I’ve got a closing shift at the diner. It’s a Wednesday so it’s slow – only two tables are full by about seven that evening (a thirty-something man I don’t recognize, and a woman from the florist’s) and I’m drawing webs on the back of receipts. I’m out of my mind with anxiety. My cuticles are shredded to bits, and I keep forgetting to put sunscreen on, so every movement makes my skin pinch. I catch myself in the reflection of the toaster; the skin beneath my eyes is heavy and purple.

Then Frank comes barrelling through the front door. His eyes meet mine with a rage. ‘You,’ he says. ‘Where’s Mary?’

Mary Anne hears the commotion and comes out, wringing a rag through her hands.

Frank’s forefinger jabs in my direction. He licks his lips, shakes his head. ‘Mary, I gotta tell you something. Your girl here – she’s nothing but trouble.’

A maybe imagined hush falls over the whole of the diner. Clanking stops. Everyone turns to look.

Mary Anne glances between us both. ‘Is this about –’

‘Oh yes. Oh yes.’

Mary Anne turns to me, dripping venom. ‘Out,’ she says. ‘Out, now.’

‘Please, can I explain –’

‘No explanations.’

‘I want to help you! I’m trying to help you, and the only reason you wouldn’t accept help is –’

‘You’re out. I should have done this in the first place. I should have done this as soon as I knew what you were up to.’

For a moment I don’t move, as if inaction will force the situation to dissolve, but there is no choice, I have to – and I smash open the front door and storm out. I should have finished the sentence. The only reason you wouldn’t accept help is if you had something to hide.

There’re two things on my mind on the way back to the dorm.

First, into the woods. Then, Booker must have told.

Peyton’s in the room when I get back.

‘I thought you were closing,’ she says. Not even daring to address what happened the night before. Good. I like it that way. Let’s dance around the point, dance around the strangeness and horror of what I did until both of us go blue.

‘I think I just got fired,’ I say, still in a sort of daze.

‘You think?’

‘I did get fired.’

‘Why? What the hell did you do?’ And her face changes as she realizes. She doesn’t know exactly what’s happened, sure, but she’s pieced it together. ‘Mona …’

I want to do it by myself. This is the last shot. There’s nothing else to do at this point. No more interrogating. No more interviews.

I grab what few belongings I have, wrap my windbreaker round my waist in case I need it, and bolt for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Peyton asks.

‘For a walk.’