I ease out the bundle from the bottom and flick through the drawings. Almost all of them show people, ranging from stick men to more sophisticated figures with detailed expressions. I wonder what it says about me that I used to draw Summerbourne so obsessively when I was a child, but rarely people. Danny used to design complicated mazes. Not for the first time, I wonder how different our personalities might have been if we’d grown up with a mother.
I pause at a simple drawing of two figures, one labeled with an “E” and the other with a “T.” Edwin and Theo. They each have a yellow spiral of hair. A later picture shows “Daddy, Gran, Edwin, Sefn, Dany.” There are several featuring Edwin and Joel surrounded by animals.
There are postcards from Vera in London, and from our paternal grandparents in Scotland who died a few years ago. I open a Christmas card and read:Dear Edwin, I am at my own home now, but I miss you loads. Happy Christmas and I’ll see you soon. Love from Laura xxxx
I check all the others. There’s no further mention of Laura, and none of Alex.
Just before nine in the evening, I hear a car on the drive. I am tempted to run out and tell them all about the burned grass and the lipstick message, but I steel myself against it. Edwin and Danny make a noisy entrance, dropping bags onto the floor I cleaned earlier, scattering possessions over the kitchen countertops I’d so diligently cleared. I grit my teeth.
“You told me you were coming straight back here,” is the first thing Danny says to me. “Alex bloody Kaimal? What the hell’s got into you?”
“At least I’m doingsomething,” I snap back. “I need to know what happened that day.”
Edwin holds up his hands between us. “Hey, you got beerin for us, thanks,” he says, grabbing a bottle and pulling the bottle opener from the drawer.
“Joel brought them, actually,” I say.
“Is he coming tonight?” Edwin asks.
I shake my head.
Danny opens two more bottles and passes one to me. “Come on then, spill.”
“Come and see what I found, first.”
They follow me through to the day nursery. The sun is setting, and the pink-and-gold light bathes the contents of Edwin’s treasure box laid out on the table. It’s a strangely beautiful scene, and yet for some reason makes me wish I had never unearthed these memories, or perhaps just makes me wish that Dad was still alive and we were gathered here for happy reasons. Edwin moves forward with a murmur of recognition.
“I haven’t seen this for years. Where did you find it? Look at these.” He shuffles through the cards and the tickets, holding a couple of them up to show Danny.
“I remember this,” Danny says. “I started my own treasure box, but I could never be bothered to collect things for it.” I lean my shoulder lightly against his as we watch Edwin leafing through his old drawings.
“That’s you two,” Edwin says, holding up a brightly colored picture, “flying on gigantic birds.”
“Of course,” Danny murmurs.
Edwin pauses at another one, and then places it separately on the table and stares at it. I recognize it from earlier—a bird with a beak and legs and spindly toes, and a person lying next to it with a sad face. Unusually, it’s all in black crayon, except for a red patch on the bird’s body.
“Theo and the robin,” Edwin says quietly.
My eyes widen.
“What robin?” Danny asks.
“I don’t know,” Edwin says slowly, shaking his head. “Gran said something about it that day, on the cliffs.”
“Robin was Mum’s twin brother,” I say. “He died before he was born. The cord was wrapped around his neck.”
They stare at me.
“How did you—?” Edwin says.
“Pamela told me. She also told me...” I feel light-headed suddenly. I can’t say it aloud to my brothers—that twins never survive at Summerbourne, that that’s why Theo died, that no one in the village believes we’re the real Summerbourne twins. I take a deep breath. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here. I just hope Kiara can tell us something useful tomorrow, that’s all.”
Edwin and Danny watch me. I concentrate on keeping my breathing calm, conscious of the other secrets I’m keeping from them: the letters burned into the lawn, the writing on the mirror.
Edwin sighs. “What time is she coming?”
“About twelve.”
