Seemingly unperturbed by his sister’s meltdown, Hunter poured himself a glass of milk and sat at the table with his drink and cake. Brutus gave Alice a leery glance and settled like a bag of bones on the other side of Hunter’s chair, using him as a shield from scary Alice.

“Alice, do you know chocolate makes dogs really sick?”

“Does it?” Alice asked, knowing full well that it did, but happy to chat.

“Yep. Cos of the theo-something in the cocoa. The vet told me.”

“Theobromide.”

“Theobromide,” Hunter repeated before stuffing his mouth with cake. He asked Alice something else, but the question was muffled by the food.

“How about you finish that mouthful first, then ask me.”

“Um, Alice.” Harry reappeared in the kitchen. “Can I have a word?”

“Sure.” She followed him into the other room. “Is it Holly?”

“She’s crying a river and she won’t tell me what’s wrong. All I’ve managed to get out of her is that it isn’t me, Hunter, or her mom …” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know what to do next. She hasn’t been this distraught in a long time. Even when H died … Can you have a word with her? Find out what the hell’s going on?”

Harry’s distress and worry ringed her, hooking onto her own concern for Holly. “I can try. But, Harry, if she didn’t tell you, she probably won’t tell me.”

He shrugged. “You chat a couple of times a week when you do art. I reckon it’s worth a shot.”

Alice knocked on Holly’s door then opened it and walked into the room. The girl was lying face down on her bed, her dark hair splayed out like a cape. A memory rolled back of herself at a similar age, lying spread-eagled and crying on her childhood bed. What had Karen done then?

“Hi, Holly. It’s Alice.” She sat on the bed and placed her hand gently on Holly’s back. “Rough day?”

A muffled sobbing sound squeezed up from around the pillow.

Alice rubbed the girl’s back until her crying eased and her breathing was no longer labored. “I’m sorry you’re so upset.”

Holly rolled onto her side, her luminous green eyes red-rimmed and watery. “It was horrible.”

“Was it?”

Holly nodded. “I hate school!” She flung herself over, hiding her face, and the tears started afresh.

Alice waited until the crying ebbed. Holly loved school so something big must have happened to make her say that. Then again, she was thirteen. Alice remembered those tumultuous teenage years when all it took was one girl saying, “You can’t sit with us,” or your twin announcing, “You’re a wet blanket,” and everything changed from sunshine to darkness.

“Are you sure you hate school?”

“Yes.”

“Even Mrs. Main?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Poor Mrs. Main. Hated for giving you an A+ for your clay vase.”

Holly moved her head until Alice spied one green eye.

“Do you hate school or do you hate someone at school?”