I continued assessing the damage. Everything had been touched. My cedar chest had been emptied, my carefully curated collection now arrayed on top. A miniature, guilty army – Jack’s lighter, Shirley’s poetry, Genevieve’s pearl brooch, Jeannie’s paintbrush, Ivy’s miniature travelling hairbrush. Many, many other things. It was absurd that no one commented. Anxiety rippled through me, as if thick police fingers had been probing at my body. I waited for accusations that didn’t come, rattled to realise these unbearably intimate things meant nothing to the searchers.

Detective Feng caressed his moustache, a small pet on his upper lip. ‘People have made serious allegations about Caleb. He’s known to us, Ms Wharton.’

‘They’re lying.’

‘Can you think of any reason for that?’

‘Obviously, if you mean Rosie, she never got over Caleb being cleared… The accident. You know. You were here.’

‘I do remember, yes. Caleb will be denying Rosie’s claims about the Brunton fire?’

‘I want to know what you’re looking for.’

‘We don’t have to tell you that. What are you doing?’

My fingers didn’t pause. ‘Calling my mother.’

Genevieve answered immediately. ‘Are they still there?’

‘They have dogs.’

‘They’ll be looking for ignitable liquid residue.’ Genevieve knew her stuff. ‘They’ll be checking Caleb’s clothes. Taking them, probably. For fire debris analysis.’

They took his clothes, shoes, sheets, sketchbooks from his shelves and manga drawings from his walls. Then, finally, they left.

What was missing? The first thing I did was put my collection back. Everything felt different now. Dirtied. Somehow devalued. I considered each piece, who owned it and why it mattered. The police officers had conjured ghosts. My house was haunted. Every room now contained a connection to the police search, on top of memories made here during our summer visits to Claire. Here, Caleb, two, had climbed the kitchen drawers (or attempted to climb) to see what Claire was doing on the bench. There, Caleb, four, had finally reached the doorknob to let himself out. I seemed to see Caleb, ten, tears running down his face, stumbling down the drive, clutching his hobbled bicycle.

For the next few hours, I attempted to tidy up. Whenever I couldn’t find something – whether the cheese grater or my favourite lipstick – I wondered if the police had taken it, and why. My fingers shook over invaded pages of family history. My own things had been searched as thoroughly as Caleb’s.

Eventually, he appeared. A strong puff of smoke seemed to waft him in, or it could have been righteous indignation. ‘You let them touch my stuff?’ he demanded, striding towards his bedroom.

‘I had no choice. You’ve watched television. You know about search warrants.’

He opened his eyes wide. Not quite believing. ‘Did they mess things up?’

‘Caleb. It’s probably less messy.’