"Come away from there, dear," the mother beckons gently, taking my arm. "You can't salvage that lot."

"But you don't understand," I protest as the daughter slips the backpack, containing the remnants of Celia's novel, over my shoulder. "This ma.n.u.script wasn't even mine."

They raise their palms and shrug sadly, indicating that my cause is lost. Meanwhile, a dozen or so pa.s.sengers who have traveled down the escalator gather on the platform in twos and threes.

"Can you manage?" The mother lifts her chin toward the approaching train. I nod. My ears ring, my body shivers, but I know if I don't get on the next train, right now, I will never again ride a subway in my life. I close my eyes as blood rockets through my skull. The brick walls constrict and the train becomes a bullet in a barrel, a malevolently vicious thing. The mother-daughter duo steps closer and absorbs me into the closed circle of their interior, where I revel in the foreign warmth.

The train arrives and shudders to a stop, inches from my face. A buzzer sounds, the doors steam open, and for a moment I am paralyzed. Then I surrender to the force of anxious bodies propelling me into the carriage, where I collapse into the first seat beside the door. The train lurches forward, pauses, then picks up speed. I did it. I survived.

From Tottenham Court Road there are seven stops to Belsize Park, the station closest to Celia's flat. Goodge Street, Warren Street, Euston-the stations blink by through the windows, offering brief respites of warmth and light between blinding stretches of damp and rapid darkness. My body relaxes, carving out a s.p.a.ce for the pain in my left wrist, a pain that increases with each pa.s.sing minute. By Mornington Crescent I've lost the dent between wrist and hand; by Camden Town, purple and black bruises breach my forearm. By Chalk Farm, my fingers have stiffened and I can no longer make a fist.

When I emerge from the station at Belsize Park I am briefly surprised by the hazy daylight filtering through a lacy veil of clouds. It's less than an hour since I left Dr. Whitaker, but the intense darkness of the Underground seems to have lasted forever, consuming the brightness of several days.

Instead of returning to Celia's flat, I walk the short distance from the Tube station to the Royal Free Hospital, a multilevel, modern-looking structure with a large illuminated canopy over the main street-level entrance. I'll lose precious time waiting for an X-ray, but what else can I do? My wrist is beyond painful now, and as swollen and shiny as bruised fruit.

Fluorescent yellow ambulances dart in and out of the lower-level loading bay, near where I enter A&E-the accident and emergency department-through the sliding gla.s.s doors. I give my details at the reception desk and am a.s.sessed by a triage nurse in a prim, old-fashioned uniform of robin's egg blue. She declares me greenPriority 4, meaning my injury is not life threatening. This also means I will probably be waiting here forever, until all the more serious cases have been seen to.

As I take my seat in the hot, crowded, antiseptic-smelling waiting room across from a man in a soiled boilersuit pressing a bloodied rag to his forehead, I try not to think about the last time I was inside a hospital, five months ago. Instead I attempt to keep my wrist elevated, as the triage nurse instructed, above my heart. This being England, there is no ice.

A large, flat-screen TV anch.o.r.ed to the wall scrolls rapid, capital-letter updates about the ongoing terror alert, but the ill and injured a.s.sembled beneath it seem strangely blase. I turn away and take out my cell phone. Edwina's lecture probably finished at two or two thirty. It's nearly three o'clock now and she answers on the second ring.

"Edwina, it's Dayle."

"Dayle-any news?" She sounds frantic.

"Not exactly." I fill her in on the threatening photo and Dr. Whitaker not knowing of Celia's overdose. Then I tell her about my accident.

She gasps. "Were you pushed?"

"I don't know. It was crowded. I wasn't paying attention..." My voice catches. "I lost most of Celia's ma.n.u.script when I fell."

"Sit tight. I'll be right there."

"You don't have to-"

"I insist." She pauses. "As would Celia."

After hanging up with Edwina, I phone DC Callaway. My first question is whether there's been any news about Celia. She says that there hasn't.

"You should probably know, I had an accident at Tottenham Court Road Tube this afternoon. I fell-or was pushed-to the platform," I explain.

"Well, which was it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Did you fall or were you pushed?"

"I'm not sure-"

"Did you report the incident?"

