She found a corner table, one where she had the wall at her back, and the whole cafe there before her eyes, the entrance to the left, the service counter to the right.

Nearby, two people chatted over their cappuccinos at one table, whilst a middle-aged gentleman tapped away on his laptop at another, his headphones blocking out the world.

She got out her notebook, her pen, and stirring the foam on the top of her cappuccino in a meditative otherwhere manner, she began to plot the next chapter of her book.

She already had it settled in her mind where the story would end up. The murderer was one of two people, and she was still trying to decide which of these would work best: which one had the necessary–not motive, not yet–more like, a necessary ‘something’ in their character that made murder seem like the best, the only, solution to their personal situation.

She stirred the cappuccino one last time, took a sip, then, the first words of the first paragraph springing to her lips, to her mind, she took up her pen and began to write…

The cafe, its gentle hubbub of frothing machine and coffee filters, the chatter, the stirring of cups, the scraping of chairs, melted into one warm, comforting back-drop, like the curtain on a stage, and the characters stepped forward.

With hindsight, as she lay dying on the hard floor of the dining-room, Katherine Henshawe realised she should have expected this to happen. She should have been on her guard. She’d been a fool, she saw that now. She had allowed herself to be taken in. She’d believed every word of what had been a cleverly devised story. And now, if she’d had any doubts about the severity of her situation, the gently spreading pool of blood on the floor in front of her gave her a good indication. She tried to call for help, but of course it was pointless. No one came.

‘Save your last few breaths,’ her killer—for she knew now that was who this smiling person really was—told her with a wink. ‘Not that it’ll do you much good. Not long now, as I expect you can see for yourself. And with you out of the way, I shall be very rich. Very rich indeed. I hope you enjoyed your holiday; I certainly did!’

At the door, there was a slight pause, a quick backward glance, a merry chuckle, then the door closed again.

No one would find her in time now. She knew too that she would never see her home in Berkshire again. From the corner of her eye, she could just make out the crucifix on the wall. Katherine Henshawe spent her final moments praying.

Not for a miracle. Not for the prolongation of her life, not even for forgiveness and the chance for an eternal life in Heaven.

With her last breath, she prayed that her killer would suffer horribly for what they had done to her.

***