‘Wow,’ he says. His voice is low and unfamiliar. He shakes his head. ‘How could she…’

‘We don’t know what this is, Rhys,’ I try. ‘It might just be—’

‘What?’ he spits. ‘You think this is a coincidence?’

‘Yes, it could be. It might not be anything to do with her whatsoever. You don’t know where this book came from, or how long she’s had it. Just because…’ I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what I mean. Of course, it might not be anything to do with Susan, but I know exactly what he’s thinking. Why else would it be here, if it wasn’t part of her story?

‘She was adamant I get the book. Why might that be if she didn’t have something within it she wanted to hide,’ he snarls, looking back at the paper. His unfamiliar mood is intimidating. I’m in a room with an angry stranger and nobody knows I’m here. I stand, taking a step back, not certain how frightened of him I should be. My palms are sweaty.

‘Come on.’ He jumps up, thrusting the book and paper cutting into my stomach. I flinch, but try not to show that it hurts. He stares, eyes wild, and I dig deep to maintain contact, gritting my teeth and fighting my confusion. I am frightened, after all. I maintain control, composure. But I don’t know him, this man with a face of stone. He pushes past me to leave.

‘Rhys…’ My racing pulse pushes the fear to my heart, leaving me with a sense of coldness, of dizziness. I chase after him, sick and confused, not sure what’s going on. He doesn’t look like the man I’ve welcomed to my ward. He doesn’t even look like the man who stood on the doorstep of this house not ten minutes ago. He was distracted then, he wasn’t right, but he wasn’t this. He wasn’t… angry? Out of control? Or frightened by something? He stands by the front door, one hand on the lock, the other bracing himself against the wall. Despite my heart rate, and a voice inside my head that warns me against it, I reach out a shaking hand to touch his shoulder. He seems to respond as I move it down his back. His breath is heavy, and his body radiates heat as I lean in closer, but it’s as if he relaxes a little. As if he needs my touch. Is this a delayed response to the house? Is it the book, the clipping? Is this to do with his brother? Whatever it is, he’s not okay. I have to help.

‘Rhys, talk to me. What’s the matter?’ He shakes his head, turning to look at me. His breath is hot on my face. As well as the anger, I detect something like fear. Or neediness. I can’t tell which. His eyes focus on mine and there’s a hung moment, a pause, a second when I can see pain, something he’s hiding.