Seven forty-five P.M. Aidan Brewster stood at the Laundromat, folding the last load of laundry. In front of him were four stacks of white T-shirts, two stacks of blue jeans, and half a dozen smaller piles of white briefs and blue-banded athletic socks. He’d started at six P.M., after his PO had graciously picked him up from his reporter-infested property and spirited him away. Colleen had offered to take him to a hotel for the night, to let things calm down. Instead, he’d asked her to drop him off at a suburban Laundromat, someplace far away from South Boston, where the reporters would have no reason to look for him and a man could bleach his tighty whities in peace.

He could tell Colleen had been uncomfortable with the request. Or maybe it had been the trash bag after trash bag of dirty laundry he’d loaded into the trunk of her car, while three cameramen had clicked away from across the street. At least when Colleen had pulled away, the photographers had abandoned their posts, as well. No use staking out a house when you knew the target wasn’t there.

“What happened to your head?” Colleen had asked as she drove down the street.

“Kitchen fire. Left a paper plate too near a burner. Embers floated up and caught my hair on fire, but I was too busy dumping flour on the stove to notice.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You doing okay, Aidan?”

“I lost my job. I burned my head. I got my face on the evening news. No fucking way, but thanks for asking.”

“Aidan …”

He stared at her, daring her to say it. She was sorry. What a shame. Things’ll get better. Hold tight.

Pick a platitude, any platitude. The sayings were all bullshit. And he and Colleen both knew it.

She drove him the rest of the way in silence, biggest favor she ever did him.

Now he finished folding his towels, sheets, various coverlets, even three doilies. If it was a textile and it had been in his apartment, he’d washed it with Clorox color-safe bleach.

Let the police hash over that one. Let them hate him.

After this, he planned on returning to his apartment and packing up everything he owned. He was placing his entire collection of worldly possessions into four black trash bags, and he was bolting into the wind. That was it. Show over. He was done. Let his PO chase him. Let the police go apeshit looking for another registered sex offender.

He’d followed the rules, and look where it got him: The police were screwing him; his former coworkers had tried to jump him; and his neighbor, Jason Jones, just plain scared him. Then there were the reporters … Aidan wanted out. So long. See you. Bye-bye.