tuck what she could into her handbag. Not all she’d have liked to take, the bag was really no more than an overgrown purse, but enough to hold her until she had a chance to buy something new. More to the point, nothing she’d left in Rita’s spare bedroom could be traced back to her. Sooner or later she’d call Rita, and by then she’d have a story ready to explain her abrupt departure. But for now all she could do was disappear. A pity she couldn’t return the bike. Park it someplace, tell Rita where to find it? No, keep it simple. She left it unlocked a block from the bus station, propped it against a lamp post and walked away from it. Someone was sure to adopt it—before her bus left, and before anyone could begin to wonder who stuck a knife into Graham Weider.