Page 54 of The Light Between Worlds

“Philippa.” My brother’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “We’re back here.”

There are two men seated at the table along with Jamie and Dad. Mum stands at the sink, mechanically washing a pair of teacups. My parents are quiet and colorless enough they might be ghosts. It’s Jamie who’s taken charge, who leans forward, speaking earnestly to the unfamiliar men, and little pieces of pain hide in the way he holds his mouth.

“These are Inspectors Dawes and Singh.” Jamie gestures to the men, who look up and nod. The younger of them, Inspector Singh, smiles reassuringly. He has kind brown eyes and wears a neat mustache, black against his terra-cotta-brown skin. The older man, Dawes, a hard-bitten-looking fellow with a weathered and ruddywhite face, stands and holds out a hand that I shake before taking a seat. I’m keenly conscious of which chair was left over, of whose place I’m sitting in, though the inspectors can’t know.

But we know, all of us Hapwells, and there’s a breathless moment, a charge in the air, as I lower myself onto it. Dawes leafs through his notebook, unaware of what I’ve had to do, of the little deaths I die.

“Miss Hapwell, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your sister, Evelyn.”

I nod. “Of course. I’ve been away in America for some time, though, so I don’t have much recent information.”

Mum wordlessly sets a cup of tea down before me, her slippered feet silent on the flagstone floor.

“What was your relationship like with your sister?” Dawes taps his pencil against his chin.

“Complicated.” I take a sip of tea, wanting the warmth to fortify me. It’s hot and bitter, just the way I like it. Though the war’s left us behind, it cured me permanently of my taste for sweet things. “We could both be difficult to live with, but I loved her, of course.”

“And did she write to you, while you were away?”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention anything in her letters? Anything that was bothering her, any worries about someone from the village, or a boy from St. Joseph’s, perhaps?”

“I don’t know.” I look down into my teacup as I own up to this. “I never read the letters.”

Inspector Singh cuts into the conversation for the first time,watching me thoughtfully. “Why is that, Miss Hapwell? Did you have a falling out?”

I sigh, and the steam rising from my tea twists and writhes. “Yes, before I left. I’m just—I couldn’t bear to hear from her, not when I was so far away.”

I’m sorry, Ev. I’m sorry. But we’re all drowning and I’d held you up for so long. I couldn’t take the weight anymore, not if I wanted to keep my own head above water.

Inspector Dawes stirs in his chair. “Mr. and Mrs. Hapwell,” he says in a gruff voice, “if you could step out, I’d like a moment to question your daughter in private.”

Mum and Dad vanish, leaving Jamie and me alone with the inspectors. As soon as Dad goes, I move to his chair, so Evelyn’s spot is empty once more. Dawes frowns, but I offer no explanation.

“Miss Hapwell.” Inspector Singh pauses after saying my name, seeming reluctant to put his next question to me. “Do you have any reason to believe your sister might harm herself?”

I keep quiet and fix my eyes on Evelyn’s empty place.

“Did she ever do herself harm in the past?”

Jamie’s stare is so intent I can feel it burning my skin. There are so many secrets between Evelyn and me that have never come to light, that ought to stay in the dark, but here we are dredging them up, and Evelyn, my love, whereareyou?

“Yes.”

The word is small, just a little thing like a round marble that nevertheless sounds profoundly loud as it drops from my lips.

“Oh, Philippa,” Jamie says.

Silence falls over us, heavy as a shroud.

With a scrape, Inspector Dawes pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “I think that’ll be all for now. If we’ve got any further questions, we’ll be in touch. I’ll trouble you for those letters, though, Miss Hapwell.”

There’s a flurry of activity as he and Inspector Singh prepare to leave and I trudge upstairs to dig Evelyn’s letters out of the bottom of my valise, careful not to look at her familiar handwriting. I’d worry that they’re full of memories of the Great Wood, were it not for the promise we made after coming back—never to write any of that story down, and never to speak of it, except to each other.

The inspectors take the letters and nod their goodbyes. Then Jamie and I are alone in the kitchen, with only cold mugs of tea scattered around the room to show the interview ever happened. I don’t know where Mum and Dad have gone—their bedroom, or the sitting room.

“You never told me,” Jamie says.