After a fairly peaceful day at work, I went to the local hardware store to check out security cameras. There wasn’t a big range and they were appallingly expensive, so I quickly gave up on that idea. As I drove home, I wondered if I should get a dog. But these thoughts inevitably led to Ruffles, the creaky old lab I no longer saw because she was technically Troy’s. Memories of Ruffles always made me feel bad, so I filed that option away for another time.

Passing Mitch’s house, I remembered Krystal’s report. I’d promised it by Friday but still had to include all the latest developments: the attack on Amber, the sanitary-pad incident, the papier-mache pig. The papier-mache pig suggested to me that Aaron did better with Krystal than he did with Joyce, but I couldn’t swear to it; I wasn’t a judge or a psychologist. I was just the poor bugger who had to put up with him day after day.

I was jumpy when I pulled into my drive. After killing the engine, I scanned the front yard. No one had touched the pot plants. Was there dog shit on the lawn? There was. Had Joyce planted it? Maybe. But since I didn’t have any gates, the culprit could just as easily have been a stray dog.

I climbed out of my car and checked the place warily, keeping an eye open for smashed windows and puddles of water. Nothing looked suspicious. The lights worked. The laundry was locked. There were no dead cats in the rubbish bin. Once I’d made sure the mailbox wasn’t booby-trapped, I felt safe enough to sit down and finish Krystal’s report, which kept me busy until dinnertime. I decided that if Aaron didn’t come to school on Friday, I would drop the report off at Krystal’s house. It seemed likely I wouldn’t see Aaron before the weekend; Joyce would probably keep him home again, just to make a point.

But I was wrong. The next morning he walked into the classroom with his dad.

‘Oh. Hello, Aaron.’ I didn’t like the look of him. He had a new scab on his knee and was biting his nails. ‘Why don’t you hang up your bag? Do you remember which hook belongs to you?’

‘Of course he does. He’s not a retard.’ Scott hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. His eyes were bloodshot. He was dressed in a T-shirt and baggy gym shorts.

I wondered if he’d had a big night.

‘Go on. Hang up your bag,’ he told his son.

Aaron dropped his backpack. Then he began to kick it across the floor.

‘No!’ Scott thundered. ‘Not like that!’

‘Aaron…’ I began. But I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

‘Pick it up!’ Scott used his armed-suspect voice, which was loud and harsh and guaranteed to scare every kid within earshot.