Part 143 (1/2)

remember then, she doesn't remember now. Perhaps this impulsive little

trip of hers was a last-ditch effort to bring it all back, or more

likely, it was just a sentimental journey. There's no need to do Emma

any harm, any harm at all.”

”And if she does remember?”

”It's unlikely. Listen to me now, and listen carefully. The first time

was an accident, a tragic and unforeseen accident. One that you

committed.”

”It was your idea, the whole thing was your idea.”

”Exactly, since of the two of us I'm the only one who's capable of an

original thought. But it was an accident. I have no intention of

committing premeditated murder.” He thought of a session musician who'd

wanted pizza, but didn't remember his name. ”Unless it's unavoidable.

Understood?”

”You're a cold sonofab.i.t.c.h.”

”Yes.” He smiled. ”I'd advise you to remember that.”

IT was SNOWING in London, wet, thick flakes that slid down collars and

melted cold on the skin. It was pretty, postcard snow, unless one was

fighting the clogged traffic along King's Road.

Emma preferred to walk. She imagined Sweeney was annoyed with her

choice, but she couldn't worry about him now. She had the address on a

slip of paper in the pocket of her thick, quilted coat. But she didn't

need that for a reminder. She'd memorized it.

It was odd to be in Chelsea, as an adult, free to walk where she chose.

She didn't remember it. Indeed, she felt a tourist in London, and

Chelsea, the grand stage for punks and Sloane Rangers, was as foreign to