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‘Can you prove it?’
‘I only know what she told me. I think she was originally totally obsessed, but by the end she was plain terrified. She left a box hidden in her apartment. I was the only one who knew where it was. It had an image of one of the Hoppers Mr Baum recently sold—’
‘Girl in a Yellow Square of Light?’
‘I think I know who painted it, and it ain’t Mr Hopper. I think Maxine knew too, and she was killed for it.’
Susie stared at her, a wave of cold terror shooting up from her stomach. Was it possible? Her mind told her it was, but her heart, her instinct and everything else screamed no.
‘I’d like you to leave now.’
‘You sure? I’m telling the truth, Susie—’
‘Get out!!’
Gathering her bag, Latisha stood and began lumbering towards the exit. At the door, she turned. ‘You know where to find me.’
*
After the door had slammed shut, Susie still sat pinned to her stool. She picked up a paper scalpel and began jabbing at a blank sheet of paper over and over. Just then she was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. She ran to the sink, only just getting there in time to vomit into the basin. Afterwards she rinsed her mouth out and bent back against the wall, emotionally and physically exhausted. It was then that she found herself wondering where she was in her cycle. Normally she was very regular but the frenetic events and the different time zone had thrown her. As she counted the days she realised she’d missed her last period.
*
As Latisha left the church she realised she’d forgotten to inject herself with insulin that day. Her limbs had started to feel leaden and she was breathing heavily. Stumbling, she made it to a bench across the street, fighting dizziness. A well-dressed white man approached her. ‘Ma’am, are you okay?’
As he looked vaguely familiar, and thinking he might have been at the back of the congregation, she just let him sit down beside her. Frightened of fainting, she dropped her head between her knees. ‘My insulin pen-syringe… I need it, it’s in my bag… ’ she groaned, vaguely aware that the man was already rummaging through her shoulder bag. It was then that she felt Maxine sitting down on the other side of her, the whisper of her presence a sudden breeze against her left cheek.
‘You here, you trying to tell me something?’ she asked the ghost.
‘Sorry, are you talking to me?’ the man asked, looking up from his search.
‘Not you, her,’ she told him, indicating the ghost, now in full shimmering manifestation, the blonde hair dripping water onto the edge of the bench. The man glanced up into the vacant space Latisha had indicated, then continued searching through the bag. ‘You hang in there, I’ve almost found it,’ he told her.
But Latisha was staring at the ghost, who seemed to be imploring her to run.
‘Ma’am, is this it?’ The man held up a disposable pen-syringe that looked like the one she’d packed that morning.
‘That’s it.’ But as she tried to reach for it, she realised she was too weak. ‘Can you help me?’
He leaned over, about to plunge the needle into her arm; but just then a fire engine screeched down the street, sirens blasting. The ghost immediately jumped from the bench and merged with the whirling wind that followed the vehicle as it pelted down the street. Killer! the blaring sirens and the ghost’s voice seemed to scream at Latisha, and as if knocked by the wind of the fire-truck, the rage of Maxine, the blast of jasmine perfume, the man fumbled and cussed and then dropped the syringe onto the pavement.
In that instant Latisha realised where she’d seen the man before: at the wheel of the car that had trailed her. Terrified, she tried to stand. Several passers-by rushed to her side as the man, seeing her expression, jumped up and ran off down the street. Latisha stared down at the syringe; whatever was in it was dripping out of the cracked glass and bubbling on the concrete. It was then that she lost consciousness.
*
Felix pushed past a skinny blonde girl with a massive beehive hairstyle and loitered in front of the salad bar, an empty plastic plate poised in one hand. The Whole Foods store was busy with local students from NYU and office workers buying their lunch; it was exactly the kind of chaotic atmosphere that allowed a conversation to get lost in the hubbub, and that’s what he intended. He didn’t have to wait long; he’d only just started spooning brown rice onto his plate when the person he was due to meet was suddenly standing beside him, also with a plate in hand.
‘I recommend the butter beans,’ Jerome murmured in his English accent. He was a
n utterly nondescript middle-aged man in shorts and T-shirt, with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. The assassin’s ability to be entirely forgettable always amazed Felix, who never quite knew whether to be appalled or wildly impressed.
‘I hate butter beans.’
‘You shouldn’t. Beans are the most efficient source of protein there is,’ Jerome retorted flatly.
‘That’s right: I forgot you’re a vegan.’ Felix nervously loaded his plate with olives and spinach salad. ‘That is so weird, I would have thought a man like you would be a total red-meat man.’
‘You might deal in clichés, I don’t.’ Jerome reached for the beetroot.
