She had a makeshift bench set up on the branch she was sitting on. Carefully she laid the drill down and stared at it some more.

Lara was…dead?

‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered, still not looking at the man below. She was concentrating on the drill, as if working out its function was the most important thing in the world. There was a part of her that didn’t want to move forward from this moment.

Thirty seconds ago this stranger hadn’t said any of this. That was where she wanted to be. Back in time.

Lara…dead?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and something inside her snapped.

‘I’m sorry too,’ she flung at him. ‘I’m sorry about this whole damned mess. I don’t believe any of it. You come here, in your outlandish, stupid costume, like you’re a king or something-which I don’t believe-with your stupid chauffeured car and your tame politician, and you stomp my ants and interfere with my work and tell me Lara is dead…’

‘Lara is dead.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Will you come down?’

‘No.’ She made to pick the drill up again, but his voice cut through her confusion and her rage.

‘Miss Dexter, you need to face this. Your sister is dead. Will you come down from the tree, please?’

She flinched-and she thought about it.

For about three minutes she simply sat on her branch and stared down at him. He stared back, his face calm and compassionate.

It was a good face, she thought inconsequentially, and maybe that was another way of avoiding acceptance of what he’d just said. Kind. Strong. Determined. His eyes were calm and sure, promising that he spoke the truth.

She could accept or reject what he was telling her. His eyes said that the truth was here for the taking.

The minutes ticked on, and he had the sense to let her alone. To allow her time to believe. His face stayed impassive.

His eyes never wavered.