Harry felt wary. But he never took a phone or money when he ran and there were heaps of people around.

‘That video’s sick, man,’ the smaller one said, getting closer than Harry found comfortable.

‘Sick,’ his pal agreed. ‘The photo too, with Deion’s cracked helmet and all the blood.’

Harry had spent two hours cleaning the gun, cleaning himself, and timing it so that everything he’d been wearing or carrying earlier went down the Sinatra’s trash chutes, minutes before the cart arrived to take it all to the dump. He’d been so focused he hadn’t even known the photo had been published.

‘Where’d you see it?’ Harry asked excitedly.

‘Insta, Facebook. It’s everywhere,’ the little guy said. ‘The bloody helmet gave me chills, bro.’

‘You get paid for that shit, Smirnov?’ the big guy asked.

‘Nah,’ Harry lied.

Football players liked any excuse to use their muscle, so the last thing Harry wanted were rumours he’d cashed in on Deion’s misfortune.

‘I wanted it online so people could see.’

‘School website says Rock Spring is closed at least until Tuesday!’ the big guy said happily.

Harry tapped the face of his running watch. ‘Good to talk, but I’ve gotta bolt.’

He felt better now he’d got rid of everything, but angst still gnawed at him.

What if someone saw me leaving Charlie’s den? Or cameras in the CVS parking lot? Or I clogged the mall plumbing with all that explosive? Cops catch pros who spend months planning crimes and I did this on the fly. On the other hand, if JJ has confessed, and Charlie gets a smack on the wrist for making the explosives, why would the cops be looking for me? In which case I just threw out a $160 pair of running shoes for no reason …

Running blotted thought, and Harry pushed his body, even though the early evening temperature was up in the nineties. He sprinted the last stretch beneath an amber sunset and caught an open gate as a lady in a casino uniform dashed out of the Sinatra to a waiting taxi.

The TV in the kitchen was on as Harry walked in, trailing drips of sweat. He was sure it had been off when he left, but with so much in his head he figured he must have forgotten. He’d guzzled water from the sink and started peeling his shirt when he saw the message icon on his phone. He guessed it might be Ellie, or Matt bragging that he’d done something with his girlfriend that her father wouldn’t approve of.

Harry decided a shower was more important than the message, but only got three steps before a door opened at the top of the stairs.

‘There you are,’ his aunt, Kirsten, said, with enough acid in her tone for Harry to know there was trouble.