Chadworth watched all of it and felt, by degrees, something that took him a while to identify.

It was shame.

He was sitting in a locked room under his own house watching a woman fold his children’s laundry, looking for evidence of a crime, on the word of someone who had never produced a single piece of proof.

He had not slept.

He had lied to his daughters at the front door.

He had put a bag in a car with two shirts in it.

At 9:34 he said, out loud, “This was a mistake.”