Adam drives me to Kate’s house in silence. All the way there, I imagine telling him the true story of my childhood. It’s my fault he doesn’t understand, my fault he doesn’t know. I could have told him when we first met. I didn’t. Even Melissa didn’t get to hear the worst parts. I let her think my family situation was a normal one: the standard rebellious-teenager-clashes-with-parents scenario. I still think I made the right choice. Thanks to the safeguard of silence I put in place, no one has ever listened to me tell them how bad it was and, immediately afterward, said, “That’s not so bad. I’ve heard worse.”

I tell Adam I’ll be back no later than ten, then watch him drive away and out of sight before I ring Kate Zilber’s doorbell. Her house is double-fronted, detached, with a bay window on either side of the door. In front of each one, there’s an identical landscaped garden patch, a continuation of the house’s symmetry.

Kate comes to the door wearing gray yoga pants and a white sleeveless top, no shoes. My smile withers when I see her hard face. I’ve never seen her look like this before: completely different from the woman I know. “I’m sorry, Nicki,” she says.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I can’t have you around for the evening. We can’t socialize. Your children are at my school. You’re a parent; I’m the headmistress. Let’s keep it professional, OK? Again—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have invited you. It was a bad idea.”

“Kate, what the hell’s going on? I was a parent yesterday, when you invited me. Since when do you care about professional? You’re constantly telling me which of your staff you’d like to sack.”

“Nicki,” she says gently, “you should go.”

“I’ll go as soon as you’ve explained your change of heart. Luckily for you, I no longer want to socialize with you either—I tend to prefer socializing with people who don’t suddenly disown me—but I’m not an idiot, and I want an explanation.”

“The police contacted the school about you,” Kate says. Behind her, in the house, I see encaustic tiles on the floor, a pale blue rug that looks like seagrass or something similar. There’s a spicy smell—curry or Mexican food.

“About Monday morning? Yes, I know—Izzie told them I was on and off the phone to her for much of the morning.”

“This is in connection with the murder of that journalist, isn’t it? Damon Blundy?”

“Yes. Which, as Izzie made clear to the police, I can’t possibly have been responsible for.”

“I’m not accusing you of murder. But . . . you’re clearly mixed up in a murder, and you told me on the phone that some weird man’s following you—”