The woman who greets us at the door is in her late fifties.
“It’s you!” she cries, throwing her arms out towards me. “It’s really you!”
Stepping back, I say, “Tiggy Jones. The mystery author. We have an appointment. And this is Raider.”
She shakes herself. “Tiggy. Of course. Our appoin…”
Suddenly she’s falling backwards and I rush forward to grab the door. It slows her fall and she slides to the floor, sitting against it.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” I say.
“A pen! Paper! In the hallstand. Quickly!”
There’s a drawer below the shelf and bevelled mirror. When I hand her the notepad and pen, she scribbles something, tears off the page and pushes it into her pocket. Then she leans back against the door and closes her eyes.
I don’t know what to do. “Can I help you up?”
Her eyes fly open. “I’ve remembered!”
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