There’s one loose end I need to tie off before I go to sleep. I go to the garage. I find my bag in the spare tyre well. I drag my hand through it, pulling the clothes out. The necklace is not there. I search the car top to bottom, under the seats, in the glove box.

‘What’s going on?’ Cain says. I jerk, hit my head on the underside of the steering wheel.

‘Shit,’ I say. ‘No, just my ring. I might have dropped it while I was driving.’

‘It’ll turn up,’ he says. ‘I can look for you? Go grab some sleep.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’ve searched the entire car, it must be in my locker.’

When he’s left the garage, I pick up my workbag with my clothes from last night and take it with me to the bedroom, shove it in the bottom of my wardrobe, and then climb into bed, sleep mask on, rain sounds coming through my headphones. I close my eyes, become still and pray that Cain never finds out what I did. For hours, I lie there, running it all over and over in my mind until eventually I fall asleep.

•

When I wake, what seems moments later, the clock on my phone insists it’s the afternoon. I get up and find Cain in his study. It’s a small room. On one wall is an image of him in full sand-coloured military gear, with his wraparound sunglasses and a rifle slung from his shoulder. Beside the photo is a similar image of five men, all in the same fatigues, with their rifles and their big grins beneath those sports-style sunglasses. One is Axel, another I know is the infamous Trent Skelton. A set of drawers sits beneath the window that looks out on the backyard. ‘Sultans of Swing’ plays through the tiny computer speakers. He doesn’t look up until I’m halfway across the room. On his screen is the WeStay website.

‘What are you up to?’ I ask.

He reaches forward, minimises the screen, lowers his music. ‘I’ll tell you, but I don’t want you to get annoyed.’

‘What have you done?’

‘I’ve made a profile for the house,’ he says, without further hesitation. ‘No one can see it, but I just wanted to play around with it, so it’s ready if you changed your mind about doing it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The lake house.’

‘Wait,’ I say, my head still a little foggy from the sleep. ‘You’ve put it online?’

‘I’ve just set up the profile. It’s not live.’

I catch my face in my hands, draw a long breath. I have no right to be angry at him, not after last night.

‘You put it up before I’d agreed? My place?’

‘Your place? What happened to our place?’