‘Where will you go?’ he says.

‘Not far.’

Lenny probably thinks I’m cool but my heart is thumping as I walk away. Out on the street I see Jeff, cradling brown bags in each arm. I’m nervous, wondering if I did the right thing. Will Jeff regret his act of kindness, want me out after a week? I might want out after a week. It makes no odds really, because no matter how much I question my decision I keep coming up with the same answer. No money, no choice.

Before Jeff sees me, I turn the opposite way. The next person I need to talk to is Danny. The wait is crucifying me. Red lines imprint my hand where I’ve gripped the phone all day waiting for the buzz that never came. I’m surprised, really. I thought he’d gloat over my latest disaster, take pleasure out of chastising me, counseling me. Shrinking my soul. I know he cares for me, a lot, he always has, but he can also make me feel like a piece of shit when he’s doing it.

Danny’s house is halfway down Ash Street, close to the local college with a Boston Donuts shop on the corner. Which is a waste; Danny never puts sugar in his mouth. If you look out the bedroom window at the back of his house, there’s a clear view of Treehill Park. Although not the spot where Katie Collins body was found, that was hidden in the forest, by the redundant bridge.

Knocking on Danny’s door I realize that that might be the reason why the cops called here. Maybe they called at all the houses that have a clear view of the park. But when Danny answers the door and I see the stress in his face, I reconsider.

‘Becca,’ he says, turning away without a smile or an invitation to come in. In fact, I think he sighs.

‘How are things?’ I say, following him into the back room where Joanna is sitting with her feet up on the sofa watching TV.

‘Becca,’ she says, smiling. ‘Did you go back to Bert’s house after the funeral?’

‘Yes, just for a short while,’ I say, watching as Danny attempts to leave the room. ‘Danny, I want to talk to you,’ I say, but he puts his phone to his ear, pretending he’s taking a call. Joanna pulls a face, warning me he’s not in a good mood, but I don’t care. I didn’t come all this way for nothing. So I follow him into the little office he built for himself off the hallway.

‘Danny,’ I say.

He turns around, too casually.

‘Danny, why were the cops looking for you?’

‘What cops?’

‘The cops who called this morning. Joanna told me.’