The Trap by Melanie Raabe, Imogen Taylor Page A

in luminous red on the radio alarm clock. A little before four. She had slept barely two hours, but she knew there was no point staying in bed a moment longer.
    She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then stopped mid-movement. A snapshot image of Britta’s flat flashed through her head. There was something wrong; something had been bugging her ever since that evening. For nights on end she had lain awake trying to work it out, but the thought had been slippery, impossible to get a hold on. Now it seemed to her that the crucial detail had come to her in a dream.
    Sophie closed her eyes and held her breath, but it was gone. She got up, noiselessly, so as not to wake Paul, and closed the door behind her. She heaved a sigh of relief at having left the room without rousing him. Nothing would be worse right now than her fiancé smothering her with his gooey care and concern. The last thing she needed was for Paul to ask her how she was again.
    Sophie went into the bathroom, undressed and stood under the shower. She could feel her legs trembling as if she’d run a marathon; it was ages since she’d last eaten. She turned on the water. It oozed out of the showerhead, viscous, like jelly that hasn’t quite set. Sophie closed her eyes and held her face under the jet. The water bubbled over her slowly, sticky as honey. No, not quite like honey, Sophie thought—more like blood. She opened her eyes and saw that she was right. Blood, everywhere. It ran down her body, forming a small pool in her belly button and dripping onto her toes. Sophie gasped, closed her eyes again, and counted. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Forced herself to open her eyes again. The water was its usual consistency; the red had vanished.
    Less than five minutes later, Sophie was in her studio, dried and dressed. The room was full of painted canvases and the smell of dried oils and acrylics. She’d been prolific lately; her studio was getting too small; the whole flat was. They’d been able to afford more space for quite some time—a lot more space, if they wanted. Sophie’s new gallerist was selling her pictures like hot cakes and at prices Sophie had never imagined in her wildest dreams. Paul’s solicitor’s office was doing well too. If Sophie hung onto the flat, it was only out of laziness, because she didn’t feel like getting involved with estate agents. But it was time she did.
    She went over to the easel, mixed colours, dipped in the brush and began to paint, quickly and unthinkingly, going for it with big brushstrokes. When she’d finished, and stood back from the canvas out of breath, Britta stared out from behind dead eyes. Sophie backed away a step, and then another. Then she turned and staggered from the studio.
    Painting had always been her refuge, a place of relief, but in the past weeks it had given her nothing but blood and pain.
    Sophie went into the kitchen and tried to open the fridge, but the handle wobbled like custard. Stars danced before her eyes. She drew up a chair and sat down, struggling to remain on the surface of her consciousness.
    She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t paint. She couldn’t talk to anyone. Somewhere out there was Britta’s murderer. As long as that was the case, there was only one good reason to get out of bed in the morning: to find him.
    Sophie struggled to her feet. She went into her study, dug out a blank notebook, booted up her laptop and began her investigations.

12
    There is something in the corner of my room, in the dark. A shadow. I know what it is, but I don’t look. I can’t sleep; I’m afraid. I lie in bed, the blankets pulled up to my chin. It’s the middle of the night and tomorrow—no, today, to be precise—is the day of the interview. I would normally watch TV on long, pale nights like this when sleep shuns me. But I can’t go drifting on an ungovernable tide of information; I want to be able to control the thoughts and images