‘New York.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense.’

I read it again. ‘“Another hook up”. I don’t remember Kate ever going to New York. Did she?’

‘No. He must mean cybersex.’

Cybersex. Just endless descriptions of who’s doing what to who. What they’re wearing, how it’s making them feel. Adrienne has always joked that the reality is lots of people sitting around in jogging bottoms, covered in baby puke.

‘But would they call that a hook up?’ I say.

‘I guess they might.’

‘There’s no message history.’

‘Then you should forget it, Julia.’

‘I could answer his message. He thinks I’m Kate.’

‘And achieve what?’

‘Just to find out what he knows …’

I look at the picture again. This Eastdude. He looks innocent, harmless. His hair is receding, and in the picture he’s chosen he has his arms around a woman who’s been inexpertly cropped out of the shot. Just as I’d removed myself from the picture of Marcus.

I wonder what he and Kate had talked about. I wonder how well he knew her, if at all.

Isn’t that why I came on here? To find out?

‘I’m not sure it’s going to help,’ says Anna.

‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

Our messages scroll up the screen. Eastdude thinks he’s talking to Kate.

– You don’t remember how hot it was? I’m upset.

On the next line is a symbol, a round face, yellow, winking. He’s joking.

I feel uncomfortable. Is this how a sex chat begins? A reference to hotness?

– I’ve had a lot on, lately.

His reply is almost instantaneous.

– Work?

I’m not sure what he means. Kate had had only temporary jobs, I thought; bar work, waitressing, office admin. Again I wonder what she’s told him.

I need to keep it vague.

– Sort of.

– Too bad. Anyway, would love to carry on where we left off. Are you okay? I thought something had happened to you.

– Why’s that?

– You went quiet. Then I had a visit from the police. Asking me what we’d been talking about. If I’d been to Paris recently. I guessed it might be something to do with you.

I freeze.

– Did you tell them?

His reply takes a moment.

– What do you think?

What does he mean? Yes, he has, or no, he hasn’t?

I remind myself he can’t have killed my sister. He thinks he’s talking to her.

Unless he’s lying.

– Nothing’s happened to me, I say. I’m fine.

– Better than fine if you ask me!

There’s another icon; this one a red face with horns.

– Thanks, I say. I realize I need to be careful if I’m going to draw him out. So, you said you wanted to carry on where we left off.

– Tell me what you’re wearing, first.

I hesitate. This is wrong, and I feel awful. I’m impersonating my sister – my dead sister – and for what end?

I try to persuade myself. I want to find out who killed her. I’m doing this for the right reasons, for the sake of Kate and her son.

So why do I want to throw up?

– What was I wearing last time? I type.

– You don’t remember?

– No, I say. Why don’t you tell me?

– Not much, by the end.

There’s another smiling face, this one with its tongue hanging out.

I hesitate. The cursor blinks, waiting for me to decide what to type, how far to take this. It feels surreal; me in London, him in New York, separated simultaneously by thousands of miles and nothing at all.

– I’m imagining that’s what you’re wearing now.

I don’t reply.

– I’m thinking of you wearing nothing at all …

Still I don’t say anything. This isn’t what I wanted to happen.

– I’m getting hard here.

I close my eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a voyeur, I am sampling my sister’s virtual life, my dead sister’s private life. I’m a tourist.

I should stop, but I can’t. Not now. Not until I know for certain that it isn’t him.

Another message arrives.

– How about you? You want me?

I hesitate. Kate would forgive me, wouldn’t she? I type:

– I do.

– Good, he says. Tell me you remember. Tell me you remember how hot it was. The way you described your body. The things you did.

– I remember.

– Tell me what you want, right now.

– You.

– I’m kissing you. All over. Your lips, your face. I’m going down. Your breasts, your stomach.

Again something within me tells me this is wrong. He thinks he’s talking to Kate. He’s imagining having sex with my dead sister.

– You like that?

My hands hover over the keyboard. I wish I knew what to say.

– You like feeling my tongue on your body? You taste so good …

What would Kate have said?

– You want me to go lower?

What can I say? Yes? Yes, I do? I can tell him I want him to go lower, I don’t want him to stop, or I can ask him what he’s told the police, where he was in February on the night of Kate’s death, whether he murdered my sister. Even as I say it in my head it sounds ridiculous.

I grab my machine and stand up. I don’t know what to do.

– Are you ready for me?

The ground beneath me opens. I begin to sink. My heart is beating too hard, and I can’t breathe. I want to stop my mind from spinning, but I keep thinking about what Kate might’ve said, what she might’ve done.

I look at the machine in my hand. For a moment I hate it; it’s as if it contains all the answers and I want to shake them loose, to demand the truth.

Yet it won’t. It can’t. It’s just a tool, it can tell me nothing.

I slam it closed.

Hugh comes home from work and we eat dinner, the three of us, at the table. Afterwards he packs his suitcase, occasionally asking me where a shirt is, or if I’ve seen his aftershave, then goes upstairs to finish off his speech while Connor and I sit in the living room with a DVD. The Bourne Identity. I can’t really concentrate; I’m thinking about this afternoon, wondering whether the guy Anna messaged – Harenglish – had got back to her. I’m thinking about cybersex, too, which I guess is really no different to phone sex. It makes me think of Marcus; there were no texts back then, no emails, no instant messaging services, unless you include pagers, which almost no one had. Just the voice.

Connor leans forward and grabs a handful of the popcorn I’ve made for him. My mind drifts.

I remember the first time Marcus and I had sex. We’d known each other a few weeks, we spoke on the phone, we hung around after the meetings drinking coffee. He’d started to tell me his story. He came from a good family, his parents were alive, he had a sister who was nice, normal, stable. Yet there was always alcohol in the house, forbidden to him, and he was drawn to it. The first time he got drunk was on whisky; he didn’t remember anything about it, other than the fact that he felt some part of himself open up, then, and that one day he would want to do it again.

‘How old were you?’ I’d asked.

He’d shrugged. ‘Dunno. Ten?’

I’d thought he was exaggerating, but he told me he wasn’t. He started drinking. He’d always been good at art, he said, but the drink made him feel he was better. His painting improved. The two became intertwined. He painted, he drank, he painted. He dropped out of college, his parents kicked him out of their home. Only his sister stood by him, but she was much younger, she didn’t understand.

‘And after that I was on my own. I tried to cope, but …’

‘What happened?’

He made light of it. ‘One too many times waking up with no idea where I was or how I got there. One too many times wondering why I was bleeding. I rang my mother. I said I needed help. She got a friend to take me to my first meeting in the fellowship.’

‘And here we are.’

‘Yes. Here we are.’ He paused. ‘I’m glad I met you.’

It was a couple of weeks later that he called me. Kate was watching television with a friend and I took the call on the extension in the kitchen. He sounded upset.