“Leave it up.”

“Sir.” Barnaby sat down slowly.

“How long do you want to do this.”

“Until I know.”

Know what, he did not say, and Barnaby did not ask.

For the first two hours, nothing happened, and the nothing was excruciating.

He watched Rosamund come into the kitchen at 7:58 and put a kettle on and take down two mugs.

He watched her wipe the counter, which he had somehow expected to feel sinister and which felt exactly like a person wiping a counter.