The Trespasser

by Tana French

“Yeah?” Steve says, pointing at himself. He looks like his mammy spit-shined him for Mass, but he plays that up on purpose. You use what you’ve got, and what Steve’s got is that your parents would be delighted if you brought him home.

Steve’s eyes are shining. I’m actually starting to hope we never pull a really good case; the excitement would make him widdle on my leg.

Even through his jitters, Rory feels the difference; he relaxes enough to take off his second-best coat and hang it tidily over the back of his chair. Underneath he has on jeans and a baggy beige jumper that’s twenty quids’ worth of knitted depression.

Waking up the next morning feels like waking up the morning after moving house, switching squad, dumping someone: you know the world’s changed, even before you remember how. The air has a different flavor to it, sharp and strange and resiny, a chilly bite at the edges. Even before you remember, you know to watch your footing with today.

“Yeah. She said look what it does to you, falling in love. Just look. It means someone else has hold of your whole life. At any second, like that”—a snap of her fingers—“they could decide to change it into something else. You might never even know why. And you might never get it back, your life. They could just walk out and take it with them, and it’s gone for good.”