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me here.
    I remember Mrs. El iot when she could stil walk—a tal , thin woman who always offered Cate her cheek to kiss so as not to smudge her lipstick. She used to be an actress who did mainly TV commercials and was always impeccably made-up, as though perpetual y ready for her close-up. Of course, that was before she suffered a stroke that paralyzed her down her right side. Now one eyelid droops and no amount of makeup can hide the nerve damage around her mouth.
    In a whisper, she asks, “Why would she lie about the baby?”
    “I don’t know. She was coming to see me. She said she had done something foolish and that someone wanted to take her baby.”
    “What baby? She was never pregnant. Never! Now they say her pelvis is so badly shattered that even if she survives she’l never be able to carry a baby.” Something shudders inside me. A déjà vu from another hospital and a different time, when my bones were being mended. A price is paid with every surgery.
    Mrs. El iot clutches a cushion to her chest. “Why would she do this? Why would she lie to us?”
    There is no warmth in her voice, only accusation. She feels betrayed. Embarrassed. What wil she tel the neighbors? I feel like lashing out and defending Cate, who deserves more

    than this. Instead I close my eyes and listen to the wind washing over the rooftops and the electronic beeping of the machines.
    How did she do it—maintain such a lie for weeks and months? It must have haunted her. A part of me is strangely envious. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something that much, not even Olympic medals. When I missed out on the team for the Sydney Games I cried on the edge of the track but they were tears of frustration rather than disappointment. The girl who took my place wanted it more.
    I know that I shouldn’t compare Olympic selection with motherhood. Perhaps my opinions are clouded by the medical reality of a patched pelvis and a reinforced spine that can never withstand the trials of pregnancy and labor. Wanting children is a dangerous ambition for me.
    Squeezing Cate’s hand, I hope she knows I’m here. For years I wanted her to cal , to be friends again, to need me. And just when it final y happened, she’s been snatched away like a half-finished question. I have to find out what she wanted. I have to understand why.
    Euston Traffic Garage is in Drummond Crescent, tucked between Euston Station and the British Library. The spire of Saint Aloysius Church rises above it like a rocket on a launchpad.
    The Col ision Investigation Unit is an odd place, a mixture of high-tech gadgetry and old-fashioned garage, with hoists, grease traps and machine tools. This is where they do the vehicular equivalents of autopsies and the process is much the same. Bodies are opened, dismantled, weighed and measured.
    The duty officer, a roly-poly sergeant in overal s, peers up from the twisted front end of a car. “Can I help you?” I introduce myself, showing him my badge. “There was a traffic accident on Friday night on Old Bethnal Green Road. A couple were knocked down.”
    “Yeah, I looked at that one.” He wipes his hands on a rag and tucks it back into his pocket.
    “One of them is a friend of mine.”
    “She stil alive?”
    “Yes.”
    “Lucky.”
    “How far are you with the investigation?”
    “Finished. Just got to write it up.”
    “What do you think happened?”
    “Thought it was pretty obvious. Your friend and her husband tried to tackle a minicab.” He doesn’t mean to sound cal ous. It’s just his way. “Maybe the driver could’ve put the brakes on a bit sooner. Sometimes you can be unlucky. Choose the wrong moment to check your mirrors and that fraction of a second comes off your reaction time. Might’ve made a difference.
    Might not. We’l never know.”
    “So you’re not going to charge him?”
    “What with?”
    “Dangerous driving, negligence, there must be something.”
    “He was licensed, insured, registered and roadworthy—I