"No. I was too shaken up."

She exhales heavily. "You should file an incident report at the station."

"But I want to report it to the police. In case..."

"In case what?"

"In case there's some connection to Celia."

"Should there be?"

"No. I don't know." I pause, rubbing my eyes. "Look, I'm waiting for an X-ray. Your station is on Rosslyn Hill, right? That's close by. I'll come over when I'm done-"

"No," she interrupts with an irritated sigh. "Don't bother. If you feel the pressing need to make a statement, I'll meet you there. The Royal Free? I'll be there shortly."

"Oh." I'm not sure what else to say. "Well, thanks, then," I add, but she has already hung up.

I am called into an exam room more quickly than I expected and after an initial and rather brusque examination of my forearm, wrist, hand, and fingers, the doctor orders an X-ray. While the technician positions my aching arm, the pain worsens and I feel sick. Waves of nausea lash the sides of my stomach while my throat tightens and dries. Something about the room-the heat, the lights, the smell-brings back too many terrible memories. The technician, a full-figured black woman with kind, round eyes, senses my anxiety and tries to comfort me, but that only makes it worse; her detached compa.s.sion, so clinically efficient, bruises my nerves and reopens old wounds.

I close my eyes and hold my breath. As the X-ray clicks, I feel an invisible stream of energy moving through me. In a moment of clarity, the entire hospital comes into focus and I can sense everything happening within this building, from the suffocating sorrow of the soon-to-be-bereaved to the desolation of the newly dead, who release their heat alone, untended and unconsoled. I have to get out of here. Now.

When the doctor returns to the exam room he holds a film up to the light and says I have a sprained wrist and a hairline fracture of the fifth metacarpal, the bone that runs between the wrist and the little finger. He shows me the ghostly bone on the X-ray and helpfully traces the line of the fracture with a capped pen. It looks fine to me, but what do I know? When I look at the X-ray, I am primarily surprised that anything inside of me is so small.

I ask for a fibergla.s.s cast but I'm told that, given the position of the break, the cast must be plaster. The cast is set and the plaster still drying when I hear from the hallway the insistent tap-tap-tap of Edwina's Docs coming closer. "Edwina? In here," I call out. A moment later she pulls open the striped curtain and her square shoulders block the light. Her gray eyes widen as she notices the still-damp cast.

"Oh no-it must be broken." She strides toward me and slips her arm around my neck, carefully avoiding my left side as she pats my back in stiff circles. Edwina smells of strong soap and sandalwood and the coa.r.s.e coils of her closely cropped hair graze my cheek as she pulls back, placing her hand firmly atop my shoulder.

"Hairline fracture," I explain, nodding toward my immobilized arm. "Tiny, apparently, but broken."

"No worries. Bones heal." She flashes that gap-toothed grin. "It's not your heart."

I look down again at my forearm, now encased in pristine white plaster of paris, with my bruised and swollen fingers poking out at the end like half-wrapped sausages. "I lost most of Celia's ma.n.u.script," I whisper. "Celia gave it to Dr. Whitaker for safekeeping." I try not to cry around British people but my eyes burn and tears clog my throat.

"Never mind. Celia must have another copy. In her flat, perhaps. Or on her computer." Edwina motions for me to lie back on the exam table as she straightens the paper pillow behind my head and smooths my hair. Fussing over me, she seems more feminine: still a solid presence, but her soft gray eyes are warmer, crinkling when she smiles, and lines of kindness surround her generous mouth. I realize with a stab of envy how lucky Celia was to have been intimate with this stunning woman.

"Are you going to be all right?" Edwina frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"You're quite pale. And trembling." She squeezes the fingers on my good hand. "Perhaps you should stay here and let the doctors look after you until you're feeling better."

"No, I'll be fine. I've got to get out of here and figure out what happened to Celia. I've already wasted too much time."

"What have you learned so far?" She motions for me to slide over, then she sits on the table beside me with her hand cupping my knee.

"I'm convinced Celia planned to leave London," I explain. "I think something went wrong with her plan, but I believe she is still alive."

Edwina looks down and shakes her head sadly. "I'm certain she's dead."

Her comment startles me. "Why do you say that?"

