‘Don’t be silly. I…’ I mean, a vampire. Really?

‘People must miss these things. You’ve hurt them.’

‘Caleb!’

‘You’re just as disturbed as Dad says.’ Caleb held one sock, looking for its mate. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

I could hardly hear him, shame so overwhelmed me.

At the door, he smacked the side of his head. Theatrically. Still something of an adolescent. ‘I’m running out of places to leave. Maybe I should be in custody.’

I wanted to cry, to scream. I’d planned to ask again about the white figure. To confront him with my suspicion that Shirley was there, that he’d seen her, and demand to know why he hadn’t told. But he left. I turned on the television. The only person who’d talk to me was Arthur Simmons.

Back on air, beneath a cap-like toupee and a mask-like facelift, Arthur reminded viewers of Caleb’s only interview, on his show. He had a new photo of Caleb, standing near a burned-out car in his yellow CFA uniform, arms crossed over his chest, a plume of smoke stretching towards a dirty sky behind him.

I put my collection away. Just maybe, I felt some relief. I’d feared this day. But Caleb could never learn my secret over again. Everything was out in the open now. I just had to survive his reaction.

Genevieve called, early on Sunday. She didn’t have a normal need for sleep. Like Margaret Thatcher or a vampire, or, apparently, like me.

‘Maybe I do understand him. Could he want atonement?’ I asked. I’d googled it. Atonement. My favourite definitions linked the word to integrity. At-one-ment. Caleb wanted his own life back, to be his whole self once more.

Genevieve didn’t need to ask atonement for what. ‘Is he really that ridiculous?’

I bristled on Caleb’s behalf. ‘He doesn’t see it as ridiculous.’

She was stern. ‘What he wants isn’t how things work. I hope you told him that.’

I’d tried telling him that, in so many ways. ‘But what should I do?’

‘We had him cleared once, Phoebe. We’ll do it again.’

I could clear him, with proof that someone else was there. So I’d get proof.

Shirley had been out. I just needed to prove it. I rang the Brunton Retirement Home. Rebecca answered. She was unlikely to recognise my voice, and it didn’t matter much.

‘How can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for a place for my mother. She’s a bit vague these days. Wanders a bit, you know.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I need to know about your security.’

‘We take residents’ security very seriously. We have a sign-out book at reception. Some residents can sign themselves out but for others, on medical advice, we require signatures of family members. We can offer a tour, if you and your mother want to make an appointment?’