I pat his hand. ‘It doesn’t work that way, love. Everyone expresses their grief differently.’

Still, my heart squeezes. I’m feeling very crap about myself. I liked Mel so much, and she’s dead and I’ve just shagged her boyfriend . . . People don’t know what a terrible person I really am. I pretend to be nice. Like, right now I’m comforting Antonio but in the back of my mind I’m still wrangling with what O said about him.

I mean, he can’t be the Creeper. It can’t have been him in my dream last night.

O has planted the seeds of doubt. She’s so cynical. Always the boyfriend. He was there. How did she get out of the room? All of those things make sense, but Antonio isn’t like that. Besides, what possible motive could he have? The two of them were obviously in love.

Or is that just what I’ve been telling myself so I won’t have to think about Antonio and me as a . . . thing?

Fuck, what if I’m the Creeper? I have as much reason as anyone to get rid of Mel. Look how quickly Antonio came running to get me into bed after she died! Maybe the Creeper is a manifestation of my subconscious desires.

No. I’m losing it now. I wasn’t even thinking about Antonio (much) until he messaged me. And I had no clue Melodie existed before then. On logic alone, the Creeper can’t be me. Whew. So there’s that, then.

This is fucked-up. Have I mentioned this lately?

‘Charlie! What’s the matter? You’re shaking.’

I’m shaking because I don’t trust him. Or myself. Or anyone.

‘I’m not feeling very well.’ I don’t sound even a little convincing, but he nods sympathetically.

‘It’s a lot of . . . trauma.’

I love the way he pronounces ‘trauma’. Sounds like ‘trowma’. I melt a little, and then I remember that I’ve got to be less gullible. Having a lovely accent doesn’t make someone a good guy.

We arrive at the airport and I walk with him as far as I can before he has to go through security. It’s not an ideal place to have a serious conversation.

‘I wanted to let you know the memorial service for Mel is going to be livestreamed. The family wanted to keep the guest list very small, but there will be a string quartet and some poetry readings, and Laszlo Verccilli is going to sing. I send you the link, OK?’

My mouth is dry. I nod.

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Too much,’ I say. ‘I’m sleeping a lot.’

‘But no problems? Bad dreams?’

I shake my head. He sounds so sincere.