We walked on until we were clear of the trail, until we found a grove of trees and a bluestone slab where John could settle in, should he need to wait out any rain. It was completely covered, impossible to see from even a few feet away – John was confident he wouldn’t be detected.

We retraced our steps back to the clearing, then choreographed every move, so as to limit the lies Vera and I would have to tell. John would hike in front, I would be second, with Vera lagging behind. Just before we reached the cliff, he would tell us he was going ahead to get some photos, and after a few minutes, I would follow.

It was crucial that I see him slip – it was the one lie that didn’t contain even a shred of truth, one I’d have to deliver with conviction all the same: Just after I got to the clearing, I heard him scream. I saw him slip and fall.

‘We’ll try to call nine-one-one immediately,’ Vera said. ‘Only we probably won’t have service until we get down to the bottom.’

I nodded. ‘We should walk fast, maybe even run. It will help us when we call the police. Adrenaline, you know.’

‘Yes,’ Vera said. ‘Good point.’

John paused, twisting at the strap of his backpack. He looked pale, almost ill. ‘I hate this,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to put you two in danger.’ His voice was earnest, his eyes clouded with worry. ‘If I got you in trouble, I couldn’t live with that.’

‘Well, you won’t be alive, officially, so you don’t have to worry about that,’ Vera said, only the joke didn’t land, for him or for me. She forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t get in any trouble,’ she said. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.

I couldn’t help but imagine standing on my tiptoes, doing the same.

Vera took the train to the city as soon as we were done with our hike. She was going to do her best to procure a car from her friend, for John to drive off in, one that couldn’t be traced.

With her gone and me on my own, I made a low-key dinner and ate it while I caught up on Netflix and indulged in wine – binge-watching and nervous drinking were better than silence, better than waiting for Davis to suddenly appear.

The doorbell chimed as I was finishing my plate. Dusty barked wildly.

My pulse ratcheted up. I knew it was probably a trick-or-treater, though I’d kept the porch lights off in the hopes of keeping them at bay – but what if it was Davis, already here?

I sat stock-still, frozen, not wanting to make a sound. Praying whoever it was would just leave.

It chimed again, and just after, my phone buzzed: a text from John.