I called Jack. I didn’t know what else to do. Over the past few weeks, no doubt we’d become less close. Perhaps he was pulling away. Perhaps he felt guilty because we were suffering and he felt there was nothing he could do to help. Certainly, I didn’t have the same time for him. But he listened when I told him what the lawyer said. ‘I won’t know where to go.’

‘There’s my place…’ Jack offered refuge like on the day this started.

It was all so hopeless, the law licking into every corner of my life. ‘I don’t want us to move in together because I have no choice.’

Jack sucked in his breath. It took a long while for him to speak, maybe he didn’t know what to say. ‘You could do with a hug.’ He was a good man. ‘I’ll do what I can to help, Phoebe. People have already lost enough. At least let me make you a coffee.’

‘I’ll run over to your place. I need to exercise out some stress.’

What I took that time was simple: my wallet, my phone, my keys. Just the things I always took because I was never sure when I might need them. And I ran.

It shouldn’t be like this. I crunched over ash and soot, lighting my path with torchlight. Our relationship should have been growing in its slow, own time. A new, happier life. The fire had destroyed that as well. I ran past a dugout built for a fire sanctuary over a hundred years ago. These days people die because they think bathtubs are safe. Why should I even mind losing the house? It could be a relief to leave Brunton. Our neighbours hated us…

But I didn’t want to be chased away, and I wanted to be here when Caleb was released. I wanted to have safeguarded his home. Confused, I ran faster.

What actual evidence did the police have? Fingerprints? Phone records? Claims made by other Brunton residents? Eventually, we’d get a brief, but I needed to know now. We could not survive like this.

I ran further than I’d run in months. I needed the exercise. Without it I feared my old insomnia would return. A ghost, never quite exorcised. I had so many thoughts in my head, there was nothing for it but to race them out through my feet. Brunton Hotel’s white tower came into focus ahead. My phone rang. Douglas? Stephen? More trouble? Or – my heart swelled – trouble ended, charges dropped. I nearly laughed to see that it was Marco. The first thing he said was, ‘Tell me I haven’t called at a bad time.’ Then: ‘Phoebe?’

‘I’m puffed. I’m out running.’

Marco knew a different Phoebe, the one who studied history, not vindictive newspaper articles. He knew nothing about Caleb’s arrest.