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felt unsafe living alone in the countryside, more exposed than in London. Maybe she thought he would find her.
    I walk down the aqueduct away from town. The fuel that’s always in my stomach now catches and I am sheeted in flames. I can’t hear anything, which I don’t notice until I am far pastthe village and realize my shoes must have been making that sound on the path since I started walking.
    I stalk between the farms, the flames rippling over me. The rage doesn’t go away. After two or three miles I stop and weep into my hands. I drop to my knees. Even with my legs pressed to the frozen ground, I still burn, the fire bristling off my spine.
    On my way back, I come through a copse of hazels and around a bend, and there is a figure on the path in front of me.
    As I draw closer, I see that it is a man in a long coat. He has a Staffordshire bull terrier on a lead, which is strange. Most people let their dogs run on the aqueduct. When we are close, the dog trots over to greet me, tugging him nearer. The man smiles. He is bald, with a strong chin and a flattened nose, like a boxer.
    He says, “This is Brandy.” I hold my hand out for the dog to sniff. She presses her wet nose to it and pain sluices through me. I scratch behind her ears, and her eyes crease and her tail swings back and forth. Even though it’s cold, she has been sweating. I can see her pink skin through the damp raked lines of her coat.
    The stranger isn’t wearing gloves, and his hand on the lead is red and chapped. The slight swell of his stomach presses against his coat.
    “Sweet girl,” I say to the dog. Her eyes fasten on mine with the attention specific to bull terriers, and I wonder if he attacked me if she would lunge for me or him.
    A crow calls from the field, and when he turns toward it, I flip the dog’s tag over. Denton. They live on Bray Lane, near the common. I can’t tell if he caught me reading it.
    “Does she run away?” I ask, and point at the lead.
    “No,” he says. “A friend of mine let his Staffie off lead and his neighbor shot her.”
    The dog sniffs my wrist, her eyes wide and a little crossed. “They used to be nanny dogs,” I say.
    “I know. My friend told that to the police. Nothing happened to the shooter. He wasn’t even cautioned.”
    I recognize the grain reaper in the field next to us and realize how far we still are from town. A mile, at least.
    “Are you Nora?” he asks. We’ve never met before. He has gray stubble and a few deep lines across his forehead.
    “Yes.”
    “We used to see Rachel out here,” he says. “I can’t believe it.”
    The dog snaps to attention. I turn to look behind me, but the path is empty.
    “I saw her just that morning,” he says.
    My mouth goes dry. His coat sleeve has a small rip at its hem, did my sister do that?
    “Where?”
    “At her house. The bath sprang a leak. It had been going for a few days before she noticed. There’s a crack halfway across the ceiling.”
    I straighten. We are alone, between drab, stippled fields. I watch his red hand twist the lead. “And she called you?”
    “I’m a plumber. If you need help with the house or anything, let me know,” he says. His coat is zipped to his chin, leaving only his hands and head exposed. I check for scratches or bruises, but if he has any they are hidden. “My mum died last year. There’s a lot to sort out, I’m happy to help.”
    He walks away. I start toward Marlow, and once he is out of sight, I run.
     • • • 
    My phone doesn’t have service until Cale Street.
    “Have you interviewed someone named Denton yet?”
    “Yes,” says Moretti, “Keith Denton.” I didn’t think he would tell me. I thought police interviews were confidential, and for a moment I wonder whom he has told about speaking with me.
    “He was at Rachel’s house on Friday.”
    “I know. One of her neighbors saw his van. We interviewed him at the station on Saturday.”
    “Why did you let him go?”
    “We don’t