Why didn’t I know him better? I turned to his computer. Caleb had changed his password. Maybe he had suspicions. I was addicted to this research by now. On my own computer, I checked his Facebook profile and the Goth Chat page. I had to know what he was thinking, how he was really responding to the accusations.

The results I got nearly knocked me out of my chair. Facebook users were telling the world Caleb was a rich boy who was hiding behind his privilege and should have been arrested sooner. They said he should burn at the stake. That he should be dragged from his bed and suffocated like his victims. That someone should set fire to his house.

They gave my address.

My address. I called the police. ‘My name is Phoebe Wharton. I’m reporting a threat against my property.’

The receptionist – or maybe she was a police officer, I couldn’t be sure – was dry, uninterested. ‘What kind of a threat?’

‘On Facebook. People are asking each other to burn my house.’

‘Is there any reason for finding this threat credible…? Wait a moment.’ The woman’s voice became sharper, more engaged. ‘You said you’re Phoebe Wharton?’

‘That’s right. My house—’

‘Mother of Caleb Wharton?’

‘Yes, I—’

‘My cousin died fighting the fire. I see you’ve got a problem. Let me put you through to someone who can help.’

She hung up. I recorded the conversation in my notes, ready to report it to Genevieve and Douglas but I already knew they’d say to save complaints until a possible appeal later, when we’d already lost. And that later, where Caleb was destroyed, was a place I didn’t want to go.

Meanwhile, Caleb had a similar lack of success. He had gone ‘home’ to Hawthorn, apparently arriving shortly after I left. I saw his visit later, on footage from Stephen’s CCTV; I saw it repeatedly. I saved it on my computer. That night has become a frozen present, where a security camera winks redly at Caleb as he steps back from the locked gate and waves.

No one responds. Caleb presses an entry button again, holding his finger down for a long time. Finally, the speaker buzzes into life. I’d been wrong to assume no one was home.

‘Yes?’ Ivy sounds irritated.

‘It’s Caleb. Can you let me in?’

‘Not right now, no.’

‘What?’

‘This isn’t a convenient time.’

‘You can’t do this. I live here.’

‘I’m trying to sleep. Goodbye, Caleb.’

Caleb presses the button, holds it down continuously. Eventually Ivy’s voice returns. ‘If you don’t stop I’ll call the police. Go away.’

Caleb grabs the tall gate, shaking it until it rattles. ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ He shakes the bars more violently.