Michael had told me it was our money on the night Alan died. I’d thought he meant he had deserved the money, that he’d earned it, by stealing or killing, and that I was welcome to be a part of it. Erin had whispered in my ear only hours before: It’s family money. I’d thought she meant the same thing: staking a claim, inviting me in. Michael and Erin had been telling me the plain truth the whole time and I’d missed it. They were talking about literal ownership.

I could picture the spider-web-riddled clearing now, Michael hunched over a gasping man. Weighing up his decision. Valuing a life. Everything made sense, including how Michael had known the amount in the bag without counting it: $267,000.

Well, fuck me. I’ve finally solved something.

‘The money’s not stolen,’ I surmised. ‘It’s yours. You didn’t blunder into this. You knew Alan. Was he selling you something?’

Michael’s eyes lit up as he realised I was ready to hear, if not yet believe, his story. I know eyes lighting up is a cliché, but it’s true: though it could have been an electrical surge in the old hotel wiring making the heaters flare. ‘I guess I should tell you about Alan Holton, then. And how he knew Dad.’

That caught me off guard. I was glad I’d closed the door.

‘Dad knew Alan?’

Michael nodded sincerely. ‘What I’m about to tell you is going to sound . . . well, it’s going to sound out there. Hear me out, okay?’ He took my silence as agreement and continued. ‘Holton was a cop.’

‘A cop?’ I felt the need to physically lever my eyebrows down from my forehead with my fingertips, but I resisted.

‘Former.’

‘Obviously. He’s former everything, isn’t he?’ I knew my comment was juvenile; it just spurted out while I processed everything. ‘That doesn’t make sense. You can’t have only got three years for killing a cop?’

‘No. I mean, he wasn’t a cop when I . . . that night. He used to be one. Had a’—he twirled his fingers—‘shall we say, fall from grace. Landed hard. That’s how he wound up bouncing from petty job to petty job and eventually scraping it together selling second-hand trinkets. He was a part-time drug dealer; part-time thief; part-time homeless. And a full-time liability. Marcelo was able to characterise him as a petty criminal because Alan’s time in the police . . . it was not a shining example of a noble force. In fact, that’s why the prosecution accepted the three-year deal, because if Marcelo had had to pull that history out in court – well, there are some people who would prefer it didn’t get aired.’ That made sense. ‘Marcelo dangled Alan’s past at the judge behind closed doors, and the prosecution took my deal. Three years. Are you following?’