‘You weren’t wrong about Ross Klayman,’ Jonny said flatly. ‘Nine people died. Thirty more were wounded. Maybe if we’d found him earlier, we could have stopped him. I feel responsible.’

She squeezed his hand hard. ‘Don’t you ever do that to yourself, Jonathan Stride. Do you hear me? It’s not your fault.’

‘No?’

‘No. It’s not.’

‘I’m having a hard time accepting that.’

‘Mentally ill people don’t wear signs,’ she said.

He shrugged. He knew it was true, but she knew it wouldn’t stop him from beating himself up.

They were silent again.

Then he looked at her. ‘You never told me what he said to you. Just before he killed himself.’

‘Who, Klayman? Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘I don’t remember.’

He didn’t push her, and she was glad. She was lying, and he knew it, but maybe he realized that some moments couldn’t be shared with anyone. If she closed her eyes, she could picture his face and hear his voice. I am God. The strange thing was, as he said it, she almost believed him. Not that she thought God was cruel or uncaring. And yet cruel things happened.

Cindy realized she couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d told Jonny to meet her here for a reason. Not anywhere else. Here.

‘Listen,’ she said, dragging the words out of her chest. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

She’d gone over and over in her head about how to tell him, but she still didn’t know what to say. How do you break that news to your husband? She’d had an appointment with Steve Garske. And it wasn’t good.

‘Something’s not . . .’ she began. Something’s not right. With me. Something’s very wrong. Something bad.

‘Hang on,’ Jonny said. His phone was ringing. When he answered, she recognized Maggie’s voice on the line, which had a strange kind of intimacy. It was odd how Maggie was always coming between them. She’d never really thought about it like that, and it wasn’t fair, because Maggie represented the job. The job came first. It always did.

He hung up.

‘A teenage girl has gone missing in Lakeside,’ he said. ‘She went jogging, and she never came home.’

‘What’s her name?’ Cindy asked. She always wanted to know the name. Victims were never faceless or nameless to her.

‘Kerry McGrath.’

‘Well, go,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

She shook her head. There wasn’t any call for apology. She knew the life.

‘What did you want to tell me?’ he asked.

‘It can wait.’