McKnight walked out. He nodded at me, then did a one-eighty. I waited a half second too long before I realized I was meant to follow him.

A dusty linoleum hallway. Then a room, glass windows and a table in the center, just like on TV. I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath. This was only a formality, like he’d said.

‘Coffee?’ he asked as I took a seat.

‘Please.’

He returned a few minutes later with two steaming Styrofoam cups and tossed a couple of packets of sugar and creamer onto the table. He pointed to a camera in the corner. ‘We’re required to tape interviews.’

It was an announcement, not a question. He sat down. I did, too.

‘All right,’ McKnight said, getting straight to it. ‘Why don’t you tell me again exactly what happened on November second?’ He glanced at his notes. ‘Two days ago.’

I once watched this spy show where one of the spies told an informant that to lie properly, you only had to stare at the tip of the person’s nose – it would look like you were looking them in the eye. So after going through the details – slowly, meticulously – when I got to the part in question, that’s what I did. Eyes on the bulbous tip of McKnight’s nose, I delivered my line as smoothly as I could, raising my volume slightly in an attempt to quell any quaking of my voice. ‘I heard a scream, and I stepped out into the clearing. I didn’t see John, but I saw his backpack and his water bottle. I assumed he had fallen.’

McKnight’s fingers drummed on the table. ‘So you didn’t see him fall?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you say you did?’

Keep it simple, stupid. That’s what my dad used to say.

‘It all happened so fast. I got mixed up.’

‘You’re not mixed up now?’

‘No.’

McKnight leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his paunch. He was pushing 250 pounds, I guessed, and he teetered on his chair, balancing on its back two legs – I swore it was going to slip right out from under him.

He let the chair fall forward, its front legs clattering against the linoleum, making me jump.

‘Sorry,’ he said, grabbing his cup. ‘Refill. You want one?’

Mine had hardly been touched. ‘I’m okay, I think.’

‘Great. Just give me a second.’

That ‘second’ turned into five minutes. Ten. My hands became clammy; I wiped them against my jeans.

By the time he returned, I had partially calmed myself down. My story had been told, my portion complete. It was his job to look into the rest, the cobwebbed corners, the covered-up cracks. He took his seat and leaned back in the chair. He was the one who had to figure out if Davis – or Sam – or someone else entirely – had done this. I had to protect myself.