The Sanctuary

by Emma Haughton

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Very few people get the opportunity to stay here.
And some don't get to leave ...

Zoey doesn't remember anything about last night. But she knows something went badly wrong. For she is no longer in New York. She's woken up in the desert, in a white building she doesn't recognise, and she's alone.

When she discovers she's been admitted to The Sanctuary, a discreet, mysterious, isolated refuge from normal life, to avoid jail, she is stunned. She knows she has secrets, troubles, but she thought she had everything under control. But as she spends more time with other residents, she begins to open up about what she's running from. Until she realises that not everyone in The Sanctuary has her best interests at heart, and someone might even be a killer . . .

Praise for THE DARK:
'Outstanding ... Haughton writes vividly about a claustrophobic community ... her novel really is a superlative locked-room mystery' Sunday Times (Crime Book of the Month)
'Haughton has created a fantastically atmospheric setting ... it's a chilling race to the finish to discover whodunnit' Observer
'A sense of growing menace pervades ... the freezing wasteland and claustrophobic workings of the research station are finely rendered' Financial Times
'Tense, thrilling and unpredictable, with one of the most unique and dangerous settings imaginable' ALLIE REYNOLDS
'Set against the dangerous sub-zero temperatures end endless night of the Antarctic... Brilliantly atmospheric and terrifying' CATHERINE COOPER

(P) 2022 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: November 24, 2022

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

The heat wakes me. And the pain. I’m lying on my back, sweat pooling between my breasts, on my stomach, in the creases of my neck. My head is thumping so hard I feel nauseous.

Why is the apartment so infernally hot?

I push aside the sheet and try to drift back into unconsciousness. I’m almost there, almost slipping into the oblivion of sleep, when something sparks in my brain.

The quiet.

The usual medley of sounds of New York’s East Village, the incessant blare of horns, of sirens, the low drone of planes headed to JFK or La Guardia – it’s all gone. Nothing but an eerie silence, save for the background beat-beat-beat of my heart.

What the actual . . .?

I sit up, waiting for my eyes to focus. My heart rate faster now, more a gallop than a trot. Around me none of the mess I’ve made of my uncle’s spare bedroom, the random piles of books and discarded clothing, the heaps of magazines and dirty mugs and plates. Gone is the IKEA unit and matching chest of drawers, the ornate gilt mirror Dan hung over the exposed brickwork, that ugly green bowl he picked up in a street market on Columbus Avenue, used as a dump for coins and keys.

This room has whitewashed walls surrounding a narrow bed. On one side a window, slightly ajar, the thin cream curtain wafting in the warm breeze. Opposite, a plain oak door with a single brass hook. To the right of it there’s a large wardrobe, half with open shelves; in the middle sits a pile of what appears to be fresh underwear.

I glance down. Beside the bed is a small table, topped with a full bottle of water and a clean tumbler.

What the hell?

Where am I?

I close my eyes and count to five, praying this is all just a weird dream. But when I open them again, the room is still here, the air inside heavy with heat. The silence so thick, so cloying, it seems to have a density of its own.

What on earth happened last night? Gripped by rising panic, I try to recall, head throbbing with the effort. Drinks in the bar on Avenue A with Franny and Rocco and a handful of Rocco’s friends. Then a few flashes from the club. Talking to a couple of guys who sat at our table. Drinking tequila. Not much more than that.

I kick off the sheet. Note, to my relief, I’m still wearing the ripped jeans and Ramones T-shirt I went out in. No sign though of my leather jacket; nor my favourite Doc Marten boots.

Or my phone or cigarettes, I realise, gazing around. I slide out of bed and walk to the window, feeling unsteady, my throat parched. As I pull back the curtain, shock jolts through me with a force that makes my legs tremble.

Nothing.

No streets or block houses. No towers in the distance. No cars, no taxis, no shops, no restaurants, no cafes. Just empty space as far as I can see. A desert, I realise. Dry red earth and cacti and scrubby little bushes.

Holy fuck. Where am I?

A wave of nausea hits as I let out a whimper of surprise and terror. Have I been . . . kidnapped? Or am I hallucinating? Maybe I’ve finally scrambled my brain and tipped over some kind of edge. But the hot breeze wafting through the window feels real enough. The air has an arid, earthy smell. And the fierce sunlight makes my eyes squint and my head wince with pain.

I glance around. Under the bed, I spot a pair of flip-flops. Slipping them on my feet, I try the door – to my relief, it opens easily.

