I think, searching for the right words.

It’s more like he’s closed off. That he’s been hurt in the past, and has reacted by retreating behind these self-erected barriers into a perfect, ordered world of his own devising.

Was it his childhood?

Was it the death of his wife and child?

Could it even have been the death of Emma Matthews?

Or was it something else entirely, something I haven’t yet guessed at?

Whatever the reason, it seems strange that Carol should get Edward so wrong. Of course, she never met him. She’s relying on what Emma told her.

Which in turn suggests that Emma was also mistaken about him. Or—another thought occurs to me—that Emma herself deliberately misled her therapist. But why should she do that?

There’s one person who might be able to tell me, I realize. I get out my phone and find a number.

“Hampstead Homes and Properties,” Camilla’s voice answers.

“Camilla, it’s Jane Cavendish.”

A short pause while she places me. “Jane—of course. Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “It’s just that I found some things in the attic here that I think might have belonged to Emma Matthews. Would you have any contact details for the man she moved in here with, Simon Wakefield?”

“Ah.” Camilla sounds guarded. “I take it you’ve learned about Emma’s…accident, then. That was when we took over, actually—the previous agents lost the contract after the inquest. So I wouldn’t have any details for tenants before then.”

“Who was the previous agent?”

“Mark Howarth, of Howarth and Stubbs. I can text you his number.”

“Thanks.” Something makes me add, “Camilla…You say your agency started letting One Folgate Street three years ago. How many tenants have lived here since then?”

“Besides you? Two.”

“But when you showed me round, you told me it had been empty for almost a year.”

“That’s right. The first tenant was a nurse—she only lasted two weeks. The second managed three months. I found a month’s rent stuffed through our door one morning and a note saying if she stayed there a day longer she thought she’d go crazy.”

“They were both women?” I say slowly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Not really. I mean, no more than anything else about that house. But I’m glad you’re all right.” She leaves the words dangling, as if inviting me to contradict them. I don’t say anything. “Well, bye then, Jane.”

THEN: EMMA

He leaves reluctantly, the Swaine Adeney bag waiting on the stone table while we have one last breakfast.

It won’t be for long, he says. And I’ll come back for a night or two when I can.

He takes a final look around the house, at the pale open spaces. I’ll be thinking of you, he says. He points at me. Wearing that. Living like this. The way the house was meant to be lived in.

I’m wearing one of his white Commes des Gar?ons shirts and a pair of his black boxer shorts as I eat my toast. Though I say it myself, it works. Minimal house, minimal clothes.

I’m becoming a little bit obsessed with you, Emma, he adds.

Only a little?

Perhaps the break will do us good.

Why? Don’t you want to be obsessed by me?

His eyes go to my neck, to my new shorter haircut, almost too short for his hands to get a grip in when he f*cks me.

My obsessions are never healthy, he says quietly.

—

After he’s gone, I open my computer.

Time to find out more about the mysterious Mr. Monkford.

The fact is, the way he reacted last night when he saw my haircut has given me an idea. An idea so crazy I can hardly believe it myself.

—

Mr. Ellis? I call. Tom Ellis?

At the sound of my voice a man turns toward me. He’s wearing a suit, a yellow hard hat, and a frown of disapproval.

This is a construction site, he says. You can’t come in here.

My name’s Emma Matthews. Your office said you’d be here. I just want a quick word, that’s all.

What about? Barry, I’ll catch you later, he says to the man he was talking to. The man nods and heads back into one of the half-finished buildings.

Edward Monkford.

He stiffens. What about him?

I’m trying to find out what happened to his wife, I say. You see, I think it could happen to me as well.

That gets his attention all right. He takes me to a café near the site, an old-fashioned greasy spoon where construction workers in hi-viz jackets tuck into plates of fried eggs and beans.

Tracking down the fourth member of the original Monkford Partnership hadn’t been easy. Eventually I’d found an old cutting online from Architects’ Journal announcing the Partnership’s formation. Four fresh-faced graduates stared out confidently from a fuzzy black-and-white photograph. Even back then, it was clear Edward was their natural leader. Arms folded, face impassive, he was flanked by Elizabeth on one side and a ponytailed, much slimmer David Thiel on the other. Tom Ellis was to the right of the picture, a little separate from the others, the only one smiling for the camera.