“No it wasn’t,” Malcolm said reflexively.

“No, Malcolm, listen,” Tommy said, and now he did pause and turn to look at Malcolm. Malcolm stopped beside him, out of breath. Tommy said, “I know it was my dad, I know he did it and I know I couldn’t have stopped him. I know I was just a child. I know all that, even if I don’t always believe it. But there’s something else.”

“All right,” Malcolm said. “Tell me.”

Tommy finally met his eye. “I don’t know how.”

“Just try to say the words.”

“It’s something terrible.” He played with the sleeve of his jacket.

“I’ve heard terrible things before,” Malcolm said. “I think I’m unshockable now.”

“You’ll hate me,” Tommy said, looking up again. There was something pleading in his expression.

“I doubt it,” Malcolm said. “Just tell me, Tommy.”

“All right,” Tommy said. “All right.” He took a long, shuddering breath and began. “You know the night it happened, how I survived.”

As if by mutual agreement, they began to walk again, side by side. Malcolm knew better than to interrupt Tommy now he’d started.

“I hid in the wardrobe in my parents’ bedroom,” Tommy said. “While my father was killing everyone. And he came into the room, but he didn’t look in the wardrobe.”

Malcolm was aware of this already, but he sensed that Tommy needed to say the words, to say it all. Malcolm waited.

“I hid,” Tommy said, “and stayed there the whole time, all through the night and the next day until the police came in and got me.”

When he didn’t immediately speak again, Malcolm said gently, “That’s right.”

“There’s something else,” Tommy said. “Another part I never told.”

Once more he tailed off, and didn’t speak for so long that at last Malcolm had to prompt him again. “What is it, Tommy?”

“It’s the worst thing I ever did. I still don’t understand how I could have done it. Except that I was so frightened. That’s not an excuse.”

Again Malcolm waited.