Not imprisoned then.

I peer along the dark corridor, making out several closed doors. What is this place? Some sort of hostel?

I venture out and knock on the closest, but no one answers. I turn the handle. When the door opens, I glance inside. It’s completely empty, save a bed with a bare mattress. I move down the passage and try the next, finding myself in a small shower room. I peer into the mirror above the sink.

Jesus. I look awful. Haggard, eyes smudged with mascara, my skin blotchy and pale, covered in a sheen of sweat. My hair is loose, grazing my shoulders, dark and matted. I press a finger to the base of my nose ring. It’s red and swollen, tender to the touch.

As I drop my gaze I notice the mark on my jeans – a brown smear across the left thigh that looks like . . . oh God . . . dried blood.

My heart thumps harder as I roll down my jeans and check my leg. No sign of any injury. Pulling them back on, I examine my face, fingers exploring my scalp for cuts or bumps. Nothing.

I lean against the sink unit, breathing hard, stomach roiling.

What happened to me?

Where am I?

I stand there, gripping the basin, trying desperately to recall the night before. For a few moments there’s a blank in my head where memory should be. Then a burst of sirens, of flashing lights. Hands pushing me into a car.

An overwhelming sense of fear, of distress.

Suddenly I’m so dizzy and thirsty I can barely stay upright. Staggering back to the room I woke up in, I gulp down the entire contents of the water bottle, then hover there, breathing hard, before venturing again into that gloomy corridor.

This time I head the other way. Passing through a stone archway, I find myself in a huge atrium filled with light. One side is a sheer wall of glass, giving an unspoiled view of the landscape, the miles of dirt and cacti stretching out to distant hills. A telescope is positioned in the corner, tilted towards the sky. At the other end of the room is a large stone fireplace, flanked by a pair of studded leather sofas and a heavy wooden coffee table topped with an enormous vase of fresh flowers. Above the fireplace hangs a massive oil painting, a desert scene in rich bold colours.

Polished flagstones cover the floor, and carefully tended indoor plants soften the space. Above my head, two massive wrought-iron chandeliers hang from the oak beams supporting the second-storey ceiling.

Jesus, this place is something else.

‘Hello?’ I call, tentatively at first, then louder. ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’

No answer, but over in the far corner, I spy a wide curved stone staircase leading to the next level. I climb up, panting with the effort. The nearest door, also unlocked, reveals a beautiful room with a mahogany sleigh bed and a view over the rear of the property. Unlike the rooms downstairs, this one is clearly occupied. A white towelling dressing gown has been thrown across the bed, and a hairdryer lies on the dresser, along with a brush and make-up bag.

‘Hello?’ I call again, wondering if the room’s occupant is in the en suite bathroom.

Silence.

It’s the same story in the other rooms. All unlocked and empty, but clearly occupied. The last at the far end of the landing is the largest, with a sumptuous king-size bed and heavy wooden furniture polished to a high sheen. This one has an actual log fireplace, and a huge ceiling fan overhead. Windows on two sides offer panoramic views across the desert, a pair of double doors leading to a balcony.

I open them and lean over the ornate iron railings, hoping to spot houses or traffic. But there’s no sign of any other buildings. This place appears to be literally in the middle of nowhere.

Closing the balcony doors again, I check out the huge bathroom, dominated by one of those fancy claw-foot tubs you get in high-end hotels. In the opposite corner, there’s a wet room with a large circular head, the kind that showers you in warm rain. Every inch, even the vaulted arches in the ceiling, is tiled in stone mosaics.

This place is gorgeous, and reeks of money. If it weren’t for the fact there are no locks on the doors, I’d assume it was an expensive hotel or luxury guest house.

I glance at the toiletries ranged around the sink. Kiehl’s, Dior, Tom Ford. All men’s stuff. Is this somebody’s home then? Did I hook up with an insanely rich guy at the club?

Not that Unravel usually attracts Wall Street types, but who knows? Maybe someone fancied a walk on the scruffy side. Thought it might be amusing to slum it with a grungy girl as piss-poor as her attitude.

But that still doesn’t make sense. This can’t be anywhere near New York, and surely I wouldn’t forget going to an airport or getting on a plane?

Anyway, why would I be stuck downstairs in that little box room with all my clothes on?

