If you’d asked him a few months ago, he’d have said there wasn’t much left to ruin. A marriage that was hemorrhaging love by the day. A business hemorrhaging money at a similar rate. Family who didn’t respect him, routines that made him heavy. But now he longed for all of that. He whispered into the silence that he would never complain about it again if he could just have it back.

He’d felt brief euphoria after speaking to Vicky. He’d managed to do one thing right: Nobody suspected she’d been the one stealing. She’d seemed so surprised and moved that for a moment he’d let himself believe he could go back to his marriage and be redeemed. But now, in this cold, stinking cell, the bleakness returned.

He could never go back. He didn’t deserve to. All he wanted now was to purge all the hideousness he’d been carrying around inside.

It had started with the stolen trinkets, just as he’d told the detectives. When he’d realized Vicky had been stealing again, he’d experienced that sinking feeling, the familiar dread, but also a flame of determination. He had to protect her from her own habit, make sure it didn’t do her any harm this time. And he might have pulled it off if Freya hadn’t stood in his way.

Their deal had made him uncomfortable, but it had served both of them in the beginning. Freya wouldn’t tell anyone about the stolen goods, in return for him letting her keep the money her parents gave her for driving lessons. But as the weeks had gone on, Freya had seemed to become ruthlessly invested in their arrangement, as if it meant more to her than just a bit of cash or her own car. She’d started booking extra sessions, all at her parents’ expense, until eventually they’d accused Chris of trying to cheat them.

That had really, really got to him. The one thing he still had was the integrity and satisfaction of his business, even if he was barely making a profit. Now a teenager was stripping him of his money and her well-off parents were accusing him of fraud. The Wholesome Harlows, who literally looked down on him from the wide windows of their immaculate apartment.

The day he’d got the phone call, he’d been boiling with resentment. Vicky had criticized his loading of the dishwasher that morning and he’d been so close to screaming, Do you know what I’m going through because of you? But she’d walked away before he’d been able to utter a word. And maybe he wouldn’t have said anything anyway, because he never did. He just let the resentment grow while congratulating himself on all his sacrifices.