A decade of crime, kept in a wall safe behind an oil painting, in a house where they served wine and asked about your week.

“Did you call the police?” Christopher asked me, as they were being separated and secured.

His voice was small.

“No,” I said, honestly.

“I didn’t.” And that was true, and it was the strangest part of the whole night, and it would take me days to understand it: I had planned to take my recordings to the authorities myself, later, carefully.

Someone else had been watching that live transmission as it happened.