I remember talking about his family a lot. Before I really got to know him, he told me about his girlfriend. The way she and he both despised her wealthy family. He told me about the fights they had. He told me she didn’t make him happy and that his sadness was a weed rooted deep inside of him and I could help him pull it out. I would need to cut him open and pick every trace of it out or it would always grow back. He wrote poetry and lay on the roof of his apartment block, staring at the bellies of the white clouds. It was lust for me, wanting what I couldn’t have and taking it anyway.

I read my notes, recalling the one time I met him outside of his house, getting so drunk we could barely stand. Walking home when it was very late or very early. Waking up in his bed. Then I told him I couldn’t see him anymore and he began to wilt.

It’s painful reading through my words. I see the name and the cement that was churning in my stomach sets.

He believes he is only holding on for his three-year-old son, Nathan.

Nathan. It all clicks into place. I press my palm to my chest, steadying my breathing, my heart. My mouth hangs open. Could it be true? After all these years. Cormac is Nathan. Cormac is Peter’s son. My thoughts are moving so quickly, in freefall now. He’s lost both parents and he blames me. There was something else he said, in one of our sessions, that never quite sat right with me. He blamed the other woman. I hated her, maybe I still hate her. Maybe she didn’t realise he had a family but still, if it wasn’t for her we might have been different. I might still have a family. He blames me for losing his family. I shake my head, replaying his words.

This isn’t some game, I now realise. This is all about revenge. I hear a noise outside. My heart squeezes. Is someone out there?

But then it’s silent. It was just the wind. I have to get out of here now. Something moves on my hand. I scream. A cockroach. I whip my arm so hard my hand slams against Gabe’s golf clubs with a crunch. My breath is short and my hand throbs and the sound echoes up the corridor.

I rush from the storage unit, without turning off the light or closing the door. I sprint back, taking the stairs two at a time. My hand aches and my breath burns but I don’t stop until I’m in the car, turning the key.