She picked her way around the debris. Justin kept a dresser on the wall opposite the bed, and the drawers had been removed and overturned. Clothes lay heaped on the floor. She recognized his T-shirts, his cut-offs, his boxer briefs, and his athletic socks. There were personal things, too, scattered on the tile. Tins of breath mints. Batteries. A wind-up Snoopy toy. Local restaurant menus. Even a box of condoms – unopened – which made her wonder if he’d been rethinking his willingness to remain celibate with her. Or maybe she hadn’t been the only girl in his life. She didn’t want to believe that.

Peach spotted a small book on the floor, and she bent and picked it up. It was old, bound in fraying green cloth, with embossed gold letters on the cover. She’d found it at an antiquarian bookshop months ago and purchased it for Justin as a gift. It was a book of poems by William Blake, his favorite poet. Every time she’d visited his apartment, it had been on his nightstand, next to his bed. The pages were delicate and yellowed.

She didn’t have time to open the book to ‘The Tyger.’

Instead, someone bellowed at her from the bedroom doorway. ‘Put your hands in the air right now!’

Peach wheeled around in surprise. A big man filled the doorway, with a gun pointed at her chest. She gasped and thrust her hands upward with her elbows bent. The book was still in her hand.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ the man demanded.

Peach struggled for something to say, but she said nothing. Behind her sunglasses, she studied the man. He was in his forties, with wavy blond-and-gray hair. He hadn’t shaved. He wore a tan sport coat over a collarless black T-shirt, with navy slacks and black sneakers. His clothes fit snugly; his frame was heavy. A film of sweat made a mustache on his upper lip.

‘Who are you?’ he said, dragging aside a flap of his coat so she could see a gold badge dangling from his belt.

A cop?

No. She recognized the southern drawl in his voice. This was the man who had phoned her, claiming to be Detective Curtis Clay of the St Petersburg Police. He was a liar and a stranger, and looking at him, she knew that he was no cop. He was here for the same reason she was here. To find Justin’s secrets.

‘Whoa, chill, buddy. My name’s Rebekah,’ Peach said, modulating her own voice so it sounded like a New Yorker. ‘I’m crashing with my mom in the condo upstairs. Could you put that gun away?’

The man who called himself Clay kept the gun pointed at her. ‘I asked what you’re doing here.’