Then the picture changed and we were back in the newsroom, and I turned off the screen and went back to the couch. I drew the blanket over me and turned my face to the wall, listening to Judah making tea in the next room . . . thinking.

The clock on Judah’s bedside table showed gone midnight. We were lying together, his chest molding to my spine, his arm around me, holding me close, as if he didn’t trust me not to disappear in the night.

I had waited until I thought he was asleep before I let myself cry, but when a particularly big sob shook my ribs, he spoke, soft and low against my ear.

“Are you okay?”

“I thought you were asleep.” My voice came out cracked and hoarse with tears.

“Are you crying?”

I wanted to deny it, but my throat had closed up and I couldn’t speak, and anyway, I’d had enough of lies and pretending.

I nodded, and he put his hand up, feeling the wetness on my cheeks.

“Oh, honey.” I heard the movement of his throat as he swallowed. “It’ll be . . . you don’t have to . . .”

He stopped, unable to continue.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” I said against the ache in my throat. It was easier not looking at him, speaking to the quiet darkness and the slivers of moonlight across the floor. “I can’t accept it; it’s all wrong.”

“Because he killed himself?” Judah asked.

“Not just that. Anne. And . . . and Carrie.”

Judah said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking.

“Say it,” I said bitterly. He sighed, and I felt his chest rise and fall against my spine, his breath warm against my cheek.

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I can’t help but feel . . . glad.”

I twisted round under the sheets to look at him, and he held up a hand.

“I know, I know it’s wrong, but what she did to you . . . honestly, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have dredged her out. I’d have left her there for the fishes. It’s probably a good thing it wasn’t my decision.”

I felt anger rise up inside me, anger on behalf of Carrie, beaten and bullied and lied to.

“She died because of me,” I said. “She didn’t have to let me go.”

“Bullshit. You were only there because of her. She didn’t have to kill a woman and lock you up.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what goes on in other people’s relationships.”

I thought of Carrie’s terror, of the bruises on her body, of her belief that she would never escape Richard. She had been right. Judah said nothing, and I could not see his expression in the dark, but I felt his silent disagreement.

“What,” I demanded, “you don’t believe me? You don’t think people can be sucked into doing something out of fear, or inability to see any other way out?”

“No, it’s not that,” Judah said slowly. “I believe that. But I still think, in spite of it all, we’re responsible for our own actions. We all get scared. But you can’t tell me that you’d do that to another person, no matter how tough things seemed—lock them up like that, imprison them—no matter how scared you were.”

“I don’t know,” I said. I thought of Carrie, of how brave she had been, and how fragile. I thought of the masks she wore to hide the terror and loneliness inside. I thought of the bruise on her collarbone, and the fear in her eyes. I thought of how she had given up everything for me.

“Listen.” I sat up and wrapped the sheet around me. “That job you were talking about, before I left. The one in New York. Did you turn it down?”

“Yes, I mean, well, no . . . I’m going to. I haven’t called them yet. After you went missing, it kind of slipped my mind. Why?” Judah’s voice was suddenly uneasy.

“Because I don’t think you should. I think you should take it.”

“What?” He sat up, too, and a shaft of moonlight fell across his face, showing me an expression full of shock, anger. For a minute he didn’t seem to know what to say, then the words came pouring out. “What the hell? Why? Where has this come from?”

“Well, this is a chance in a lifetime, right? It’s the post you’ve always wanted.” I twisted the sheet around my fingers, cutting off the blood until they went numb and cold. “And let’s face it, there’s nothing holding you here, is there?”

“Nothing holding me here?” I heard him swallow, saw his fists clench and unclench against the white sheets. “I have everything holding me here, at least I thought I did. I—am—are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” Now it was my turn for shock. I shook my head and took his hands, rubbing my fingers across the sinews and the bones of his knuckles, hands that I knew by heart. Fuck. “Jude, no. Not in a million years. I’m saying—I’m trying to ask . . . Let’s go. Together.”

“But—but Velocity—your job. Rowan’s maternity cover. This is your big chance. I can’t screw that up for you.”

“It’s not my big chance.” I sighed. I slid down beneath the sheets, still holding Judah’s hands in mine. “I realized that when I was on the boat. I’ve spent, what, nearly ten years working at Velocity, while Ben and everyone else took risks, went on to bigger and better stuff, and I didn’t. I was too scared. And I felt like I owed Velocity for standing by me when things were bad. But Rowan’s never going to leave—she’ll be back in six months, maybe less, and I’ve got nowhere to go. And the truth is, even if I did pull myself up the ladder, it’s not what I want anymore. I never wanted it—I realized that on board the boat. God knows I had enough time to think about it.”

“What do you mean? It’s—ever since we met, it’s all you’ve talked about.”

“I think I lost sight of what I wanted. I don’t want to end up like Tina and Alexander, traveling from country to country and only seeing five-star hotels and Michelin restaurants. Yes, Rowan’s been to half the luxury resorts in the Caribbean, but in return she spends her life reporting the stories that people like Bullmer want her to tell, and I don’t want that, not anymore. I want to write about the things people don’t want you to know. And if I’m going to start pulling my way up from the bottom again, well, I can freelance from anywhere. You know that.”

A thought came to me, and I let out a shaky, involuntary laugh.

“I could write a book! My Floating Prison: True-Life Hell on the Seven Seas.”

“Lo.” Judah took my hands, his eyes wide and dark in the moonlight, and painfully beseeching. “Lo, stop, stop joking. Are you serious about this?”

I took a deep breath. Then I nodded.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

Afterwards, Judah lay in my arms, his head in the crook of my shoulder in a way that I knew would give me a cramp eventually, but I couldn’t bear to pull away.

“Are you awake?” I whispered. He didn’t answer for a moment, and I thought that he had fallen asleep, in that way he had of slipping out of consciousness between one breath and the next, but then he stirred, and spoke.

“Just.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Shh . . .” He rolled over in my arms, touching my face. “It’s okay, it’s all over.”

“It’s not that . . . it’s . . .”

“Are you still thinking about her?”

I nodded in the darkness, and he sighed.

“When you saw her body,” I started, but he shook his head.

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean? I thought the police sent you photographs to identify?”

“It wasn’t a body—I wish it had been, if I’d seen it was Carrie’s corpse, not yours, I wouldn’t have spent two days in hell, thinking you were dead. It was just clothes. Photographs of clothes.”

“Why did they do that?” It seemed an odd decision—why ask Judah to identify the clothes, and not the body?

I felt Judah’s shoulders lift in the darkness in a shrug.