting for him to call me back. I don’t want to do anything until I talk to him. I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble if there’s no need.’

The coffee machine beeped, signalling that it was finished. Emily picked up the cup, steeled herself and turned around.

‘Don’t let Grace catch with you that,’ Jack said, pointing at her jeans pocket.

When she put her hand there, she felt the solid outline of her phone.

‘Shit.’

In the rush to get out, she’d forgotten to leave it behind.

‘It’s not a big deal. Just turn it off and stick it in one of the desk drawers. She’ll be none the wiser.’ Jack grinned. ‘I won’t tell.’

She sat down at the desk, set down the coffee and did as Jack suggested.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked.

The laptop and voice-recorder were there, neatly lined up with the desk’s edge. Grace had mentioned something about locking them away, so she’d already been in here this morning.

Emily pressed the space bar, waking up the computer, and saw that overnight a new folder had appeared right in the middle of the desktop.

It was labelled T RANSCRIPTS .

‘Yeah,’ she said absently.

She double-clicked, and found a single Word document saved with yesterday’s date as its file name. When she opened that—

EJ: Cycling is suffering.

JS: Yeah so if you’re good at road-racing what you’re really good at is pushing through pain. There’s this guy Tyler Hamilton. Used to race for US Postal. Famously tough. He once broke his shoulder during the Giro …

The document was over a hundred pages long.

Someone – Grace, it had to be – had listened to the recording of yesterday’s interview and typed the whole thing up. That’s what she must have meant when she told Emily she’d stayed late working.

Which was great news, because it meant that she didn’t have to do it, and everything would be recorded twice over as they went along. But it also added a new ingredient to her general uneasiness, because it meant that Grace had heard every single thing that both of them had said yesterday.

And Emily had since discovered that Grace worked for Jack, who’d pretended to Emily that Grace worked for Morningstar.

‘Because it doesn’t seem like it,’ Jack said.

She looked up at him. ‘What?’

‘Emily, what’s wrong? Has something happened? You seem—’

‘Does Grace work for you?’

He said nothing for a long moment, then, ‘Yeeahhh?’, dragging out the ‘ah’ sound to add an undercurrent of obviously . ‘She’s my PA.’

‘She’s your PA,’ Emily repeated.

‘Yeah.’

‘She works for you.’

‘Yeah. Why? Is there a problem?’

‘It’s just that, when I arrived, I asked you if the assistant from Morningstar was here and you said, “Yes, Grace, she’s gone back to her hotel.”’

Jack frowned. ‘I’m not sure I—’

‘You told me Grace worked for Morningstar.’

‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘I told you that Grace, my assistant, had gone back to her hotel. You must have misunderstood me, or I misheard you.’ Jack laughed a little awkwardly. ‘What difference does it make?’

So Grace hadn’t been hiding the fact that she worked for Jack, actually, and since she did, she had a perfectly good reason to be in a photo with his wife at some event. And no wonder she’d looked so blank when Emily had asked her if Jack knew about the situation with the advance owing and the undelivered book.

‘Never mind.’ Emily rubbed at her temples. ‘It’s just that I thought she worked for Morningstar, that’s all. That she was on the same side. But obviously I picked that up wrong. I was just off the plane, so …’ She saw Jack’s facial expression. ‘I didn’t mean sides , I just—’

‘Then what did you mean?’

Something new was swirling in the air between them, something unfamiliar and cold and uncomfortable.

‘I just thought she was working for me,’ Emily said. ‘ With me. That I could, you know, ask her to do things.’

Jack’s head suddenly turned towards the door.

She heard it now too: voices, coming from downstairs.

Multiple voices. Arguing.

‘Who’s that?’

Jack was already on his feet, moving towards the door. ‘I don’t know.’

He left the room and she followed him out.

The voices were coming from the living room. When Emily got to its door, she stopped just behind Jack and saw Grace standing with two people she’d never seen before: a brunette wearing a crumpled linen shirt dress, lots of gold jewellery and a designer bag, and a grey-haired, older man in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and chinos with a crisp line ironed into the leg.

‘… not going to interrupt them,’ Grace was saying when Jack said, ‘What’s going on?’

Three heads turned slowly towards him, synchronized like actors performing a scene they’d rehearsed.

‘Jack—’ Grace started.

‘What are you all doing here?’ he asked, cutting her off. ‘If you’ve come to stop this, you’ve wasted a trip.’ Jack turned to Emily. ‘Meet my sister, Ruth,’ he said, pointing, ‘and my solicitor, Joe Roche.’

The solicitor cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we could talk in private, Jack?’ he asked, giving Emily a sidelong glance.

‘You can speak freely, Joe. She’s signed an NDA.’

‘I know, I drafted it. But it won’t cover this.’

‘It’s OK,’ Emily said, moving to go. ‘I’ll leave you guys to talk privately.’

‘Stay,’ Jack commanded. Then he asked Grace, ‘What’s going on?’

Grace looked to Ruth, who looked to Joe, who looked to Jack.

‘I’m afraid your situation has changed,’ Joe said, his expression grim. ‘We didn’t come here to try to stop you writing this book. We came here to tell you that you no longer have the option of writing it. You need to get home as soon as possible. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Jack, but a warrant has been issued for your arrest.’