“Was that Graham texting you?” I asked, looking at his darkened screen.

“Why would Graham be texting me at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night?” Adam asked, tossing the question right back at me with an icy stare.

“Can’t I answer an urgent work email without my own wife interrogating me?”

He pushed the phone deep into the front pocket of his trousers and wouldn’t look at me in the weak light of the stairwell.

He stayed at the foot of the basement stairs another two minutes before he came back up to the kitchen.