I was lying on the floor, must have fainted. There was a movement in the hall. Something outside the door. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look. The door opened. I heard soft footsteps. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Paul Forbes crouching over me, looking concerned. I sat up. The kitchen was tidy again. Where was the broken shelf? The tumbled pots and pans? There was no chaos in the kitchen. The patio doors lay open, the curtains fluttered at the open window, the fresh smell of the sea blowing in. I tried to stand up. ‘The shelf fell down,’ I said. Paul followed my gaze. The shelf was steady, piled with pots and pans and dishes. ‘The knife . . .’ I muttered. The knife was on the floor. ‘That’s a nasty cut.’ My arm was bleeding. At least that was some proof. ‘I didn’t do this. She did it. She locked me in here.’ But I could see in his eyes he doubted me. Even Paul, who had experienced so much in this house, doubted what I was saying. ‘It happened.
