“No one... I didn’t...”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Long forgotten. Except it made me realize just how harmful Grandad’s stories could be. I’m sorry. I tried to fix things afterward, but...”
I stare at him. Is it true? How could I have hurt him and not known about it? The hairs on my arms rise, and the air around me seems to shift and relayer itself, as if Summerbourne itself is sifting through its memories.
“You’re cold,” Joel says. “I’m sorry. You should go in.”
He drops my hand and steps back, but I catch hold of his sleeve before he can escape.
“Don’t go,” I say, and then he’s wrapping his arms around me and holding on to me as if he thinks I’m about to fall.
“Hey,” he says. “What is it?” There’s a trace of wariness in his voice, and my heart thuds with the realization that hethinks I’ve lost the plot—him, Edwin; everyone thinks I’m going crazy.
Maybe they’re right.
But he doesn’t let go of me. We go into the sitting room and sit side by side on the sofa, and he keeps his hand over mine the whole time. “Tell me.”
I’m not sure where to start, or how much he already knows from Edwin. I want to trust my instincts: that he won’t go behind my back to Edwin, that he’ll understand I need to talk to Kiara before getting the police involved, that he’ll be on my side. I barely know him anymore, but my desire to confide in him is overwhelming.
He nods at me, his dark eyes serious.
“Someone broke into the house,” I say, and it all spills out: Laura and Alex and Kiara; the message on the mirror, the word burned into the grass, the address stolen from my handbag, the dead bird on the doorstep. My fear that he’ll think I’m making it up. My fear that I really am making it up. He listens intently without interrupting, and when I finally finish speaking, my throat aches.
“I believe you,” he says, and it’s like a warm blanket draping over my skin. I keep hold of his hand and lean back on the sofa, watching his face as he thinks, and I find myself marveling at how different he seems and yet how familiar.
“Who has a key?” he asks, and I’m reminded of how practical he’s always been, how single-minded when confronted with a problem. “If you think you locked the doors on Monday and there’s no sign of forced entry, you have to make a list of all the people who hold a key to Summerbourne. The cleaners obviously do?”
“Vera sorts that out. It’s not a regular contract. Sometimes it’s someone from the village, sometimes an agency.”
“What about the plumber, electrician? Or the people who did the food after your dad’s funeral?” He squeezes my hand as he mentions my dad.
“I don’t know. Vera sorts out the maintenance stuff—I mean, it’s her house. I’ve never really had to—” I take a deep breath, cringing at how spoiled I sound. I want to add,It’s not my house—it’ll never be my house, but I realize that’s hardly the point. I raise my chin. “Does Michael have a key?”
Joel frowns, and shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He shifts his position to face me more directly. “Look, I understand why you don’t want to tell the police before you’ve spoken to Alex’s daughter. I get it. But I’m worried. You shouldn’t be here by yourself until we know who did these things. The thought of someone...”
“Edwin and Danny are coming tomorrow,” I say.
“Good.” He looks down at my hand in his, and I can tell he’s choosing his next words carefully. “But tonight. Is there someone you can go and stay with? Or—” He glances up at me. “You could come back to Grandad’s with me now. Take my bed. I’ll sleep downstairs.”
I’m trying to concentrate on his words, to form an opinion so I can give him an answer, but I’m distracted by the nearness of him, the rise and fall of his chest under his T-shirt, the mesmerizing motion of his eyelashes as he tilts his head.
“I wish...” I say.
His small movements cease. His gaze locks onto mine. It’s a long moment before his chest begins to rise and fall again. “You wish what?”
“I wish we’d sorted it out,” I say. “I wish I’d listened to you when you tried to say sorry.”
“I wish to God I’d never said that stupid nickname,” he says. “I had no idea...”
“How badly I’d react?”
He blinks at me, and I try to smile back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For pushing you away.” I want to say more, but my voice dries up. The moment stretches out in silence, and I close my eyes, concentrating on the heat from his body, the feel of his hand on mine.
“I missed you, Seraphine,” he says, and when I open my eyes, he brushes a tear from my cheek. But a second later he is on his feet, and there’s something about the tension in his brow and the set of his jaw that spins my memory back to a hazy autumn evening in the Summerbourne garden: the four of us squinting against a low sun, Edwin trying to persuade us to sneak out to the folly, Joel objecting—“We’re not allowed. We’ll get into trouble.”
His eyes are serious. “Let’s concentrate on keeping you safe tonight, okay? We can’t fix everything in one evening. If you don’t want to come back with me, is there someone in the village you could...?”
