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‘It’s a shame.’ He leaned forward and smiled. ‘We should fix that. Maybe have a coffee one of these days.’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s the thing with being new in town. It can be tough to get to know people.’

‘Why move, then?’ she said. ‘Why not stay where you had friends?’

He held her gaze. ‘It’s … well, it’s complicated.’ He grinned. ‘But we love it here!’

Was he always this intense? Or was it only with her? And why?

Maybe there was something about her, something he had latched onto. Something driving an obsession with her, and her in particular.

Something that would make him think it was a good idea to send these notes.

And where was his wife and daughter? Did he keep them locked up in the house?

She wanted to run.

‘So, a coffee?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said, the words a struggle to get out. ‘No coffee.’

He frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m married,’ she said. ‘That’s why not.’

His eyes widened in surprise. ‘That’s not what I was suggesting!’

She wasn’t sure if his outburst was genuine. It was possible, she supposed, that she had misinterpreted his offer of coffee – as well as all the other suggestive comments – and it had been an innocent request all along. It was equally possible this was how he dealt with being called out. She decided she didn’t care.

‘If I offended you, I apologize,’ she said. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone. ‘But whatever you meant by it, I’d prefer not to have a coffee with you.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘That’s your choice,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you, you have the wrong end of the stick. Enjoy your lunch.’

Missing Bitch

Back in the office, Mary poured a coffee. As a child she had always been a little scared of adulthood; it seemed so boring. All the grown-ups she knew had the same life – wake up, go to work, make dinner, drive their kids from place to place, occasionally have a sedate night out with friends. There was none of the colour and drama of her teenage life, none of the shifting romances, none of the thrilling discoveries of sex and alcohol and other illicit activities. It looked, frankly, boring.

It was anything but. Less fun, for sure, but equally fraught with emotions and conflict and all the other things that she had assumed would dissipate with age. Adults were not serenely navigating the currents of life, calm and unflustered by the vicissitudes of their existence; they were fraught and anxious and hated their pointless jobs and were annoyed at their partners who seemed to either disdain or ignore them. They were unhappy and stressed and trying to find a way to get through the days.

Some found it in alcohol. She had noticed in the past few years that more and more of her friends – if she could really call them that – had the reddening cheeks and spreading weight of heavy drinkers. Others sought solace and escape in work. Or exercise. Or, for some, affairs. In Rona’s, an unhealthy obsession with her son.

What about her? How did she deal with her anxiety? She didn’t, really. She just lived with it, allowed it to ruin her peace of mind, to slowly erode her well-being and confidence. She loathed it, loathed waking up with the feeling that something was going to go wrong, that at any moment a phone call or email could bring catastrophe into her life. There was no reason to think it would; the fear was irrational. That was what made it so pernicious; the irrationality meant you couldn’t argue yourself out of it.

And now she had Dylan to deal with.

Dylan, who had told her daughter he loved her, had manipulated her into having sex with him, for no reason other than his own gratification. It was so one-sided; Sally had given up something precious, some part of her innocence and childhood. He’d got a cheap thrill.

It made her sick. Angry, yes, but mainly it left her with a queasy, unsettled feeling at the pit of her stomach. It was also illegal, a clear case of statutory rape.

And she was not going to let him get away with it.

She checked the time; high school was out, and she knew where he would be. She left the office, and headed for the bandstand on the town common. As she neared it she saw Dylan, sitting on the steps with a group of high-school students. Some were smoking; Dylan’s preference was to vape.

She stopped when she was about fifteen yards away, and folded her arms. After a few seconds, one of Dylan’s friends noticed her and nudged him with his elbow. Dylan looked up and caught her eye. He said something, then slowly unfurled himself and sloped over to her.

‘Wassup, Mary?’