She hesitated a moment—then curiosity got the better of her. Carefully, so as not to wake me up, she slid out the notebook from under my hand. She went and stood by the window. She held it up to the cracks of light and began to read.
As she read the notebook, Lana frowned, confused. She didn’t understand what she was reading. It didn’t make sense. So she turned back a few pages. Then a few more … then she went all the way back to the first page—and read it from the beginning.
As Lana stood there, she began to make sense of what she was looking at, and her fingers trembled. He teeth chattered. She felt out of control—she felt like screaming.
Get out, howled the voice inside her, get out, get out, get out, get out.…
She made a decision. She was about to stuff the notebook into her bag—but thought better of it. She replaced the open notebook on the desk, edging it under my fingers.
Just as I was beginning to stir, Lana crept out of my flat.
She left without making a sound.
2
It was early morning when Lana stumbled out of my building.
The daylight felt overwhelming to her, blinding her, and she shielded her eyes from it, keeping her head low as she walked. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing coming thick and fast. She felt like her legs might give way. But she managed to keep going.
She didn’t know where she was headed. All she knew was that she had to get as far away as possible from the words she had read, and the man who had written them.
As she walked, she tried to make sense of what she had seen in the notebook. It felt horrendous—and too much to take in. Looking at those pages was like peering into the fractured mind of a madman; a glimpse into hell.
At first, she’d had the disconcerting impression she had been reading her own diary: there was so much of her in it—it was full of her words, her ideas, her sayings, her observations about the world, even her dreams. All faithfully recorded—and written down in the first person, as if she herself were writing it. It felt like an acting exercise, almost—as if she were being studied, as if she were a character in a play, not a real person.
Even worse, and more painful to read, was the long catalog of meetings between Jason and Kate, which went on for several pages. Each entry was neatly dated, its location noted, with a summary of what had taken place.
There was a list titled Lana—with a column of possible clues to be planted in her house, to make her suspicious of Jason’s infidelity.
Another list, Jason, sketched out a variety of alternative methods by which he might be disposed of. But that list had been crossed out. Evidently none of the proposed methods had proved satisfactory.
Finally, in the notebook’s last pages, written, then rewritten, was a bizarre plot to drive Kate to murder Jason on the island. Even more disturbingly, it was written as a play—including dialogue and stage directions. Lana shuddered, thinking about it. She felt as if she, too, had gone mad. The last time she’d felt this kind of unreality was when she had discovered the earring.
The earring—which, according to the notebook, had been planted for her to find. Was this possible? She struggled to reconcile the words she had read with the man who wrote them. A man she thought she knew—and loved.
That’s what made it so painful—the love she had. This betrayal felt so profound, so visceral, it felt like a physical wound; a gaping hole. It couldn’t be true. Had her best friend really lied to her? Had he manipulated her; isolated her; schemed to end her marriage? And now, planned an actual murder?
Lana knew she had to go to the police with this—right now, this second. She had no choice. Emboldened by this decision, she started walking faster. She would go straight to the police station, and she would tell them—
Tell them what? About the scribbled rantings of a madman? Would she not also look crazy—turning up with garbled accusations of gaslighting, affairs, murder plots? Her pace slowed as she played it out in her mind. The story would get out, almost immediately—she’d be on the front page of every tabloid in the world tomorrow. Enough material was there to keep the papers busy for weeks, months. No, she couldn’t allow that—for Leo’s sake, as well as her own. Going to the police was not a possibility.
Then what? What else could she do? She had no more options.
Her footsteps faltered and came to a halt. She stood still, in the middle of the pavement. She didn’t know what to do, or where to go.
The street wasn’t busy; it was too early. A handful of people walked past, mostly ignoring her; apart from an impatient man who sighed heavily. “Come on, love,” he said, pushing past her. “Get out of the bloody way.”