Shawn finally registers that I’m not in running gear and I don’t have a dog. ‘What are you doing out here so early?’ he asks.

I’ve been racking my brain for something that won’t make him suspicious. ‘Packing,’ I say. ‘I’m going snow camping with my cousin. Figured I’d beat the traffic.’

‘I thought I just saw you arrive.’

‘Nah, man. Just turning the car around so it’s easier to load.’

‘Snow camping? Is that a thing?’

‘Yeah. You should try it sometime.’

The dog starts tugging the lead again, pulling Shawn closer to me. I take a step back. My camping story doesn’t cover the blood. I should have told him that I’d just come home from hospital, or something.

‘Where’s your camp site?’ Shawn asks.

I hesitate. ‘Not sure. I’m meeting Jesse—that’s my cousin—in Dallas. Then I’ll follow him the rest of the way.’

‘Did Jesse used to live with you?’ Shawn asks.

Damn him and his good memory. ‘Different Jesse,’ I say.

The dog growls at me, her fur standing up.

‘Take it easy, Caitlin,’ Shawn says.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I better keep packing. Enjoy your run.’

‘Thanks, man. See you.’

I turn my face away as he pulls on the dog’s leash. The dog follows reluctantly. Shawn breaks into a jog and disappears down the street.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I need to get the dead guy inside before anyone else comes along.

I unlock the back door of my house, which leads directly into my kitchen. Then I go back to the car, open the trunk and lift the plastic tub out. The body feels even heavier now—or maybe I’m just exhausted. There’s always a crash after the adrenaline trickles away.

I drag the tub into the house, triple-lock the back door, and finally make it to the bathroom.

It would be smart to start covering my tracks. Reverse-engineering an alibi for the last few hours. But I can’t ignore the body in my kitchen.

When I get back from the bathroom I switch on the lights and crouch over the dead man. The flesh around the bite wound has already gone white. I look for piercings, or gang tattoos. Nothing. There’s a line of scar tissue on his chest, like he’s had a skin cancer removed. Mud on the soles of his feet, his knees, his palms. But his hair smells of shampoo. All of it, including his pubic hair. He’s trimmed his beard recently.

There’s a cut on one of his fingertips, like you might get from a thorn or a staple. The blood has been cleaned or sucked off, but it hasn’t healed. Probably happened within the last twenty-four hours.