I’ll do it, I find myself mouthing. You couldn’t interpret that as anything but a thoroughly civil offer, I think with grim humor. Friendly, even.

“Hold on a moment, Fi,” Ben says, and drops the hand holding his phone to the table. “Are you sure? It’s just till lunchtime; Jamie or Glen can pick him up then. There’s a problem with one of the horses, and Fi needs to be there—”

“It’s fine. He’s never any trouble.”

He shoots me a smile full of grateful relief, then returns the phone to his ear to deliver the good news. I find I’m at once filled with warmth at his care for Callum and wracked with guilt at having considered that he might be behind the strange events. The empty Glenmorangie bottle from last night is on the counter, but the recycling box is already full. I carry it to the back door, intending to empty it into the large bin out back, and try to unlock that door one-handed, balancing the box against my hip and swearing under my breath at the stiffness of the new key.

Ben is off the phone and hovering behind me. “Do you want—”

The lock finally gives. I swing the back door open and am about to step out when my eyes alight on a black mass of feathers, right in the middle of the doorstep. I dump the recycling box abruptly on the kitchen floor. There’s a distinct chink of glass on glass, but it doesn’t sound like anything has smashed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? Again?”

“What—oh.” Ben is standing beside me now, peering down on the bird. It’s clearly the same one. If it’s more decomposed than before, I can’t tell. Even the maggots look to be squirming in the same way. But the wings have been forced to spread out, as if in full flight. “Christ. That’s . . . Christ. You know, I can’t believe an animal arranged it like that.”

“Me neither.” I turn away abruptly and stomp across the kitchen to pull open a drawer. The anger inside me is threatening to come out through tears, and I won’t allow that.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for something—no, don’t touch it,” I say, forestalling him as he hunkers down as if to grab the mass of feathers. I finally find what I’m looking for: a large, robust safety pin. Ben looks at me curiously as I reach for the block of yellow Post-it notes and the Sharpie pen that sit on the windowsill of the kitchen. I scribble on the topmost note, then grab the Marigold washing-up gloves that are sitting by the kitchen sink and force them on. I’m powered by pure fury now.