Davis was subtle. If he really wanted to mess with me, he would do something like this, something so nuanced, so seemingly benign, it would drive me crazy – just like the damn faucet. If Dusty had gotten hurt – god, if he’d died – not only would I have lost him, I’d be racked with guilt, half thinking it was my fault.

‘You have to check that your fence is secure if you’re going to leave a dog alone like that, with access to the yard. Especially if he doesn’t have good recall.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, clinging to his little body. ‘I should get back in. He’s had quite a morning.’

I reached for the door, but she cleared her throat.

‘By the way,’ she added. ‘Was Rachel there? At the memorial service, I mean.’

I nodded.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I worried that she wasn’t going to get up the guts to go, but I know it was important to her.’

‘Thanks again, Maggie,’ I said quickly, eager for her to leave so I could pack my bags, get on the road.

‘And if you need anything else,’ Maggie said.

‘I know where to find you.’

As soon as she was gone, I made for the closet, pulled my suitcase off the shelf. I began opening drawers, grabbing stacks of sweaters and jeans and throwing them inside.

When I reached the top drawer, I whipped it open and started to pack my underwear.

I froze, my mind beginning to spin.

My mother’s scarf, which I’d kept in this very drawer since the day I’d arrived. Edged with a blue stripe, with rosebuds, with the stain Davis had created …

It was gone.

I ripped the drawer out, pulling so hard it chipped a bit of the wood, and flipped it over. Panties and bras and the vintage furniture brochure fluttered down like confetti.

The scarf wasn’t there.

I tossed the drawer to the ground, and it clattered awfully, terrifying Dusty. My fingers began to tremble and my heart banged brutally as I picked up the brochure.

It was empty. John’s photos, gone.

And even scarier: The note he’d left me, it was gone, too.

I wasn’t crazy, and I wasn’t paranoid. Something was happening. As much as I didn’t want it to be, it was. This was more than a running faucet, more than a gap under the fence. This was real, tangible. Proof.

John was dead, for fuck’s sake. Maybe it had been Sam Alby. Maybe none of it was on me. But maybe, maybe …

I could forgive you … but I’d have to kill the guy.