Chris felt Vicky studying his reaction. He shrugged, nodded, made a meal of locating his keys. Following the officers back up to street level, he felt as if he was emerging out of a bunker, squinting and wary. He willed Vicky to stay in the flat but of course she wouldn’t. So much for their unofficial pact to leave one another to their own messy affairs.

He unlocked his car and the detectives shone lights inside. Their beams probed under the seats and into the foot-wells—places even Chris rarely looked. It was as if they were examining him internally. The houses of the street seemed to crane forward to see into the car, too, and Chris’s spine tingled with awareness of the Harlows’ place looming overhead. The police asked him to open the boot, the glove box. He had a sudden fear that a completely empty glove box was abnormal. That his car was too clean. A spotless vehicle is part of my professionalism, he prepared himself to explain. They said nothing, though, and abruptly they were gone, a promise to be “in touch” trailing behind.

Slowly, Chris faced his wife. She was staring at him as if he was a stranger she half recognized and was trying to place. A stranger who made her skin crawl. It was crushing, to have her looking at him that way. Worse than the police interrogations.

“You never said you had a lesson with her that day. Or that you’d been asked to submit your route.”

Chris grabbed her arm. “Can we not talk about this out here?”

“Why?” She pulled out of his grip. “Afraid of people overhearing?”

“Do we really want to be the couple that hollers their private business to the entire street? The neighbors already think we’re a bit rough.”

“It’s not private, it’s the girl who lives right there.”

Still he wouldn’t look up, couldn’t look at Vicky’s face, either, as she seemed unable to tear her eyes from the Harlows’ windows.

At last she shook her head and stalked past him down their steps.

Inside the hall she became subdued. She scratched a dry patch on her hand and he noticed she wasn’t wearing the bracelet.

“You taught Freya”—finally, her gaze returned to him—“on the day she vanished into thin air?”

“She had contact with lots of people that day. I bet their spouses aren’t looking at them like they killed someone.”

“What makes you think she’s dead?”

“It was an expression! Jesus.”

“Are you a suspect?”

“No! Thanks for having faith in me.”

She let out a long sigh. “Honestly, I don’t think I do anymore.”

Chris felt something shift deep inside him. He could sense the conversation inflaming into something much bigger. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to stoke the fire or extinguish it. “That’s rich,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”