A fresh wave of frustration and anxiety floods my system. I hurry down the curved stairs, trying doors at random. One opens on a library, every wall lined with shelves crammed with books and magazines. The next reveals a spacious lounge, long leather sofas surrounding a marble-topped coffee table, the fireplace in the background stacked with freshly split logs. A third door turns out to be a store cupboard filled with brushes and hoovers and other cleaning stuff. Finally I discover a short passageway leading to another, plainer annex with more rooms – these, however, seem to be locked, and I don’t bother trying more than a couple.

Backtracking and heading in the opposite direction, I find myself in a large courtyard, surrounded by buildings on all sides. I pause, taking it in. This place is idyllic. A long covered terrace shelters yet more sofas and wooden tables, interspersed with giant urns filled with plants. The floor is covered in beautiful old terracotta tiles, the walls painted in that traditional desert pinky-red. A series of stone archways separates the terrace from the garden, where a tall tree shades a neat patch of lawn, bordered by a large pond. All around, long beds are filled with dark green foliage and various jewel-bright flowers.

The air in this leafy courtyard is moist and several degrees cooler, and I’m loath to step back into the cloying indoor heat. But I need to find somebody. I have to discover where I am – and how I got here.

I retrace my steps through the house, this time turning left at the corridor that leads out of the atrium. All of a sudden I’m in a wide reception area, facing a pair of heavy wood and glass entrance doors. I make straight for them, dreading the moment I find they’re locked and discover I’m a prisoner in the world’s most gorgeous gaol.

But a second later I’m standing in a covered porchway; when I step out of its shade, the heat hits me like a wall. I almost retreat from the intensity of it, half blinded by the fierce sun.

‘Hello?’ I yell, hand shielding my eyes from the glare. I look about me. This is surreal.

Where the fuck is everyone?

I force myself into the impossibly hot air, stumbling across the gravel in the borrowed flip-flops towards a scatter of outbuildings – three large sheds clad in pale wood, all with solar panel roofs, though I catch the low hum of a generator. One seems to be a carport, a single vehicle parked underneath. Some kind of jeep, designed for rugged, open country.

Plenty of that around here.

I gaze towards the low wall that surrounds the whole property, spotting a pair of heavy iron gates. I stop, bewildered.

There’s nothing beyond. No sign of a road, or even a dirt track.

Returning to the carport, I try the door of the jeep. Locked. I shield my eyes again and peer inside, hoping at least to spot my phone. But the interior is empty, save for several five-gallon bottles of water in the boot.

I feel another sharp pulse of fear.

What the hell is going on? Am I completely alone here?

‘HELLO!’ I shout, as loudly as I can manage. But my voice carries away on the warm breeze and nothing comes back.

Ignoring the pain in my head, the pressure in my stomach, I set off around the whole complex. Built on top of a small rise, it turns out to be a series of buildings interconnected by walkways and hacienda-style arches, and in one place an actual bridge. Some have red-pink walls with traditional terracotta-tiled roofs, others are constructed in dark granite, including a tall round tower topped with a satellite dish and cockerel weathervane.

Surrounding the house, at intervals, are olive trees, their gnarled trunks topped with silvery foliage heavy with green fruit. Between them lurk various wild animals and birds, sculpted in metal and stone. Beyond, in the gardens that run down to the low wall, I spot fruit trees and a vegetable plot, along with every kind of flowering bush and plant this climate could sustain.

The vine-covered veranda wrapped around the main house gives unparalleled views of the arid vista beyond the boundary wall. I walk along it, studying the horizon in every direction, but can’t spot a single dwelling or farm, not even a power line.

This place is an oasis. A gorgeous architect-designed haven in what appears to be unending wilderness.

It must have cost an absolute bomb to build.

As I round the far end of the main house, my attention is snagged by a soft splashing sound. I leave the shade of the veranda and hurry towards the beautiful rockery of stone and cacti and spiky green yuccas, where a small stream cascades over artfully-arranged rocks before disappearing into gravel at the base. Beyond is a large rectangular swimming pool, with one of those infinity edges where the turquoise water merges with the deep blue sky.

As I stand there, mesmerised, something brushes against my leg, making me squeal in surprise. I look down to see a small black-and-white cat staring up at me, purring, its tail and back arched. It opens its mouth in a silent greeting, then strolls off into the flowering shrubs on the other side of the pool.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, then walk up and peer into the water. It’s flat and still, as intensely blue as the sky above. I gaze at my own shimmering reflection. I look ragged, desperate.

And horribly alone.

My stomach churns, provoking another intense surge of nausea. I close my eyes, disoriented, steadying myself. In a far-off part of my brain, something surfaces. A noise, impossibly loud, a persistent deafening buzz, followed by the sensation of lifting.

