The heat is overwhelming. The sky is heavier than it was, the promise of violence ahead. I think of the weather forecast and the thunderstorm due any day now. There is a fresh edge to everything. The air is jagged with suspicion.
I suggest taking a walk outside. There is a small café located five minutes from the office. I buy two cold drinks – sparkling water for her, Diet Coke for me. We remove our shoes and walk across an emptyish stretch of the Seven Mile Beach. I look at the ocean and the waves with their white moustaches and the cymbal crash as they hit the shoreline. It is peaceful. The golden surface hiding the corrupt reality, a metaphor for so much.
I often imagine bringing KitKat here and feeling the stickiness of her hand in mine. I picture the two of us in the sea together. She practises her swimming and rehearses the tale of the mythical tropical paradise for when she gets back to rainy Oxford. But it’s daydreaming. Anna is the only English visitor I’ve had since arriving.
We continue walking up to the shore and dip our toes in the cold sea water. Then we find a place to sit. Our watery toes turn the sand into paste. I remember building sandcastles with KitKat when she was two. I fear happiness is like youth, squandered by those who have it, torturing those who don’t.
I feel that premonition again. But, for now, I must maintain my cover. Be polite, play along. ‘Where are you staying?’ I ask.
Anna sniffs the breeze, captivated by the view. Out here she looks smaller and more human. The breeze fumbles her hair. Salt-spray pings her face. ‘The Ritz-Carlton,’ she says. ‘I had some money left over from the government payout once they dropped the charges. There’s nothing I love more than people watching.’
‘The victim becomes the voyeur.’
‘Something like that.’
I wonder for a second what her life would have been like without the case. I imagine her striking out on her own again after Elementary. The House of Commons, perhaps, political panel shows, a rent-a-quote act on social media. Like mother, like daughter.
I sip my drink and take in the scene. Yes, the weather has changed. The heat is prelude to the storm. The golden days are gone. Anna’s arrival has changed it all.
Already, I know the mistakes I’ve made: failing to check for hidden microphones; a camera concealed in her bag; a lingering police or private security presence. But I am tired of running. There is so much I still want to ask her: about Harriet, Devil’s Breath, the Farm, the Forest, Patient X. And, beneath it all, that simple question: did she intend to kill Indira and Douglas that night? Was she conscious? Did she fake the resignation syndrome and play on her history of sleepwalking to get away with two murders? Did she dupe me into being part of her grand scheme?
‘If the past is the only way to cure the present,’ I ask, ‘what’s your plan?’
Anna clutches her knees, like an echo of childhood. She takes one last look at the panoramic view – sun, sea, sand, all leaking into each other, a riot of yellowish-blues and creamy-whites – then turns to me and smiles sadly.
‘The Ritz-Carlton tonight at eight p.m.,’ she says, getting up. Her hand brushes against the ridge of my shoulder. ‘Don’t be late, Doctor. And try to look vaguely respectable.’