“I think she thinks she’s one of them,” I said. Celine had indeed integrated with the birds, but it hadn’t been smooth sailing. As I’d knelt by the bathtub, pouring warm water from a jug over the stiff-legged dog, I’d heard the indignant slapping of webbed feet on the floorboards behind me. The soapy water was swirling with dead fleas. I’d turned and spied two geese jabbering in their strange language, instinctual confusion at the sound of the water in the bath and the distinct lack of Neil Diamond in the air. The birds had eyed the intruder dog, clicking, tittering. Celine had barked and they’d fluttered away, a frenzy of panicked wings. Over a couple of days, the animals had come to some kind of silent agreement. It became obvious to the birds, I supposed, that Celine was too fat and too awkward to chase them. And to Celine, perhaps, that Bitey Bulger was going to bite no matter what she did, but it wasn’t all that hard.

Amanda had left me alone for the time I’d been back. She’d found out somehow, in her almost supernatural way, that Kelly had asked me to come home. It didn’t take me or Kelly to tell her that. Amanda might have heard it, the anguish in my voice when I called to tell her what had happened to Kevin Driscoll. When I’d told her, Amanda had joined the small, select crew of vastly different characters who knew. To the rest of the world, what happened to Kevin was unclear.

There were clues, of course. Police had found Kevin in the warehouse, slumped on his side, minute by minute cooling as his body adapted to its filthy surroundings. Beside Kevin’s body they’d found a man, someone resembling, but wholly different to, the Dale Bingley who’d existed not long before. Dale had been sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms hanging loosely around them, calm. The gun was gone. In the dust nearby, there were shoeprints, some of them very large, some of them very expensive.

Outside the warehouse, police had found Kevin Driscoll’s car with the driver’s side door open, the cabin light on. No prints. On the passenger seat, a journal and a pen, long scribblings in a heavy hand. A diary.

I’d seen Dale Bingley on the news only the night before, standing with his wife on the steps of a police station. He’d shaved. The shirt he was wearing was immaculate. Rose Bingley was holding his hand. All around them stood important people, people I didn’t recognize. Lawyers. Detectives. Specialists, probably. I didn’t know. He’d made bail.