“Hi, you’ve called Nick Pirelli.” The recording of her husband’s deep and friendly voice came down the line. “Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message or call Pirellis’ Boat Hire and Fishing on …”

At breakfast, Nick had told her that apart from lunch with his parents, he’d be in the office all day. It was 10:40—far too early for lunch. She disconnected the call and called the office. “Hi, Missy.”

“Hi, Libby.”

Before the apocalypse, if Libby ever had a reason to the boat office, the backpacker had always said, “How can I help?” Now Libby phones six times a day, Missy just said, “I’ll put you through to Nick.”

The breath Libby had been holding released a little. The phone rang a couple of times, then her husband picked up.

“Hi.” The greeting was imbued with caution—so much of Nick’s conversations were these days.

“Hi. You’re at the office.”

“Yes. I said I’d be here all day except for lunch and the coffee run.”

“You didn’t mention the coffee run.”

His sharp intake of breath whistled down the line. “Surely, I don’t have to tell you that? I’ve been doing the coffee run on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for years.”

Yes, but that was when I trusted you implicitly—before you did something so hurtful it changed everything. Before you turned me from a stable, functioning woman into the doubting and suspicious one I hardly recognize.

“Where were you two minutes ago?”

“What?”

“You didn’t answer your cell.”

“Jesus, Libby. I was taking a piss after drinking the coffee. Why don’t you just attach a camera to me and be done with it.”

Her anger, constantly simmering just under the surface these days, flared. “Don’t you dare try and pin this on me. You brought it all down on yourself. If you want a hope in hell of me ever trusting you again, then this is part of it.”

For a moment Nick was silent. Then he sighed. “Libby, I haven’t met her. I haven’t spoken to her, texted or emailed her. I’ve had no contact with her since I told you about Leo. You know it’s the truth, because you’ve read her email sprays that include both of us. And none of your spies—”

“I don’t have spies!”

“Yes, you do! I see them in the street, at the school gate, the pub, everywhere. They look at me and scope out who I’m talking to.”

“I have friends who have my back.”

He grunted. “And none of them have reported anything back to you, have they, because there’s nothing to report. But despite all that, you’re still checking up on me half-a-dozen times a day. I hate living like this. It’s been two months, Libby! How much longer is it going to take?”