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Then a sigh, long-suffering and familiar.

“You’re going somewhere you don’t want to go. Shall I drive, or just stand there glaring at people?”

“I suppose there is no circumnavigating the shrubbery.”

“The phrase is ‘beating around the bush,’ love.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Is it?”

“I just need you to come with me,” I say. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Untrue,” Tamsin says. “I will absolutely do something. Probably a lot of things.”

“I will owe you,” I add.

“Brilliant.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“You already do,” she says, and hangs up.

There is a version of me who would handle this differently. She would stop for lunch. Sit somewhere quiet and let the day soften at the edges. Get a full night’s sleep before stepping into whatever comes next.

But this isn’t a normal case.

And I’m not her.

I turn off the lights. I lock the door. I walk to my car with the practiced efficiency of someone who knows exactly how much time she has before thinking becomes a liability.

On the drive, I don’t turn on the radio. I don’t let my mind wander elsewhere.

I rehearse.

What I will say. What I won’t.

Where I will stay.

How long.

This is just another site visit.

And I am very good at those.

Calla: I can’t believe you hung up on a cop.

Serena: I prefer the phrase, “concluded the conversation.”

Lila: You absolutely hung up on a cop.

Calla:

Serena: She was finished talking.

Serena: I was finished listening.

Serena: It was mutual.