His eyes darken with anger.

“What have you done, Blake?”

No answer. She picks up her phone. “I’m phoning the police, right now.”

He watches in silence as she punches the keypad three times, then waits. They stare at each other across the kitchen.

“Police, please.”

After a few seconds, his breathing becomes wheezy; she hands him the inhaler from the shelf as she waits.

“Ah, yes, good evening. I’m phoning to report possession of a bloodstained knife—”

“Rabbits,” he mutters.

“What?” She lowers the phone.

“Rabbit blood.”

“How come?”

No answer.

“How come, Blake?”

He grabs the jam and walks out of the kitchen without the knife. Rabbits, for God’s sake. It’s crazy enough to be true; there must be lots of rabbits in Eve’s place. He might catch them and skin them for supper; she can see Eric teaching him, skillful, unsentimental. She hopes Charley didn’t see. She puts the knife back in her saucepan; she’ll give it to Eric next time she sees him; it’s probably his. She hadn’t dialed the police, she’d punched three zeros instead and talked into a dead phone. She looks at the dirty plates in the sink. They can wait. She’s tired, as if she’s reached the end of a journey and she’s somewhere better than the place she left, though she’s still not sure where she is.

Martin comes back at nine with a large pack of chocolate mini-rolls, but by then the kids are asleep. They unwrap one each in the kitchen; he makes tea while she tells him about Sorrel’s improvement.

“Thank God.” He passes her a mug. “That terrible man. I thought I knew him. I suppose we naturally believe the best of people; he must have traded on that. He managed to fool us all.”

I thought I knew you. Grace watches him over the rim of her mug. I believed the best of you as well, you fooled me too. She sips her tea. “Charley began to ask about us today.”

“And?”

“She lost her nerve.”

“What would you have said?”

“It would have been difficult.” She puts her chocolate roll back in the silver paper and wraps it up again. “I’d hate to upset her.”

Martin walks to the window. She looks at the familiar way his hair grows in a little whorl at the crown, thinner now than when they met, grayer; his shoulders are more hunched.

“A week ago, my publishers wrote to me about a teaching position in the creative writing masters course at Harare university. It would involve a year’s tutoring, and the pay is excellent.” He doesn’t turn around. “They hope if I’m out there again, the same magic will work. I might even finish my book. The university offered to pay for flights and accommodation.”

He comes back to the table, sits down next to her, and takes her wrist in his hand. “I’ve been mustering the courage to ask what you think and if you and the kids would come with me.”