But everything is confused, soft around the edges. I grasp at the memory, struggling to bring it into focus, but it slides away, leaving only questions in its wake.

Did I set off on some crazy road trip? Perhaps Franny or Rocco took it into their heads to drive all the way out to New Mexico, or Arizona.

But that would take days, surely?

And how could I possibly forget a journey like that?

None of it makes sense. I’d never agree to leave New York. I’m supposed to be house-sitting my uncle Dan’s apartment and his two highly strung Manx cats. I can’t take off and leave them to fend for themselves.

Besides, I’m broke. I could work for ten years flat in one of my dead-end jobs and not have the money for a place like this.

Same goes for Rocco and Franny.

The relentless sun beats down on my face, my skin beginning to burn. I glance up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight.

At that moment I catch a distant sound, carried on the hot wind blowing off the desert, coming from beyond the boundary wall. I squint into the dazzling light, scanning the barren landscape, finally spotting what I’d previously missed, obscured by the outbuildings. Some two hundred yards away, on the flat plain below the house, is a large round tent, guy ropes radiating like sunrays, a triangular red flag fluttering from the top of the central pole.

And from it, faintly, a high-pitched, piercing noise.

The sound of a woman screaming.

Chapter 10

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Sonoya takes the other chair in the consult room. She looks flustered – two pink spots in her cheeks, her forehead creased into an anxious frown.

My chest tightens with apprehension. Did Tamara rat on me after all? Or did Mike work out I’d been on his laptop? Maybe my email tab stayed open when he powered it back up.

But no. If Mike had realised I’d been snooping on his computer, he’d have kicked me out immediately. Perhaps Sonoya’s upset about that email from Ed? I’ve been pondering what he wrote while chilling in my room. How exactly had Mike threatened him?

But right now I have more burning questions. ‘Who is paying for my stay at the Sanctuary?’ I ask the therapist as she lines up her phone and file on the table and picks up her notebook. ‘I’m pretty certain it’s no one from my family.’

Sonoya sits back, giving me her full attention. Her straight black hair is pulled neatly into a clasp at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a light, floral perfume. I’m struck once again how delicate she is – at least to look at.

‘The money was paid via a holding company,’ she says.

‘A what?’

‘A company that owns stock in other businesses.’

‘So what was it called, this holding company?’

‘I can’t disclose that,’ she replies, her expression giving nothing away.

‘You can’t or you won’t? Wouldn’t you consider I have a right to know?’

Sonoya doesn’t answer.

‘Are they covering everything?’ I ask. ‘I mean, if I stay, I won’t find myself landed with a bloody great bill, will I? Because I seriously do not have a bean.’

The therapist shakes her head. ‘All costs associated with your time here are covered. There’ll be nothing for you to pay.’

‘Unless I insist on leaving before the end of the programme.’

‘That’s correct.’

We both sit in silence for a moment or two. I take a deep breath and force myself onward. ‘What you told me, about being involved with the police – was that true?’

‘Why would you think it wasn’t?’ Sonoya frowns again.

‘I dunno. I thought perhaps you made it up to keep me here.’

She gazes at me. ‘No, Zoey. We didn’t make it up.’

I exhale slowly. There goes my last vestige of hope. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ I ask quietly. ‘Do you know?’

‘Only the basics. You were arrested at the club for assaulting a man with a beer bottle.’

‘A man?’ My eyes widen. ‘So it wasn’t that girl in the toilets?’ I feel a rush of relief as I remember that broken look on her face. The fear and anguish in her eyes. I couldn’t bear to think I’d done something so awful.

Though God knows, attacking some random guy with a bottle is hardly any better. ‘Is he okay?’ I ask. ‘The man?’

Sonoya keeps her gaze fixed on mine. ‘Are you sure you can’t recall any of this, Zoey?’

I close my eyes for a moment. An image of the girl, crying in the loo. The way she kept rubbing at her neck, the bruises already beginning to show. ‘There was a girl at the club, very distressed. But I can’t remember anything else.’ I glance at Sonoya. ‘Was it to do with her?’

Sonoya leans forward and takes the file from the coffee table and checks inside. ‘The police report doesn’t say. It only records that you assaulted a Mr Bradley Havell, and were taken to Midtown Precinct North. But after negotiation with your lawyer, charges were dropped on condition you attend a recovery centre for at least ten weeks.’

