‘No,’ I say and my mouth feels as dry as the desert.

‘What about this morning? Did you see him this morning?’

‘This morning?’ I repeat the words as though they were a century ago, another lifetime. My fingers touch the edge of the flint, still in my pocket. I shut out the faces of the men in front of me and instead see Duval’s.

‘Look.’ He’d put the piece of flint in my hand.

‘What is it?’

‘An arrowhead.’

‘It’s broken,’ I’d said, disappointed.

‘They’re so fragile they’d break while the Indian kids were carving them.’ He had run his finger along its sharpened edge. ‘This one was probably thrown away in disgust by some neophyte teenager.’

‘How long did it take to make one?’

‘A real goody-two-shoes Indian, one who practised and listened to his elders, would probably be able to knock one out in about fifteen minutes.’ He’d closed my hand around it. ‘Keep it safe. It’ll make a handy weapon one day . . .’

I open my eyes to the expectant faces of the Border Patrol.

‘Look, please just tell me what’s this is all about.’

‘Yes, what’s this Duval character done?’ Robert says loudly.

Agent Butterfield and Agent McArthy look at each other.

‘Henry Duval is wanted for murder, sir.’

‘Murder!’ Robert paces the kitchen floor. ‘Wanted for murder! And all this time he’s been here, in the town, with my children! It’s fucking irresponsible of you, Alice. This is exactly what I was afraid of, exactly what Hogan’s been warning you about, but would you listen? No. You had to have your own way. You always have to have your own way.’ He smashes his fist on the counter but it’s all white noise in my head and I block it out while I rake through the possibilities.

What could have happened? The guard had not been badly hurt. It had been a punch, no more. Had somebody taken advantage of him being down? Had the street kids returned to lay into him? If so, could Duval still be held responsible? I look over at the telephone. ‘Promise me,’ Chavez had said. ‘If there’s trouble of any kind, you’ll call.’ Why hadn’t he come himself? Did he even know? I want to call and tell him there’d been a mistake, tell him I’d been with Duval, but it’s not the thought of Robert that stops me, nor the questions which would inevitably follow, but something else. A fleeting uneasiness that leaves traces of acid in my stomach every time I picture it – the image of the car on the side street, silently rolling back out of sight . . .