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He glances at the text. It’s the BBC News report, the photos fuzzy in the black and white printout.
“Okay …” he replies, hesitantly.
She needs to get the words out fast before she loses her nerve. “It’s him, Adam. It’s him.”
“Romilly,” he begins with a sigh. “Please …”
“It is. I know it is—”
“Not everything is about him. Not every murder, every death—”
“No, Adam, listen.”
“So, tell me. What makes you so sure?”
She pauses. She spent the day searching the internet, reading every article, every report she could find. And she still doesn’t know. Why she felt so scared, so unsteady. Like the world tilted.
“It’s a feeling …” she begins.
At that, his face changes. From sympathy to barely disguised annoyance.
“A feeling? Come on. Can you hear yourself?” He pushes the printouts into a neat pile. She recognizes the gesture: dismissive. Conversation over.
“But Adam—”
“How are you?” he interrupts. “Are you still seeing Dr. Jones?”
“This isn’t me being crazy.”
He doesn’t reply. But isn’t it? the voice in her head asks. Because if this isn’t crazy, what is? Adam had always been the sane one in their relationship. The person who calmed her down, made her question what was real and what was in her head.
But that’s not his role now. They’re divorced; she’s with Phil.
Phil is a much better match for her. They work in the same place—he understands the trials and tribulations of being employed by the NHS, even though he’s a physiotherapist and she’s an oncologist. Adam drinks too much. He doesn’t ever exercise, something her new boyfriend has more than covered. Phil has a much better body, she knows, even though Adam was never flabby. Sinewy and lithe, a metabolism that burned energy from sheer drive alone. And in the early days …
She stops. There’s a slight smell. A lingering odor. And sure enough, she spots the packet of cigarettes and a lighter on Adam’s desk.
She sits up straight. “You’re smoking again?” she exclaims, louder than she intends.
Guilt flashes across his face, before it’s replaced by anger.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“With your history?”
He pushes his shoulders back, a defiant gesture. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do, Milly.”
“As your doctor—”
“You’re not my doctor. Not now. Not ever.”
She feels her body tense. Ashamed from his disbelief concerning the murders, the familiar irritation easily slots back into place. “You do know how stupid it is, right?”
“Yeah. That’s always been my problem. Stupidity. Stupid to trust you, back then. Stupid to let you waste my time today.”
“I should go …”
“Yes. Please.”