‘But I don’t have a lawyer,’ I reply, bewildered. ‘Who was that? One of those free ones you get?’

‘Nicola Salerno comes from a top New York firm, I’m told.’

Oh shit. How much does that cost? ‘I’m . . . I’m not going to have to pay her bill, am I?’ I ask nervously.

Sonoya smiles. ‘No, I understand she was given a substantial retainer to act on your behalf.’

I stare at the therapist, winded with surprise. ‘By the same person who paid for me to come here?’

‘I believe so. I’m afraid I can’t help you more than that. We were simply asked to arrange an escort and offer you the full programme of treatment,’ Sonoya continues. ‘That’s all.’

‘And I agreed?’

‘Yes. It was explained to you what your options were, and you signed the waiver Mike showed you.’

‘Was I happy about it?’

Sonoya smiles again. ‘That I don’t know. I’m guessing not particularly.’

I try to piece this together. ‘So, they what, these escorts . . . just rocked up at my uncle’s apartment?’

‘They accompanied you there from the police station. We had to collect your passport and a few of your belongings. And make sure the apartment was left secured, and the cats were cared for.’

‘Did your escorts say anything? About how I was – in myself.’

‘Simply that you seemed very lethargic – apparently you slept right through both flights.’

I chew this over for a minute or so. ‘Are you certain these escorts didn’t give me something?’

She checks in the file. ‘It says you were offered a small dose of Ambien.’

Like hell, I think. Whatever they gave me, it was a lot stronger than that. But if that’s the case, there’s no point quizzing Sonoya about it; I won’t get anything else out of her – assuming she even knows.

But I’m desperate to discover more about what happened in the club, and who bailed me out – literally, it appears – from this mess. ‘So I attacked – allegedly – this Brad guy, and some random person decides to hire me a top lawyer and get me off the hook,’ I recap, making sure I understand. ‘But you can’t tell me who that is or how they were involved.’

Sonoya inhales. ‘That’s about the sum of it, yes.’

‘Because they’ve hidden their identity behind this holding company?’

She nods.

‘Yet Mike said earlier you were asked to fit me in as a personal favour.’

Sonoya’s cheeks tinge a darker shade of pink. Gotcha.

‘I said the money was paid via a holding company,’ she counters.

‘So you’re aware who it is, the person who asked if I could join the programme?’

Sonoya nods again. ‘But they expressly requested not to be identified, Zoey. So I am sorry, I can’t tell you any more.’

They requested not to be identified. I take this in. Surely that means it’s someone I know? I clench my teeth in frustration.

Who the hell is it?

‘Zoey, I want to use today’s session to get the lie of the land, so to speak. So if you’ve no more questions, let’s move on.’ Sonoya settles back in her chair. ‘Tell me about your family. You said you’re certain none of them paid for you to be here. Why did you assume that?’

‘Because they’re not loaded like everyone else in this place. Because they haven’t got the odd $100k to splash around on therapy.’ Or even if they did, there’s no chance Dad or Marcus would ever shell it out on me.

‘You sound rather bitter about this, Zoey. Does it upset you that your family isn’t wealthy?’

‘I didn’t say that. My brother’s doing well, apparently.’

‘Is this your twin, Marcus?’

I narrow my eyes at Sonoya. ‘How do you know about him?’

She checks back in her file. ‘As I said before, you gave us permission to request your medical notes – at least those that are online. That includes your birth details.’

Did I? I can’t remember. I could have agreed to donate my organs for all I know.

‘Yes,’ I sigh. ‘Marcus was my twin brother.’

‘Was?’ Sonoya frowns. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’

I breathe in slowly, letting my gaze drift to the window with the view towards the gardens. I can just make out Riley, bending over, still wearing those baggy black clothes. ‘I haven’t spoken to my brother in years.’

‘How long exactly?’

I do the maths. ‘Twelve years and five months. Since we were both at university.’

Sonoya blinks. ‘That’s a long time, Zoey. Do you want to talk about that?’

‘Not really.’ Truth is I try not to think about Marcus at all.

‘It might be helpful for both of us,’ she persists.

‘I really don’t want to go into it.’

I sense the therapist weighing up whether to push me further. Watch her decide against it.

‘How about we talk about your mother and father then? How are things with them?’

I sigh, wishing we could skip this stuff. It feels so clichéd. Tedious. ‘Mum’s fine. We get on okay, at least most of the time. I haven’t seen much of my dad recently. He lives in Palm Springs.’

‘You don’t get along?’

