He’s talked his way onto a case and he’s already compromised. He has no choice. He’ll have to make some excuse to Jordan, tell her to reassign him. “You’ll need to give a statement,” he says, “but not to me.”

“Am I a suspect or something?”

He can’t find the words to answer. It’s called a conflict of interest. He looks up to see if Oscar’s still there, in case he’s conjured this up somehow—this one-night stand that refuses to go away. More penance for his sins. But he’s still there, the sleeve tattoo like painted chain mail wrapping his left arm. “This is your house,” he says, the sentence falling somewhere between a statement and an accusation.

Oscar stands and reaches out a hand, but Tyler steps away from him.

“Is it him?” Oscar asks quietly. “Is it my dad?” His voice breaks a little, and Tyler remembers he’s a victim, too. Not just a suspect. Not just last night’s shag.

He tries to recall what they talked about last night but doesn’t remember them doing much in the way of talking. Did he mention he was with the police? As a rule it’s not something he tells people straightaway, not until he knows them better. Not unless they ask. Did Oscar ask?

“Look, about last night . . .” Oscar leans in, wrapping a hand around Tyler’s forearm. His voice is deep and low, almost a whisper. “We can forget it if you want. I mean, I won’t say anything.” He seems younger than he did this morning. But he is younger, or at least younger than Tyler had assumed. Twenty-one! He seems more vulnerable, too, and Tyler has to suppress an irrational guilt. He’s done nothing wrong. Yet. Oscar squeezes his arm, rubs his thumb across the bare skin of Tyler’s wrist. “I’m not saying it’s what I want, though.” And all at once he is older again, the cocky, sure-of-himself lad Tyler met at the bar.

Which is the real Oscar, which is the act? Tyler pulls his arm away just as Guy Daley walks through the doorway into the kitchen.

“Tyler, me ol’ china. What’s all this, then? They finally letting you play with the big boys again, eh?”

For a moment he thinks Daley has seen something, but he’s just doing his usual faux-Cockney bullshit.

“Jordan let you out the doghouse, then?” Daley asks.

“Detective Sergeant Daley, I need you to take a statement from Mr. Cartwright. You can take him back to the station.”

Daley frowns at being treated like a lackey, but then he glances once at Oscar and nods, apparently satisfied the brusque manner is no more than professionalism in front of a suspect. For once Tyler’s cold reputation works in his favor.

He leaves Oscar to the tender mercies of Daley’s schoolyard charm and makes his way back through the house, turning up the stairs without really thinking about where he’s going. He supposes he’s looking for Doggett. He has to confess. Even though he’s done nothing wrong, that’s what it feels like. A confession.