But I knew I didn’t have a choice. If I went back to the guesthouse for help, Sofia wouldn’t wait for me to arrive with back-up. It was safer together. And, besides, while I hoped that what was in the truck would help clear Michael’s name (Ernest fixes something.), a proper look at the body might help too. And, look, it’s annoying, I know, when people make dumb decisions for this reason – it’s the reason icicle-kebab didn’t survive that horror flick – but I was, just a bit, curious.

We rounded the corner, edged along the wall, backs pressed for both stealth and icicle safety until we reached the crack in the door. Sofia leaned her head through the gap, then pulled back like she’d been bitten by a snake, her eyes wide. She mouthed, ‘Someone’s there.’ I pointed at the door, mimed closing it. She shook her head, pointed at my eyes and then the gap in the doorway, and shuffled past me so I was closest to it. She gave me a push. Her intent was clear: you need to see this. I bugged my eyes at her in as close to an expression of betrayal as I could figure: this wasn’t the plan. She gave me another push.

I took a deep breath, resisted the urge to cast one more spiteful look at Sofia, and poked my head through the gap.

Green Boots was where we’d left him, limbs splayed on the too-small stack of pallets, chest thrust up like he was inverted skydiving. The difference now was that someone was hunched over him. I recognised them immediately, even from the back. They were focused on the body, so they hadn’t noticed us yet. Ideally, here is when I would have slowly backed away, locked them in and fetched the real police, as agreed. But I didn’t. It was as if some invisible thread was pulling me into the room. I barely felt Sofia’s frantic tapping on my arm, her warning hiss swept away in the wind.

My entrance was unnoticed, the rattling of the walls and the groan of the roof, snow still piling up on it, masking my footsteps. It was freezing inside the shed, the cold pushing in from the metal walls and up from the concrete floor. My breath misted. I cleared my throat. The person shot upright, took two steps back from the body and put their hands in the air. Red-handed.

‘Nice things,’ I said. It’s a private joke we have.

CHAPTER 23

The reason I say ‘Nice things’ to Erin so often is, as I told her when we married, if she was ever mad at me, she could always answer the question ‘How are things with Ernest?’ honestly with: ‘Well, he always says “nice things”.’