There had been an ambulance outside number twenty-five earlier. Was Mrs. Lockwood hurt? Who would believe him when he said he’d found her belt snagged on the bushes after she’d been to her car? That he’d intended no harm, but had wanted it as a keepsake, a coveted treasure to hide amongst his photographs. To stroke and press against his skin. With his track record, not even Dessie would believe him.

The fear of prison—of what might happen to him while the guards looked away—was swallowing him up, threatening to drown him. He could run. He could grab his clothes and his wallet, and he could hide himself from the world until it was safe to live again. He’d done that before. He could do it again.

But he remembered how that had felt. The scour of anxiety in the pit of his stomach at every job interview, every new friendship. That was no life. And if that was his future, it was no future at all.

The ribbon of silk had entwined itself around his fingers. He trudged upstairs, the weight of his body making every step creak.

Marriage. A family. Once upon a time, he had longed for those prizes, but they were not for the likes of him. He could not resist his impulses, not even when every fiber of himself fought to look away. Caught in the pull of a magnet, he found himself helpless. Weakened. No woman would accept that. And the cycle of secrecy and discovery would roll on until, wrung dry of all hope and feeling, he would find himself right back in this dark place again.

The spare room was how he had left it, telescope pointing to the sky.

The rain had rolled in and the clouds were gathering. Nimbostratus. Cumulonimbus. He repeated their names over and over until he stopped crying and his breathing had calmed.

From his vantage point at the window, a barefoot Dessie was half running down the street, toward the parked police car outside Trefor Lovell’s house. Not much time. Five minutes. Ten, at the most.

Fletcher opened the wardrobe door and dragged free the stepladder they used to access the loft. Its metal feet scraped his shin, an ugly burst of pain, but he did not feel it. He was somewhere else now, at peace with himself, a decision made.

He positioned the ladder beneath the opening of the loft, climbed up, pushed against the hatch, and heaved himself through until he was sitting on its edge, feet dangling below him. Leaning across, he looped the silk dressing gown belt around the floor joist, tying it off. He tugged on it as hard as he could. It held. With the tip of his toe, he kicked away the ladder.