WE'RE IN THE pub again, Becks and I.

The old window panes have coloured glass running across the top and the daylight filtering through creates a kaleidoscope of gem-coloured light across the tables.

I feel lucky when Becks can join me for a weekend lunch these days. Between Roger and her work, I don't get as much of her weekend time as I used to, but this weekend, I have something she wants. I'm like the cat who caught the canary. Or, maybe more accurately, the dog who's brought in the newspaper. I've dropped it at her feet and am waiting for my 'good dog' head petting.

"This is great, Doll. So great. You won't get into any trouble, will you." She's not asking so much as assuring herself.

But no, I don't think so. I don't believe Sasha (or anyone) checks our searches, and even if she did, I could say the names had come up in a case file.

She unfolds my notepaper and takes a look down the list of numbers. I feel rather than see her pause.

"Why did you look mine up?"

I smile like I didn't think it at all odd that her serial number had a different starting sequence than the rest of the numbers on the list.

"Oh, I thought it would be good to have them all listed together. So you could see if any were, you know..." I trail off and point to the list. "I put mine on there too, see? And Missy's, that's my co-worker Julian's housemate. I think she's about our age, and he told me she'd been..."

I'm babbling nervously now. I stop myself.

Her expression is a little bit clouded, but she smiles and folds the paper back over, slipping it into her coat pocket.

"What are you going to do with them now? Are you going to interview them?" I ask.

"That's the plan," she confirms and turns to look at the French barmaid who is bearing down upon us with the specials sheet.

"Laydeez," the barmaid says in greeting, then waits mutely while we decide.

I order a glass of Chablis and a Fish-ish Pie with sweet buttered peas. Becks hands the menu back to the barmaid and says, "Just a soda water for me, please, and a small green salad."

I'm disappointed. Her watery order hits me like a betrayal, like she has one foot out the door when we just got here. The French woman nods and walks away to put our order into the kitchen. I turn to Becks, trying to keep the petulance out of my voice.

"Not even a glass of wine?"

She looks embarrassed.

"There's something I may as well tell you," she shrugs in that way she has when she wants to give the impression that something's not important, but it really, really is. I wait for her to continue.

"We're going to try for a baby after all." The word sits like a poisonous toad on the table between us. "You know how much Roger wants one. He'd done all the paperwork, all the testing cleared, the bank approved—"

I cut her off. "But you don't approve. You don't, do you? You'll lose your job, Becks."

She nods. "I know. This story might be my last one. I'll have to make it count."

The barmaid deftly deposits the wine and a tall glass of club soda on our table and breezes away again.

Becks says sullenly, "You know, Doll, mostly I want this thing out of me. If I say yes to a pregnancy, they'll take it out right away." She lowers her voice. "I don't want to go haywire."

"But, you aren't even sure what's causing it yet, Becks. It seems extreme to say yes to a baby before you confirm there's a connection. And besides," I point out carefully, "Your serial number is different. Maybe yours won't cause a problem."

She puts a hand up to stop me. "But maybe it will. Different serial number or not, I got my Revolut the same year you did. Ever since I started tracking all these cases, I've started feeling... I can't explain it. Angry."

"Have there been more?" I ask, curious. "Because I've been checking the headlines, and I ..."

"You have no idea," she says softly. "We only report a tiny percentage of what's actually happening out there, but I have eyes on the police comms. It's so much bigger than you could know if you only read the headlines. And it's not just here, Doll. It's the whole country. There are women up in Nunavut bashing the shit out of their husbands with seal clubs. A woman in Regina stabbed a Jehovah's Witness with a fork when he tried to put a pamphlet through her door. There's a woman—" She pulls my list out of her pocket again "—Here, this one: Faustina Dzrebec. They brought her in after a young man accused her of drugging him in a bar and taking him home to... well, I mean, have you ever heard of a woman doing something like that? What was she thinking? That's not sane. Of course, her lawyer argued she didn't. His word against hers. No conviction because nobody buys it. She's a tiny little thing. But I can't help but wonder, can I? Given what's going on. When we're done here, I'm going to see if she'll talk to me."

I shake my head. I can't imagine.

"I don't like the idea that something like that might just click on in me one day. I can't bear it. Watching myself for signs of badness. I'm gaslighting myself."

I'd considered that myself in a general sort of way, but not with much seriousness. I'm on the side of good. I hunt monsters. I can hardly believe myself capable of becoming one.

"Do they know?" I ask her. "Do you think the government knows what's going on with women?"

"I can't believe they aren't putting it together if we are. They must have an inkling by now."

