I cut across her. “Yes, but Alina—is she okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be okay?” Tom asks, but he’s simultaneously pulling his phone out of his pocket. The nurse starts to protest that mobile phones can’t be used in the hospital, but Dr. Page cuts her off with a quick shake of her head.
“Because Caro is obsessed with Seb. Because that’s what this was all about: Severine, everything. All about Seb—”
But Tom is speaking on the phone now. “Alina? Hi, it’s Tom.” I hear a voice replying, but I can’t make out the words. “Yes, I’m in the hospital with her now. She’s woken up, thank God. The doctor says she’s going to be fine.”
“Has Caro been to see her?” I ask him urgently.
He nods at me as he listens for a moment and then says, “No, it definitely wasn’t that.” Wasn’t what? “We’re just figuring out what really happened. Sorry to ask a slightly strange question, but has Caro been to see you?” He listens then shakes his head at me.
“Don’t let her—” I start, but he is nodding at me already, one hand up.
“Look, I’m not sure quite what’s going on right now, but sounds like you’re being a smart girl,” he says approvingly down the phone. “I’ll give you a call when I know more. Let me know when you and Seb are back in town.”
He disconnects and looks at me. “She was feeling pretty rubbish so she’s taken a week off work and she and Seb drove to Cornwall yesterday to stay at her mum’s place. Caro called her a couple of times the night before they left, but Alina thought she was being a bit, well, odd, so she said she didn’t have time to meet before they left.”
I do the maths on the timing; it’s horribly hard work on my aching head, though it occurs to me the painkillers I must be on are probably not helping, either. Alina said Caro called the night before they left, and she also said they left yesterday. So, Caro called her two days ago. And I’ve been out of it for two days. Caro must have left mine and immediately started calling Alina. I wonder what it was that raised alarm bells for Alina, but whatever it was, she’s a smart girl indeed for listening to them. I relax back onto the pillow. Then I remember my puzzlement at Tom’s words. “Wasn’t what?” I ask.
“What?”
“You said no, it wasn’t that. What did you mean?” Once again I notice that Dr. Page and the nurse are thoroughly involved in other things and therefore are actually at full attention. Then it hits me. “Oh. You thought I’d attempted suicide.” I can see on all the faces that I’ve got it right. Something flickers in my memory. “She said you would think that,” I murmur.
“It’s a reasonable assumption for that quantity of drug in your bloodstream,” says Dr. Page with an unapologetic shrug. “I’m astonished you were able to call for help at all.” I look at her, nonplussed. I called for help? Who did I call? But she’s moving on: if I want to be able to hold a conversation on my own terms I had better increase my mental processing speed. “How did it get in your system?”
I’m not sure if she doesn’t believe me or she’s just being thorough. “Caro brought wine,” I say evenly, though perhaps not as evenly as intended. My voice isn’t quite working as normal, and my throat seems to close up even more when I think of what happened, or might have happened . . . What did happen? “I wasn’t in the room when she opened it and poured me a glass. I didn’t try to kill myself; I wouldn’t do that. Ever. Plus I wouldn’t even have a clue how to get hold of Rohypnol.” A half memory triggers: you really should put a security code on your iPhone. That same iPhone on the floor, the colors on the screen swimming too vividly . . .
“That’s a serious accusation,” Dr. Page says carefully.
“It was a serious attempt to kill me,” I reply, not nearly as evenly.
She nods, though more as if she’s weighing things up than as a sign of agreement. “Look, I’m not trying to influence you in any way, but you should be aware that Rohypnol does rather scramble your memories.” Tom is very still. I can’t tell what he’s thinking as he focuses on the good doctor. “To be frank, it makes you an unreliable witness in the eyes of the law. Are you sure you want to take this to the police?”
Do I? I look inside myself, for the cold, hard fear I remember, for the fury I want to be there, for the Kate I wanted to be, but I’m not sure where any of those are. A longing for Severine washes over me, to once again see my beautiful, inscrutable ghost. But she isn’t here. Caro took her from me; twice, as it turns out, and on that realization I finally find a bright, shining edge of steel. Tom looks at my face. “If Caro was prepared to do this,” he says quietly, almost in a growl, “is there something else she’s done?” Bless him for his quick understanding: he’s already joined the dots. I wonder if he’d half made the links already. But he’s looking at me gravely, a stillness in his face as he awaits confirmation. I nod silently, and he breathes out slowly, the stillness eroded into bleak disappointment edged with anger.
“I want to take this to the police,” I say, as emphatically as I’m currently capable of sounding.
“Okay,” sighs Dr. Page. “We’ll get everything in order from the medical side.” She looks at Tom and me, and her eyes soften. “For the record, your man here never believed you tried to kill yourself,” she says, a half smile on her face. “He told anyone who would listen that they were wrong. Same for your friend Lara.” I look at Tom again, who has at some point taken my hand once more, though it doesn’t quite feel like mine yet; I look at those eyes that are all his, above that wonderful nose, and I’m suddenly afraid I may burst into tears. “Now may I actually tell you about your medical condition?” asks the doctor wryly.
I smile and nod, and she launches into an explanation that involves some quite terrifyingly dramatic medical terms that I choose to mostly ignore because against all odds, the upshot seems to be that I’m actually here and I’m fine, or I’m going to be, and Tom is holding my hand, a hand that becomes a little more mine with every stroke of his thumb. Time is a ribbon, and there is more of that ribbon ahead for me. Despite the drugs Dr. Page has just explained I’m being pumped with, it’s dawning on me slowly what almost happened to me, what was almost taken from me, and suddenly the tears that threatened begin to spill down my cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” says Dr. Page kindly. “This is not an unusual reaction to the drugs.”
“I think,” says Tom grimly, “it’s more of a reaction to attempted murder,” but his hand is gentle as he places it against my face again. This time I turn into it, and my head doesn’t thump too hard at the movement.
“Alors, attempted murder?” a familiar voice drawls from the doorway. “I think that is something I should hear about, non?” Modan. He’s not wearing a suit, but nonetheless he is still impeccably dressed, in casual jeans, a shirt and a pullover—the same sort of outfit that millions of men choose every day, but somehow his screams French sophistication. Or perhaps that comes from the way he positions his lanky frame against the doorway and raises one eyebrow.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” I say wearily. I am in fact excessively exhausted all of a sudden. Surely he won’t arrest me in my hospital bed? “You really find your way everywhere, don’t you?”
“True, but today I thought I was just the bag carrier,” Modan replies, raising one hand with a self-deprecating smile. I recognize Lara’s tan handbag dangling from it; hostilities must have ceased. “Lara is just in the bathroom. Though maybe I need to change roles, non?”