[ Nobody else. Nobody else. There's the rub and it's impossible to ignore, Sophie's hands resuming in their nervous habits — brightly colored nails picking at the hem of her pale pink sweater. (She'd been raised to be a good girl; to fold her hands and wait her turn. But the silence had smothered her, sitting there ignored in her mother's sitting room while she busied herself with more important things that hadn't been important at all. How did the saying go? Good things come to those who wait.

What utter bull.)

You killed people, she wants to say, but that's quickly followed on its heeled by a second thought. You died. Whether it had meant to be atonement or simply wiping his hands after a job well done, Sophie doesn't know and part of her is afraid to understand, so instead she just offers up weakly: ]

—I wasn't hurt. [ The policewoman had saved her in the end, the both of them hitting the water with a cold and shocking splash. ] Just — it was really scary, you know? I came back to the flat and — there were all these cops there, with their lights going.

[ I didn't know what had happened to you. I didn't have anywhere else to go. ]