Free Serafina and the Virtual Man by Marie Treanor Page B

die? Unspeakably sad.
    It was time to do that side of the research, but she wasn’t looking forward to it.
    Sera was in the inner office with a client when she returned. Jilly merely grunted in response to Elspeth’s and Jack’s greetings and went to put the kettle on. Deep in thought, she made three cups of instant coffee, plonked one on Elspeth’s desk, said, “Oi!” to Jack by way of announcing its availability and took her own to her own desk, where the laptop awaited her.
    Sighing, she sat down and became aware that both Elspeth and Jack were staring at her.
    “Thank you, Jilly,” Elspeth said faintly.
    Fuck, is that really the first time I’ve made her coffee? How grumpy an old bat am I? Shite, she was twenty-nine years old; maybe she could afford to start being at least pleasant to a few people, people she didn’t actively dislike.
    If I died tomorrow, or even in six months’ time, how would I be remembered? If at all...
    Aware that these dark, uneasy thoughts were encouraged by her inexplicable sadness over Adam’s decline and death, she shook them off and set to work.
    Adam’s end was documented in the newspapers and a couple of the big gaming magazines. In true British-tabloid style, his fall was given far more coverage than his success. Only now was there a clear picture of him, and Jilly’s heart gave a funny little lurch as she zoomed in on it.
    Here was the man who’d accosted her in Ewan’s house. That much was clear, even though the photo was shot in a dark Edinburgh street, and Adam looked thin, gaunt, and unwell. There were swollen dark shadows under his eyes, several days’ stubble around his jaw, and even in the poor light, his clothes—jeans and a sloppy sweatshirt—looked none too fresh. She couldn’t make out his expression. The photographer’s flash was reflected in his eyes, so he just looked permanently surprised. It had been taken in May last year, shortly after rumours of his rapid decline had begun.
    There were various other stories, including a statement issued to the press in June by Adam himself, that he was seeking help for drink and drug addiction. By August, he’d sold out to Ewan and was in Australia, reportedly clean and talking of a new gaming venture. In October, he’d died of a heroin overdose, complicated by the cocktail of substances already in his stomach.
    The man who’d lived in that warm, beautiful flat with all those books and CDs and an exquisite piano.
    Had he even played the piano? There was nothing to tell her. The vast majority of information on him was from the last few months as he went so rapidly downhill. Why? Why did a man sink so suddenly from curious, interested genius to drug-addled saddo?
    Somewhere, in the mass of stuff she’d just read, Ewan had said that the pressure had got to Adam. That he’d been too curious to try the dangerous as well as the fun, and like many before him had been unable to get out of the cycle. There were quotes from a few celebrities, including, among other well-known rock musicians, the glamorous Roxy May, expressing surprise and sadness at his demise. Friend of rock stars. Well, there was a hint.
    Jilly glared at the screen, trying to work out why she felt so angry about the whole thing. Human tragedies like this happened every day, in every walk of life. Look at her own fucked-up family.
    On second thoughts, don’t.
    Besides, none of this explained what she’d seen in Ewan’s secret test lab. Or how it related to the poltergeist.
    Impatiently, Jilly called up the chat program and pinged Exodus.
    He answered almost at once with a “Hey.”
    And suddenly she was flummoxed. Where the hell did she start? Before she could even decide, he was typing. And stunned her all over again.
    Exodus: What’s wrong?
    JK: You!
    Exodus: No, you look sad.
    Jilly’s hands slid off the keyboard. She stared at the screen, listened to the blood singing in her ears, then glanced wildly round the office for visitors—none—and