‘Not since I refused to apologise to Marsha.’

‘Marsha?’

‘Wife number three.’

Sonoya makes a note on her pad, takes a quick glance at the clock on the wall. ‘I want to go into this in more detail in our next session, Zoey, but it seems to me you’ve had a difficult time with your family. I’m interested to discover how this relates to your current situation.’

‘My current situation?’ I echo.

‘Being arrested for assault. Your lifestyle. Your medical notes were quite revealing, Zoey. Several episodes of depression. Your overdose at your mother’s house.’

‘I told you that was an accident. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I’d never do that.’

‘Talk to me about your life then. I’d like to hear about your work, romantic relationships, that sort of thing.’

I groan. ‘There’s not much to say.’

‘You’re thirty-two – there must be a fair bit. You’re single, right? Tell me a little about your relationship history.’

‘I don’t have one, and I don’t particularly want one.’

‘Do you like men . . . women?’

‘Men. But that’s the problem. I’m not sure I really like them that much, if you see what I mean.’

Sonoya frowns again. ‘Actually I don’t think I do.’

‘I’ve simply never met anyone I want to spend my life with.’ Except perhaps Rocco – but then he’s gay, so there’s never been anything sexual between us.

‘Why do you feel that way?’ the therapist asks.

‘I dunno. I suppose I haven’t seen it work out well for most women I know. It’s always the same story. They cheat on you, or knock you around, or simply laze about expecting you to take care of them.’

‘Woah!’ Sonoya widens her eyes in mock surprise. ‘Some huge generalisations there, Zoey.’

‘Right?’ I cock an eyebrow at her. ‘And how’s that going for you, Sonoya? I mean, you’re here most of the time, so I guess you’re single too.’

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t comment.

‘After all, I’ve only been here five minutes, and already I know that Naomi’s husband left her for her best friend, and Riley’s completely fucked up by some incident with a guy when she was fifteen.’

‘I can’t comment on other people’s histories.’ Sonoya sighs. ‘So have you ever had a serious boyfriend?’

‘Not really. There was one bloke in Melbourne, an artist. But that was never going anywhere because he didn’t want to live in the UK and I couldn’t stay in Australia – it’s almost impossible to get a permanent visa now.’

‘Anyone else?’ the therapist asks.

‘There were other guys, casual things,’ I say, a little too defensively.

‘So you’ve never been in love?’

The question startles me. ‘I guess not,’ I mumble, realising it’s true. ‘I’ve had crushes, yes. But I’ve never actually fallen in love with anybody. To be honest, I don’t really believe in it.’

‘This is definitely something to explore further,’ Sonoya says, making another note. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me about your career.’

‘I don’t have one of those either,’ I say flatly. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware.’

‘Why not?’

I shrug again. ‘I’ve never worked out what I want to do. Most things need qualifications, and I dropped out of university before finishing my degree.’

‘What were you studying?’

‘Law.’

‘So you wanted to be an attorney?’

‘A barrister. I liked the idea of defending people in court. At least the ones who were innocent.’

Sonoya studies me for a second or two, then makes yet another note. I try not to let it annoy me – the woman’s simply doing her job after all.

‘So what do you do for money?’ she asks.

‘Anything, within reason. Bar work, waitressing, delivery driver, cleaning, dog-walking.’

Sonoya twirls her pen in her fingers, considering. ‘What would you say they have in common, Zoey?’

‘Shit pay?’

That earns me another smile. ‘Plus they require very little commitment from you. No proper employment contract, no career progression. And if you don’t mind me saying, all rather beneath you.’

‘Beneath me?’

‘You’re clever,’ Sonoya explains. ‘Sharp. You’d have made an excellent lawyer. Before you dropped out, I’m willing to bet you were doing well in your law degree.’

I run my tongue around my teeth, uncomfortable with the compliment. If indeed it was a compliment.

‘So why did you choose this kind of life?’ she asks.

‘What kind of life?’

‘Rather . . .’ she searches for the word ‘. . . aimless.’

‘I wanted to travel, see the world, try living in different places, so casual work is pretty much all you can get. And half the time you shouldn’t even be doing that.’

She frowns again.

‘If you haven’t got a visa – it has to be cash in hand.’

‘But you spend most of your time between New York and the UK, am I right?’

I nod.

‘Why not settle in one or the other?’

I jiggle the back of my lip piercing with my tongue, giving this some proper thought. ‘Best of both worlds, I guess. Plus I can’t remotely afford my own place in New Yo. . .