On the other hand, I had to have the angels. I had to risk it, even if something unimaginably terrible happened to me as a result. My liking for them had turned to deep love. I would have risked anything. So I said thank you and put them in my shoe. From that day until the day I left home, the day after my eighteenth birthday, I kept those angels safe in my parents’ house. Mum and Dad never found out I had them. They still don’t know. I often wonder if they’d recognize them if I pulled them out of a jacket pocket one day and said, “Look.”

I tell Adam that I can’t face seeing or speaking to my parents without having the angels hidden somewhere in my clothes. “I’ve never told you before because I was scared you’d think I was crazy.”

Adam frowns. “It is a bit weird, Nicki, you’ve got to admit. I bet there’s no one else—I mean, not even one other person on the planet—who can only speak to their parents with secret angels concealed about their person.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say. “Any other comments on the story?”

“Um . . .” He looks caught out. “Maybe you should try and find a way to not need the angels when you see your folks? Stupid superstitions like that—why keep them going? Why not choose to behave rationally instead?” Seeing my face, Adam changes tack and says, “Though I suppose it’s a harmless enough ritual, and if it makes you feel better . . . I’m not quite sure what you want me to say.” He frowns. “Lovely of the kindergarten lady to let you keep them—very shrewd of her.”

“Why shrewd?” I ask.

“Well, she obviously twigged that your mum was guilt-tripping you above and beyond what the situation required. She felt sorry for you and probably thought being allowed to keep the angels would cheer you up.”

I can’t be bothered to ask him any more questions. “I’ve been unfaithful to you,” I say quickly, to have it over and done with. “I need to tell you about it because it’s connected to a murder investigation. I wouldn’t have told you otherwise. I did it because there’s something in me . . . I mean, it’s nothing to do with you or our relationship. I’d have been unfaithful to anyone I was married to. I love you just as much as I always—” I stop with a gasp.

Just as much as . . .

He is no less dead. He is just as dead. The meanings are interchangeable.

I know what it means. Exactly what those words mean. And, though I still don’t know who killed him, I know that Damon Blundy’s death is my fault.

Mine and King Edward’s.

SPONTANEOUS MEDIA COMBUSTION
Damon Blundy, November 1, 2011, Daily Herald Online