'Perhaps when the next person dies,' Agent Atta had said before leaving his office. Thomas had thought of calling Neil then and there, to warn him, to question him, something, but had stopped short of actually punching the number. He needed to see him, he realized. He needed to see his reaction.

Perhaps when the next person…

It was strange how easily the obvious escaped people in the press of events. So much was seen without seeing, understood without understanding. Thomas had overreacted in his office, had dismissed something that had screamed for careful consideration. But how could anyone think clearly after watching that… that neuroporno or whatever it was?

Besides, Neil was his best friend. Closer than even his brother, Charlie.

It had to be some kind of mistake.

Even so, something in Agent Atta's look haunted him. Nor another one, her eyes had said. Another intimate of another perp, claiming there was no way their buddy/son/husband could do something like that. And she was right. As a rule, people judged themselves according to their intentions and others according to results. In study after study, individuals ranked themselves as more charitable, more compassionate, more conscientious than others, not because they in fact were—how could they be when they were just as much others as they were selves?—but because they wanted to be these things and were almost entirely blind to the fact that others wanted the same. Intentions were all important when it came to self-judgement, and pretty much irrelevant when it came to judging others. The only exceptions, it turned out, were loved ones.

That was what it meant to be a 'significant' other: to be included in the circle of delusions that everyone used to exempt themselves.

And then there was Cynthia Powski, trembling, gasping, squirming as though rolling a squash ball between her thighs.

MORE?

Pleeeeaaase …

But what was he supposed to say? 'Neil? Oh, that psychopath… Yeah, we polished a forty of whiskey at my house last night. In fact, he's passed out on my fold-out couch right now.'

Was he supposed to say that?

No. They hadn't earned his trust. There was no way he would turn in one of his oldest and closest friends, not without hearing his side first.

There were always sides.

The doorbell had rung at exactly 7.58 the previous evening. Thomas knew this because Ripley and Frankie had been begging him to watch Austin Powers, which was on at 8.00, all through dinner. He had just finished loading the dishwasher, and Frankie was throwing a tantrum in the living room, demanding he unlock the parental controls.

Thomas had swung open the door while telling Frankie to hold his bloody horses, and there was Neil, waving at the moths and midges twirling about the porch light.

'What the hell are you doing here?'