My lover, Lily Truscott, had been shot dead in Sydney five months before, shattering some dreams and half-formed plans. I’d played an unofficial part in the investigation that led to the conviction of the killer. There was some satisfaction in that, but I’d stepped on a lot of toes and crossed over some hard and fast police lines. There was no chance I’d ever be licensed as a private investigator in New South Wales again. You could say I’d taken two hard knocks-one personal, one professional-and that wouldn’t come anywhere close to describing the emptiness I’d felt.

I’d come to the US to help Tony Truscott, Lily’s brother, prepare for a fight in Reno leading to the WBA welterweight boxing title. He won. I’d trained hard with Tony, maybe overstretching myself. The loss of Lily was like a constant ache so maybe Dr Pierce’s research had something to it, but I wasn’t about to become one of his subjects. Congenital would do me-I could blame my father. Put it on the list of my other gripes against him.

‘My father died in his fifties,’ I said.

Dr Pierce looked disappointed but clicked his pen and made a note. ‘There you are.’

Megan arrived three days after the operation. She looks like me-dark, tallish, beaky-nosed. She bustled into my room, bent over and kissed me hard on both cheeks.

‘Hi, Cliff. Sorry it took a while. Complications.’

‘Good to see you, love. You said the right things when it counted.’

‘Shit, I couldn’t believe it-Mr Fitness.’

‘Not really, as it turned out. What complications? You and Simon?’

It was spring in Sydney, fall in California. Megan had dressed for somewhere in between, which was about right. She ran her fingers through her hair, a mannerism she’d inherited from her mother, before answering. ‘Kaput.