"She still loved me, even after the breakup. She wouldn't have left without saying good-bye. Unless..." Her voice trails away.

"Unless?" I ask softly.

"Unless she had decided to die. And knew I'd try to stop her."

Before I can respond, a blue-uniformed nurse bustles back into the room, breaking the somber mood. After checking that my cast is dry, she tells me I can leave. "The hand should be X-rayed again in four weeks-the cast can come off in six," she explains. "You may need to take some paracetamol for the pain."

"Let's get out of here." Edwina forces a smile as the nurse leaves. "Hospitals are dreadful places."

"We can't," I reply. "DC Callaway is coming to take my statement."

She shrugs. "Well let's wait outside then and catch her on the way in."

After settling my bill with the payment department, Edwina and I walk back toward the elevator and pa.s.s a young dark-haired girl, head down, walking in the other direction. Edwina stops suddenly, pivots, and calls out, "Tatiana?"

The girl stops and looks over her shoulder, her whole body quivering. Edwina beckons me to follow as she approaches the girl. "Tatiana?" she asks again. "It's Edwina. Celia's friend."

The girl nods slowly, looking terrified.

"Why are you here?"

Tatiana stares blankly. Although the size of a ten- or eleven-year-old, her face looks much older with creased eyelids, sallow cheeks, and greasy hair separated into thin strands. She is dressed shabbily in a floor-length denim skirt and a beige hooded sweatshirt, half-zipped, revealing a stained white T-shirt beneath.

"Where is Sophie?" Edwina asks.

An expression of relief flits across the girl's hollow features. "Come," she says with a nod, clasping Edwina's hand and guiding us down the corridor.

At the end we turn to the left, and a short distance later Tatiana stops at the entrance to a small waiting room with muted lights, pastel carpet, and a burbling fish tank. The only person inside the room is a thin blond woman, midthirties, sitting on a dark sofa, shoulders hunched as she stares at a tissue stretched taut between her fists.

"Excuse me-Sophie?" Edwina asks softly as we enter the room.

Instantly the woman's head shoots up and she squints, trying to focus. "Edwina?"

"Yes. Sophie, this is Dayle Salvesen, Celia's friend from the States. Dayle, Sophie Jameson. Sophie is the director at Hope House, a charity for homeless women and girls."

As we shake, Sophie's hand is cold and clammy. "Nice to meet you," I say.

"Likewise," she replies, clearing her throat.

"We pa.s.sed Tatiana in the corridor," Edwina says gently. "Sophie, what's wrong? Why are you here?"

Sophie pauses, glances uncertainly at Tatiana, then speaks. "It's Mileva. Celia may have mentioned her. A trafficked s.e.x worker from Ukraine. Someone botched her backstreet abortion two weeks ago and now the surgeons are trying to save her uterus." Sophie exhales heavily. "She's fourteen years old."

"I'm so sorry." Looking uncomfortable, Edwina takes a seat beside Sophie and glances up at me.

I nod.

"Sophie, I have news that might be upsetting," Edwina begins. "Celia's gone missing and may have killed herself."

"My G.o.d." Sophie looks up with a start. "What happened?"

"We're not certain. Her car was discovered this morning near Waterloo Bridge with a suicide note, but there's been no sign of Celia."

"Well she can't have killed herself," Sophie replies with surprising vigor.

"How can you be sure?" I jump in.

"She had arranged to meet us tonight at Hope House. Drop off a large package, she said."

"Package?" Edwina and I ask in unison.

"Yes." Sophie draws a breath.

"What kind of package?"

She shrugs. "I'm not certain. But from the way she spoke, I expect she meant money."

Chapter Eight.

Wednesday 4:35 p.m.

"What made you think she was delivering money?" As I step closer, my shadow crosses Sophie's face and Tatiana scurries to Sophie's side, guarding her from beside the sofa.

Sophie frowns. "I'm not certain. Celia was hesitant to say too much."

"Did she often deliver money?"

Sophie stiffens. "Occasionally."

My mind flashes to the modesty of Celia's flat and the stacks of overdue bills. "Where did the money come from?"

Sophie shakes her head. "No idea."

"Weren't you curious?"