For so long now, he’d buried himself in distractions: used books and food and television—ritual in general—as a way of clicking fingers to one side of his own mind and keeping it from glancing in more dangerous directions. But he didn’t feel that now. The voices were silent. The urge to drink was not alive tonight. He could still sense it there, in the same way that a stubbed-out candle smokes a little, but the fire and the brightness of it were gone.

It had been so lovely to read to Jake. The boy had been quiet and attentive, and then, after a page or two, he had wanted to take over. Although his delivery was faltering, it was obvious that his vocabulary was impressive. And it had been impossible not to feel the peace of the room. However much Pete had messed up Tom’s own childhood, his son hadn’t passed that on.

Pete checked on Jake fifteen minutes later and found the boy already fast asleep. He stood there for a moment, marveling at how tranquil Jake appeared.

Look at what you lose by drinking.

He’d told himself that so many times while looking at the photograph of Sally, his mind skirting the memories of the life he’d lost. Most of the time it had been enough, but sometimes it hadn’t, and these past months had been the toughest of tests. Somehow he had resisted. Looking down at Jake now, he was monumentally glad about that, as though he had somehow dodged a bullet he hadn’t known was coming. Although the future was uncertain, at least it was there.

Look what you gain by stopping.

That thought was so much better. It was the difference between regret and relief, between a cold hearth full of dead, gray ash and a fire that was still alight. He hadn’t lost this. He might not have found it fully yet either. But he hadn’t lost it.

Back downstairs, he did read for a little while, but he was distracted by thoughts of the investigation, and kept checking his phone for updates. There were none. It felt like Amanda should have been there by now, and that Francis Carter should be either in custody or being questioned, and he hoped that was the case. Too busy to update him was too busy in the right direction.

Francis Carter.

He remembered the boy clearly—although of course Francis Carter was an entirely different person now: a grown man, formed from that boy but distinct from him. Pete had only interacted with the child on a handful of occasions twenty years ago, as the majority of the interviews had needed to be handled carefully by specially trained officers. Francis had been small and pale and haunted, staring down at the table with hooded eyes, giving one-word answers at most. The extent of the trauma he must have suffered living with his father had been obvious. He was a vulnerable child who had been through hell.

Carter’s words came back to him now.

His top is all pulled up over his face so I can’t see it properly, which is the way I like it.

The children had all been the same to him; any one would do. And he hadn’t wanted to see their faces. But why? Could it possibly be, Pete wondered, because Carter had wanted to imagine the victims were his own son? A boy he couldn’t touch without being caught, so the hatred he felt had to be acted out on other children instead?

Pete sat very still for a moment.

If that were the case, how might a child feel in response to that? That he was worthless and deserved to die too, perhaps. Guilt over the lives lost in his place. A heartfelt desire to make amends. An urge to help children like him, because by doing so he could somehow begin to heal himself.

This is a man who takes care.

Carter, talking about the man in the photograph he’d been shown.

Smiling at him.

You just don’t listen, Peter.

Neil Spencer had been held captive for two months, but had been well looked after the whole time. Someone had taken care of him—until something went wrong, that is, whereupon Neil had been killed and his body dumped at the exact spot of his abduction. Pete remembered what he’d thought on the waste ground that night. That it was like someone had returned a present they no longer wanted. He thought about it differently now.

Maybe it was more like a failed experiment.

Upstairs, Jake started screaming.

Fifty

I’d arranged to meet Karen in a pub a few streets away from my house, not far from the school. It was the village local, called simply the Featherbank, and I felt more than a little awkward as I arrived. It was a warm evening, and the beer garden adjoining the street was full of people. Through the large windows, the inside seemed to be teeming as well. Just as when I’d walked into the playground on Jake’s first day, it felt like I was entering a place where everybody knew one another, and where I didn’t belong and never would.

I spotted Karen at the bar and made my way through the throng, packed in on all sides by hot bodies and laughter. Tonight, her big coat was nowhere in evidence. She was wearing jeans and a white top. I felt even more nervous as I arrived beside her.

“Hey,” I said over the noise.

“Hey, there.” She smiled at me, then leaned in to my ear. “Excellent timing. What can I get you?”

I scanned the nearest taps and picked a beer at random. She paid, handed me my pint, and then eased away from the bar and nodded for me to follow her through the crowd, deeper into the pub. As I did, I wondered if I’d entirely miscalibrated this evening and she was taking me to meet a group of friends. But there was a door just past the bar, and she pushed through that into a different beer garden, this one secluded at the back of the pub and surrounded by trees. There were circular wooden tables spaced out on the grass, and a small play area, where a few children were making their way across low rope bridges while their parents sat drinking nearby. It was less busy out here, and Karen led me over to an empty table toward the far end.

“We could have brought the kids,” I said.

“If we were insane, yes.” She sat down. “Assuming you’re not being incredibly irresponsible, I’m guessing you managed to find a babysitter?”

I sat down beside her.

“Yes. My father.”

“Wow.” She blinked. “After what you told me before, that must be strange.”

“It’s weird, yeah. I wouldn’t have asked him normally, but … well. I wanted to come out for a drink, and beggars can’t be choosers.” She raised her eyebrows, and I blushed. “I mean about him, not you.”

“Ha! This is all off the record, by the way.” She put her hand on my arm, and left it there for a couple of seconds longer than she needed to. “I’m glad you could come, anyway,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Cheers, by the way.”

We clinked glasses.

“So. You don’t have any concerns about him?”

“My father?” I shook my head. “Honestly, no. Not on that level. I don’t know how I feel about it, to be honest. It’s not a permanent thing. It’s not any kind of thing, really.”

“Yes. That’s a sensible way of looking at it. People worry too much about the nature of things. Sometimes it’s better just to go with them. What about Jake?”

“Oh, he probably likes him more than he does me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

I remembered how Jake had been just before I left, and fought down the guilt it brought.

“Maybe,” I said.