“Jesus, Tess. I thought it was Lena who had the death wish, not you. It only takes one night, one crazy to be out on the prowl. You of all people should know that.” He’s scowling, face twisted in unfamiliar hostility. It’s a stranger’s face, someone angry at more than me just going out for bread. His fists are clenched and he looks like he’s spoiling for a fight.

I stiffen and push past him. I’m cold and I want to get in the shower. “It’s not a big deal—I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get us breakfast. I thought it would be a nice thing to do. I’m fine—I didn’t see anyone.” I’m trying to placate him.

“You couldn’t sleep? Not even with these?” He holds up the box of sleeping pills I got from the doctor. I freeze, looking at the crumpled-up pharmacy bag on the sideboard. He’s been looking through my things? I curl my hands into fists. No, not now. I don’t want an argument at five thirty in the morning, not with Max. Never with Max.

I push past him without answering and close the bathroom door behind me, my hand hovering over the lock. No, no need for that. It’s Max.

I pause as I get undressed. The bathroom cabinet door is open. I’m sure it was closed before.

I come out of the shower, tying the belt on my bathrobe, with my hair wrapped in a towel. Everything looks wrong, a little bit out of place, like someone’s been shifting furniture around while I was out. The drawer is open in my dressing table, a door ajar in the living-room cupboard. I find Max making coffee in the kitchen. He has a cabinet door open and he’s rummaging for something.

“What are you looking for?”

He glances back. “Painkillers. I have a headache.”

It explains the bathroom cabinet, the open cupboards and drawers. He’s looking for Tylenol, that’s all. I open a drawer and pass him a box of pills. In the time I’ve been in the shower, he’s got dressed, shoes on, bag by his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to head home.”

“At six in the morning?”

I don’t really want to hear the real reasons he’s going, but in the morning half-light I can’t bear to hear his excuses, the awkward lies, either.

“I listened to your messages,” he says, and I stiffen.

“I’m sorry, but you were gone and I was worried. God, Tess, you’re in trouble, aren’t you? What did you do?”

“You shouldn’t have listened, you had no right.”