"Then why aren't they recalling our implants?" I ask as our lunch arrives.

"Maybe they will," she answers, picking up her fork and spearing a tomato with force. "But it might be too late by the time they do."

IN THE END, she lets me come along to her interview with Faustina Dzrebec. We decided that my home visit experience might serve us well. I have a knack for getting people to talk.

Faustina lives in a modest flat very near the University where, despite having exemplary teaching credentials of her own, she works as a professor's assistant.

She's willingly invited us into her threadbare living room and has made a pot of tea. If she's truly haywire, you can't tell. She's pouring tea with her slim hands, which are shaking slightly, but wouldn't anyone's? Being interviewed by a journalist and someone from social services for a crime you almost certainly didn't commit? Because how could she have? This tiny, meek woman. There's nothing remotely rage-y or aggressive about her. It's clear to me that this is an open/shut case of false accusation.

Becks accepts her cup and takes a hesitant sip. Does she think the poor woman is going to drug her too? Ridiculous.

I make a show of taking a big sip of mine and compliment Faustina on her record collection, which takes up half a wall.

"Oh, thank you," she says with the hint of an accent. Eastern Europe. "I love music. All kinds."

Becks leans forward and says without a hint of malice but jarringly straight-to-the-point, "Faustina, did you do what that man says you did?"

There is a pause, during which I prepare myself for her firm denial. I am stunned when, instead, she tilts her chin to the side in a sort of confirmation.

"I did that, yes," she says, her eyes darting around, unsure of where to land.

"Can you tell us about it?" asks Becks. If she's surprised by Faustina's admission of guilt, she doesn't show it. "I'm especially interested in how you were feeling leading up to that evening. Emotionally. Physically."

Faustina closes her eyes and takes a breath.

"I was feeling... sexy. It had been some time since I'd been with a man, and I felt, you know, overpoweringly interested in sex."

I look over at Becks, who keeps her eyes on Faustina. Does the woman understand this is on the record? Becks informed her that she's a journalist before we began.

"Did you know the man who... the alleged victim?" Becks asks.

Faustina opens her eyes to correct Becks politely. "Not alleged. As I said, he told the truth. What he said—that's exactly what happened."

"Okay. Did you know him?"

She nods. "Yes, he's a student at the University, and I'm a PA in one of his classes. I had noticed him. He's very attractive. Not the type of man who would ever look at me." She indicates her slight frame.  "I went to the school pub that night to hear the live music. I sat at the bar, had a glass of wine, watched the students come and go, listened to the music. He was there alone, also at the bar. We struck up a conversation. We both like music."

A small smile plays on her lips, but she goes on.

"I put the drops into his beer while his back was turned."

"Sorry, Ketamine, right?" Becks interjects, referring to her notes. "Were you planning this? Why did you have Ketamine on your person at a bar?"

"Was I planning it? Not exactly," hedges Faustina. "But maybe. I had considered what one might do with Ketamine, besides using it recreationally as the students do. It seemed like it would be a good way to keep someone... compliant."

I swallow. It's hard to believe how matter-of-fact this woman is about what she did. There's no denial, but even more unsettling, there's no softening of her story. Even guilty people fudge a little to give you room for understanding. Not her.

"He felt very tired quite soon after that, so I offered to bring him back here. Quieter than residence, you know. More relaxing for him. It wasn't easy, getting him up the stairs, actually. He was quite—" she pauses "—muscular."

"He cried," she offers, after detailing in terrible, unemotional detail what she'd done with the young man who, according to her, had said 'no' as many times as he was able, given the effect of the drug. "Boys don't cry. I didn't like that."

I feel sick, suddenly. This is a monster. Only not one I'd ever have recognized, which in itself terrifies me.

Becks blinks, the only whisper of feeling she's betrayed through the entire, upsetting story.

"Faustina, your lawyer argued that it wasn't like that. That the man had come home with you willingly. That he was accusing you because you refused to give him a better grade in your class."

"That's what lawyers do. I was advised not to speak to the police, so I didn't. Easy as that, they let me go home. It's awful, really. No protection for the innocent." She looks at us directly again, with a sort of pleading in her eye.

"Faustina," Becks has to ask. "Why are you sharing your story with us? I'm sure you understand, I will likely report that what you told us here today directly conflicts with your defence?"

She looks at us with intelligent eyes. There is a regular woman swimming under the surface of them; one who looks just as horrified by her story as we are.

"Because I'll do it again. I know I will. I can already feel the idea in my—" she points at her belly. "I can feel it growing from here."