to my knees and sit down, stretch my legs out, and start rubbing them back and forth across a mossy rock. The moss scrapes away and exposes an edge for me to saw against. It takes only about a minute for the binding to snap through. I do the same with my

wrists, then pull the syringe needle out of my arm. I toss it on the ground next to my busted cellphone.

I head in the same direction as the lawyer. My clothes are damp and cold. Donovan Green, if that’s his real name, may not have finished me off with a bullet, but that doesn’t mean I’m getting out of here alive. Unless I can rub some bandages together and make a fire, I’m going to freeze to death out here. The trees

and ferns brush at me, scraping my hands and snagging my

clothes. Small grazes lead to cuts and then to bleeding. My head is still throbbing, and my chest is sore from the taser barbs. My hand hurts the most: the finger with the ripped off nail feels as if it’s on fire.

The lawyer has left a path. I keep my eyes on the ground

and follow the twin lines that have been cut into the dirt by my dragging feet. I figure he would have parked nearby, not wanting to drag me far in these conditions, and a moment later I hear a car pass by. I pick up the pace and a minute later break through some trees and onto a road. Red tail lights are disappearing in the distance.

The mud has had a snowball effect on my shoes, and I kick

and scrape them against a tree to break it off. I dig my hands into my pockets and start walking. No other cars come past as I walk in the same direction as the one I saw. I still don’t even know where I am. My teeth are chattering and every minute or so my

body gives an involuntary spasm that lasts a couple of seconds.

Quentin James would have had a similar walk if I’d have let him, except his would have been in nicer conditions. I brought him

out on a sunny day, a warm day, as sure as hell a nicer day

than today.

I reach an intersection and a couple of cars go by. I wipe my

sleeve at my face to clean away some blood. I start to have an idea where I am. Nobody pulls over to offer me a lift, and I don’t put my bite-scarred thumb out to ask for one.

The road heads towards the city and, eventually, towards home. It’ll be a fifteen-minute trip if I was driving. Walking, i’ts going to take me a few hours. At least. If I was driving I’d be doing eighty kilometres an hour out here.

The day becomes evening and the evening is dark. The rain

begins again. It gets heavy for a while and washes the mud and dirt down my body before lessening to a drizzle. My joints grow increasingly numb. My feet feel like slabs of ice. The walk is a sobering end to a day and to a way of life.

It’s almost midnight when I get home. I don’t have my keys and I hadn’t even thought about them until now. They’re in my car, and my car is in an impound lot somewhere, or maybe a wrecker’s yard. I sit down on the front step and lean against the door. I’m exhausted. The soles of my shoes have small stones and slivers of glass buried into the tread. I feel like I could fall asleep here.

rest for a few minutes before getting up and walking through

to the back yard. I grab a rag and a roll of duct tape from the garden shed, wrap the rag around a small rock, put the tape across the window to muffle the sound, then smash the glass.

While the shower warms up I find a bottle of bourbon and sit

down in the living room. I wonder what Quentin James would

have done had I let him walk home. Would he have taken a drink?

I figure he’d have needed one. Would he have kept on drinking

until one day he killed again? I carry the bottle into the kitchen and pour its contents down the sink. I scour the house for more bottles. There are plenty of them, a few with just enough in them to make me feel warm if I allowed it. I tip them all down the

sink, and then I drop every single empty in a recycling bin and sit them outside. They overflow and I have to stand the rest on the ground.

I strip out of my clothes and throw them into the washing

machine. The shower is still going, steam flooding into the

hallway. I walk around the house, picking up other clothes I’ve worn over the last few months and I stuff as much as I can

into the machine. I set it going. I head into the bathroom, and am about to step into the shower when knocking comes from

the front door. I wrap a towel around myself and go out into the hallway.

A red and blue light is arcing through the windows and

lighting the walls. There are two possibilities. One I can live with. It means one of my neighbours made a call because they

heard somebody breaking in. The second one means Emma, the

sixteen-year-old girl I hurt last night, has died. Maybe I poured away all that bourbon too soon.

I’m nervous as I head up to the door. It’s Landry.

‘You’re going to have to come with us, Tate,’ he says, ruling

out possibility number one.

‘Just tell me. Just get it over with.’

‘It’s about Father Julian.’

‘What? Look, this is bullshit. I haven’t been near him all day’

‘You’re coming with us.’

“I don’t understand.’

‘Jesus, Tate, it’s simple. Don’t stand there and pretend you

don’t know.’

‘Don’t know what?’

He sighs, and slowly shakes his head. ‘Come on, do you really

want to play this game?’

‘Humour me.’

‘We went to speak to Father Julian this afternoon. We were

going to ask him if you were there last night. And I’m sure he would have said yes.’

‘Would have?’

‘See that’s the problem. He’s dead. Somebody murdered him

last night. And right now my money is on that somebody being

you.’

Chapter thirty-five

I try to figure out what he’s saying. I don’t even know when

last night was. Technically it’s just been; it’s after midnight now.

But he doesn’t mean today. He means yesterday. Technically. He’s talking about twenty-four hours ago. A lot has happened since

then. It feels like two days have passed since I followed Father Julian from the church, but it’s only been one. Hell, it’s probably only a few minutes either side of that.

‘What?’

‘You’re going to need to come with us, Tate.’

I look down at my towel. I look at my dirty feet and the lines of blood on my chest.

‘I didn’t have anything to do with it.’

Landry looks me up and down. ‘No?’

‘No.’

‘You’re saying even though he had a protection order against

you, even though you were picked up at the church the morning

of the day he died breaking that order, and even though you were caught on film there yesterday evening, and you crashed your

car, drunk, a few minutes from the church around the same time Father Julian died, that you had nothing to do with it?’

I don’t bother answering. It’s hard to defend yourself when

you’re wearing only a towel. But I figure Landry or one of his buddies must have been dropping by the house on and off all day since I was signed out of the courthouse in the afternoon. That means Julian wasn’t found till around then at the earliest. Any earlier and I’d never have been released.

‘Put on some clothes, Tate. You’re coming with us.’

“I’m calling my lawyer.’ I think of Donovan Green but can’t

really imagine him being happy to take my call.

‘Get him to meet you at the station.’

I have nothing to put on except a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that have been building up dust in the corner of the bedroom.

Everything else is in the washing machine. I throw on a jacket and my running sneakers.

I’m put in the back of the car and driven away, and this time I’m handcuffed. Landry stays behind with some others to go through my house. At the station I’m reacquainted with the interrogation room. They lock me in, and the call I get to make to my lawyer isn’t brought up again, but that’s okay. I haven’t been having a good day with lawyers. I rest my head on my arms and close my