Twenty minutes later when I returned, James was floating face down, Wolf nowhere to be seen. I told myself it must have been an accident. Then I saw the pool skimmer—that long pole with a blue net at the end of it—not where I had left it in its hooks on the wall but lying on the tiles, dripping wet. Then I noticed the small bottle of GHB—a drug that, when I later googled, I realised was probably bought on the dark web, presumably leaving a trail which could lead back to my son—in the wastepaper basket.
