“Wait a minute,” I say, shocked. “Edward—an abuser? Have you met him?”

Carol shakes her head. “I’m going by what I gleaned from Emma. Which, by the way, was no easy matter. She was always reluctant to be open with me—a classic sign of low self-esteem.”

“It simply isn’t possible,” I say flatly. “I do know Edward. He’d never hit anyone.”

“Not all abuse is physical,” Carol says quietly. “The need for absolute control is another kind of ill treatment.”

Absolute control. The words hit me like a slap. Because I can see that, viewed a certain way, they fit.

“Edward’s behavior seemed reasonable enough to Emma so long as she colluded with it—that is, so long as she allowed him to control her,” Carol continues. “There were things that should have served as warning signs—the strange setup with the house, the way he made even small decisions for her, or separated her from her friends and family: all the classic behaviors of the narcissistic sociopath. But the real problems started when she tried to break away from him.”

Sociopath. I know professionals don’t use that term quite the same way the general public does, but even so I can’t help thinking of what Emma’s previous boyfriend—Simon Wakefield, Carol had called him—said that time outside the house. First he poisoned her mind. Then he killed her…

“Does any of what I’m describing sound familiar, Jane?” she prompts.

I don’t answer her directly. “What happened to Emma? After all this other stuff, I mean?”

“Eventually—with my help—she started to realize how destructive the relationship with Edward Monkford had become. She broke up with him, but it left her depressed and withdrawn; paranoid, even.” She pauses. “That was when she broke off contact with me.”

“Hang on,” I say, puzzled. “How do you know he killed her, then?”

Carol Younson frowns. “I didn’t say he killed her, Jane.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “So what are you saying?”

“Her depression, her paranoia, the negative feelings and low self-esteem the relationship had fostered—to my mind these were undoubtedly contributory factors.”

“You think it was suicide?”

“That was my professional opinion, yes. I think Emma threw herself down the stairs at a time when she was suffering from extreme depression.”

I’m silent, thinking.

“Tell me about your own relationship with Edward,” Carol suggests.

“Well, that’s the strange thing. From the sound of it, there aren’t really many similarities. It started not long after I’d moved in. He made it very clear that he wanted me. But also that he wasn’t offering a conventional relationship. He said—”

“Wait,” Carol interrupts. “I’m just going to get something.”

She leaves the room and after a short time comes back with a red notebook. “The notes from my sessions with Emma,” she explains, leafing through the pages. “You were saying?”

“He said there’s a kind of purity—”

“?‘To the unencumbered affair,’?” Carol finishes for me.

“Yes.” I stare at her. “Those were his exact words.” Words he’d previously spoken to someone else, it would appear.

“From what Emma told me, Edward is an extreme, almost obsessive perfectionist. Would you agree with that?”

I nod reluctantly.

“But of course, our previous relationships can’t ever be perfected, no matter how many times we act them out. Each successive failure simply reinforces the maladaptive behavior. In other words, the pattern becomes more pronounced over time. As well as more desperate.”

“Can’t a person change?”

“Oddly enough, Emma asked me the exact same question.” Carol thinks for a moment. “Sometimes, yes. But it’s a painful and difficult process, even with the help of a good therapist. And it’s narcissistic to believe that we’re going to be the one to change another person’s fundamental nature. The only person you can ever really change is yourself.”

“You say I’m in danger of going the same way as her,” I object. “But from what you describe, she was nothing like me.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve told me that you suffered a stillbirth. It’s striking, isn’t it, that you were both in some way damaged when he met you. Sociopaths are attracted to the vulnerable.”

“Why did Emma stop seeing you?”

A look of regret crosses Carol’s face. “I don’t know. If she’d only stayed in therapy, perhaps she’d still be alive today.”

“She had your card with her,” I say. “I found her sleeping bag in the attic at One Folgate Street, along with some cans of food. It looked like she’d been sleeping up there. She must have been planning to call you.”

She nods slowly. “I suppose that’s something. Thank you.”

“But I don’t think you’re right about everything else. If Emma was depressed, it was because the affair with Edward was over, not because he was controlling her. And if she killed herself—well, that’s horribly sad, but it’s hardly his fault. As you said yourself, we all have to take responsibility for our own actions.”