I’m in pure survival mode, feeling as insecure as though that bullet were meant for me. But even in my heightened state of fear, I know it wasn’t. What was it then? A warning shot…or the real thing? Intended for him…or her?

I see an image of my neighbour’s wife (or girlfriend) in my mind’s eye. They’ve been fighting recently, I remind myself. I’ve heard their raised voices, and I’ve told myself to keep my nose out of it when I thought about intervening. I’ve seen his threatening grip on her body, and I’ve watched her defend herself. But how do you defend yourself against a gun? Is that really what just happened?

My breath catches in my chest once more and I instantly feel like I could throw up. Anyone in my shoes would be worked up right now, but my bone-chilling history makes a bad situation feel much, much worse. I had no idea how vividly my four-year-old self documented every detail of that fateful day. No idea that I could still feel her fear and her coldness and her sense of foreboding. And no clue as to what, or whom, put one foot in front of the other to remove me from the confines of the elevator. Where the hell did that feeling of being pushed and pulled come from? How is that even possible?

Needless to say there are a torrent of questions circling in my head as I continue to drive, and I find myself only slowing to a stop, mentally and physically, once I am outside of Pierson House. So this is where my auto-pilot leads me? To work? I would roll my eyes at myself if I didn’t feel so incredibly nauseous. My legs feel like jelly, and not the good post-sex jelly, but the I-don’t-know-how-much-longer-I-can-stay-standing jelly. I manage to get myself through the front door and make a beeline for the bathroom. Layla isn’t at reception, which is just as well, because I wouldn’t trust myself to say a word without first vomiting.

It’s worse than my post-roller coaster vomit yesterday. I’m retching long after my stomach is empty, my body’s desperate attempt to get rid of something that I just can’t shake — the eeriness, the coldness, the unparalleled fear. Another memory shows me my father talking to me and smiling at me while he filled up the gas tank. He was happy that morning, I recall the look of calm and contentment on his face. Then I see him leaving the car and walking into the petrol station, never to exit it. I watched him standing in line to pay, until the doll in my hands became more interesting to me. Just as well, I think, given what happened next. These are all scenes that I’ve never remembered before now, and they serve as inspiration for yet another retch.

A few draining minutes later I leave my stall to wash my mouth out at the sink. While I’m bent double over the faucet the stall door shuts with a loud bang and I practically jump out of my skin. Shit! The debilitating fear crumbles until I’m just plain scared. My eyes start watering as I look at myself in the mirror. I hate feeling so unsafe, I hate not knowing what happened, I hate the memories that keep infiltrating my psyche, I hate, hate, hate this morning! Yet I don’t have the luxury to indulge in my hatred, I have to call the police. Am I going to be a witness in a murder trial?

I stop myself getting carried away as best as I can as I exit the bathroom and walk towards the doors that separate reception from the work cubicles beyond.

“She’s coming,” I very distinctly hear Layla whisper, only realising right then that she’s still not manning her usual post.

I don’t have a thought to spare to wonder what’s going on. I push the doors open and find most of my work colleagues, including Layla and Amélie, huddled around my desk a few metres in front of me.

“Congratulations!” they all cry when I spot them, taking me completely by surprise.

I gasp in a mixture of shock and confusion, internally deliberating how I should handle this (whatever the fuck this is) before my body decides for me. My legs buckle under me and I fall to the ground, bursting into tears. It’s all just too much for me!

Margaret hurries forward, sinking to the ground next to me, pulling me into a hug.

Somewhere above us, I hear Layla whisper, “Pensez-vous leur relation est déjà terminée?” Do you think their relationship is over already?

Ah-ha, the non-emotional part of my brain registers her words and realises that they are congratulating me on mine and Logan’s engagement. Amélie must’ve heard on Saturday night and spread the news, I think. That would also explain the huge bouquet of flowers on my desk.

“Gemima, what’s wrong?” Margaret whispers, her voice laced with authentic concern.

“I have to call the police,” I snob.

There’s an audible collective intake of breath which would be humorous if it weren’t at the expense of someones life.

“I heard a gunshot near my house and I sort of know the gunman,” I tell them all. My body starts shaking and I can’t get it to stop; adrenalin is doing weird things to me.

“Logan?” Layla assumes, and I glare up at her.

“No,” I snap. “Logan’s not in Paris today,” I say, lamenting the truth of my words. He’s the only one that I want right now, and I quickly add him to my must-call list. Just the sound of his voice will calm me, I know it will. “My neighbour,” I mutter, “I think he shot his partner…or himself…I don’t know, but I should—”

“Come with me,” Amélie says, stepping forward and offering her hand to help me up. “We’ll call from a meeting room. Layla, set one up,” she orders.

Layla jumps to life, putting down the party-popper in her hand, and disappearing into the nearest meeting room.

Taking Amélie’s outstretched hand, I feel a strange combination of ridiculousness, embarrassment, and gratitude as I get to my feet. “Thank you for the congratulations,” I say to my colleagues, wiping my tears away before indicating the abundant flowers. “It’s so lovely of you,” I gush. I just wish it had occurred on any other morning besides this one!

“Votre bague est belle,” Margaret says, catching sight of my ring. Your ring is beautiful. She holds my hand out to better examine it, and several curious pairs of eyes look over it, voices muttering their agreement.

“Thank you,” I say again.

“You weren’t wearing that on Saturday,” Amélie notes, looking at it too. “He’s got good taste, doesn’t he?” she says, giving me a small, kind smile. “Come on, dear, let’s get this mess sorted,” she takes charge, pulling me behind her into the meeting room.

At the head of the table Layla is already nattering away to a police officer. When she sees us walking towards her she taps the loudspeaker button.

“Où le coup de feu a-t-il eu lieu?” a serious voice asks. Where did the gunshot take place?

Taking a seat in the chair that Layla pulls out for me, I lean over the phone and tell the female officer everything that I can recall. Fifteen minutes later, and only after I’ve divulged all of the information that I have, she tells me that several other people have called in the shooting as well, just as I’d suspected, including two of my other neighbours who were still in their homes at the time.

That would be worse, being trapped inside. At least I got to escape the vicinity, I think gratefully.

“Did anyone die?” I ask in English.

“Oui, Mademoiselle, une femme.” Yes, Miss, a woman. “Elle était, tuée par balles, à extérieur de la maison qu’elle a partagée avec le bandit armé. Il a été trouvé, par mes collègues cinq minutes après l’incident, à l’intérieur de la maison, où il a tout admis,” she tells me. She was shot dead outside of the home she shared with the gunman. He was found inside of the house by my colleagues five minutes after the incident, where he confessed everything. “Il est maintenant sous notre garde, ainsi soyez assurée, mademoiselle, que vous n’avez rien à craindre à retourner dans votre maison.” He’s now in our custody, so please be assured, Miss, that you have nothing to fear in returning to your home.