It was a summer afternoon and I was dragging groceries across the car park of the nearest Centra – which is not, in fact, near at all – when a man called to me. He was a man I had known since my teenage years, but we’d lost contact. I’d moved away and though I was back a number of years, I hadn’t met him since my return. ‘I saw your photo in the paper,’ he said, ‘but the name was different. It wasn’t you.’ And so it began. The unravelling.