That night, Jack had visited Caleb at the hospital, to check on him, and also because he had something to discuss. And Caleb had asked to talk to Jack, too. How much of this ridiculous arson story might be traced back to a story the two of them had concocted? To my mental list of suspects, I added a new name. Shirley Laskin.

Stephen strolled into my house, my kitchen, without knocking, early enough to be furious that Jack was there. This seemed rich.

I stood between the two men. ‘This is my life and none of your business.’

Stephen scowled. ‘The important life here is Caleb’s.’

Jack took my hand. ‘Phoebe hardly thinks about anything else.’

A vein pulsed in Stephen’s neck. ‘You know her thoughts now?’

Stephen intercepted my glance towards the bedroom and smacked the bench, frustrated. He continued scowling at Jack. ‘You’ve been inside her head and her bedroom?’

I turned away. ‘Jack, you should probably go.’

‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

I led him back into my room. I kissed his cheek. ‘I’m sure. I’ll see you later.’

Jack didn’t speak to Stephen as, red-faced, he strode through the front door.

‘That man…’ Stephen said ‘… Jack… is ruining Caleb’s life.’

‘Jack is the only person who’s given Caleb an alibi,’ I insisted.

Stephen didn’t stay long. Just long enough to give me some money, to explain why it wasn’t more, and to grab some of Caleb’s toys he didn’t want left behind if the house was finally seized. For the baby, of course. Then he said goodbye.

I said, ‘The only man who’s ruining Caleb’s life is you.’

Then I was finally free to look through my newly copied files. My mind was buzzing, switching on like my computer. Jack had been there, at the fossicker’s hut on the day of the fire. With Shirley.

I was an art historian. I’d kept out of the history wars – I was a primary teacher before the first volleys were fired – but I knew how impossible facts were to prove, what a flimsy thing truth was, no more substantial than a fable told to infants. I should be able to take this evidence and turn it into a story of my own making. One just as believable as the prosecution’s story about Caleb as a youth gone wrong, if just as fictional.