I’m being ridiculous. It’s only old Mrs Simpkin’s house. I do her weekly shopping and Aidan keeps her drive clear of snow every winter, but still, quickly I move out of sight, catching Connor’s desk with my hip. His laptop screen illuminates. My eyes are drawn towards it and when I see the open tab my heart accelerates. Fleetingly, I wonder whether Ryan and Tyler are still haunted by what happened in the way that Connor seems to be.

The way that I am.

It was an accident. A horrible, terrible accident but clearly he still blames himself in the way that I still blame myself.

We have both failed the people we loved.

If only, if only, if only.

My stomach twists as I stare at the screen. How can he ever move on if he’s torturing himself daily?

But then not a day goes past when I don’t think of it too.

How can any of us move on?

From outside comes the tormented screech of a bird and I’m reminded of the crow on the step, the blood, the fear it must have felt in its final moments.

The fear I feel right now.

Chapter Three

Connor

Connor digs his fingertips into his scalp wishing the shampoo could wash away the angry thoughts that ricochet around his mind. He presses down harder and harder until his knuckles ache and his bones feel as though they might snap. Releasing the pressure on his head, he twists the temperature dial, forcing himself to stand still while thousands of red-hot droplets of water slice at his skin like razor blades. His muscles tense, his jaw clamps shut suppressing the scream of pain that builds and builds deep in his gut. Pain is the only thing that stops his thoughts. Soon, he begins to sway, black flecks dancing in front of his eyes. Just before he passes out he yanks the dial the opposite way. The icy water is a punch to the stomach, snatching his breath. Rather than cooling his skin it hurts and he takes pleasure in that. It’s no less than he deserves.

He sets the water again to warm. Spotify has been streaming ‘AM’ through his phone on repeat and he doesn’t know how long he’s been in the cubicle. It’s like his own personal time machine. He daydreams he can travel back to Easter and change everything. Sometimes it’s the thump on the door from his mum or dad that drags him into the present and he realizes he’s been standing under the jets of water for over half an hour, minty shower gel frothing around his feet.

‘Do you know how much the water bills are?’ Dad would complain.

‘Leave him alone, he’s making up for all the years he’d sit on the edge of the bath pretending to wash.’ Mum would smile at him.