But Ruth’s feelings were almost all Tara had left of her mother. It felt wrong to let go of an anger she’d shared with her, through those years when it had just been them.

She turned her phone over to see if Toby had responded to her texts, or her phone messages. He hadn’t.

Oh God. Tara stared at the ceiling. The email from the estate agent had now been joined by another letter from the solicitor, chasing her about probate.

Maybe I should just fly to Toby, she thought recklessly. Tell him in person.

Ruth had, for reasons best known to herself, left the house and its entire contents to Tara. Just Tara. There was a lump sum for Diane, donations to various charities, and that was it. Tara had no idea why her mother had done something so blatantly divisive; Ruth and Toby had argued a lot before he left – she remembered the tension too well – but it was totally out of character for her mum. She was a kind person. Tara only discovered how many charities she gave money to when she closed Ruth’s bank accounts and found the direct debits.

Tara turned, then turned again, restless. She was going to give Toby his half, no question about that. The problem was how? She didn’t have anywhere near enough savings to buy him out, and she couldn’t get a mortgage with her freelance income. Even covertly selling everything in the house (starting with the Sindys) wouldn’t add up to half. The only possibility was putting it on the market, and the thought of another family moving in made Tara want to bar the front door with her whole body.

It wasn’t just about leaving her mother behind. Once she handed over the keys to Wye Villa, that would be it: she’d have to walk away with a head full of questions about her own story that would never be answered. And those doubts and half-explanations would gang up on the happy memories, smothering them out of existence. The truth, Tara sensed, was still there, in the house. Why Dad left, why Toby abandoned her, his twin soul, in his determination to get away. Mum had decorated over the past, again and again, but the fresh paint didn’t change the sensation of secrets lingering like ghosts in the hall, behind doors, slipping just out of sight.

Tara didn’t want to sell Wye Villa. But what choice did she have?

A deeper spot of darkness stirred in the corner of the room, disturbed by the yellow screen-light. Sybil blinked at her, as if to say, Go to sleep.

Tara groaned, and pulled the duvet over her head to blanket out the world. Somehow, all these years on, the darkness under her covers was still exactly the same.