The bath was empty. No water. No floating corpse. Not even a ring of bath scum or a wayward hair caught up in the plughole.I checked behind the bathroom door. The robe and the pink leotard were no longer hung up on the floor. They weren’t on the hook behind the door, either. They’d vanished along with the body.I returned to the bath and stared down into it, looking, I imagine, altogether gormless. There was nothing to suggest that the redhead had ever been there. Perhaps she never had. Perhaps all those years of writing mystery novels had finally caught up with me and I’d invented the entire episode. I’d been aware for some time that my imagination could play tricks on me when I was writing a book. When I was sleeping, say, characters would fill my dreams and behave in ways that contradicted everything I’d written. And sometimes it could feel as though I was in danger of falling over a mental precipice into a world where I’d be incapable of telling fact from fiction. Is that what had happened?
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