In the first bedroom were four single beds, stripped down, arranged at the corners of the room. Two spartan white cupboards gave the only storage space. The second bedroom was arranged identically. Four single beds, stripped down; two plain cupboards. On the gunmetal bedframe was a small green label with the letters rs inked on. I checked the next bed frame. jt. I found Licia’s bed in the first of the rooms. lc, the ink of the letters fading slightly. So she had been living here. Bror had lied about that too.

I sat on the bed, tried to feel Licia’s presence, but felt only a sadness: That this had in some way been better than life with us. That Bror had made her feel exceptional when we could not.

My little girl. Did we do you some quiet violence, and not know it? Did we make you feel that good enough wasn’t good enough? When, Licia, you were everything to me . . .

I checked both cupboards. I ran my hands along the undersides of the shelves, pulled out the drawers, and stacked them by the door. I turned the cupboards on their sides, though I was sure that there was nothing on top of them. I checked the gaps around the skirting boards, began pushing at the floor planks in the hope that one of them would give.

She had erased herself from our lives. There was nothing left of Alicia Curtis.

Out in the courtyard I felt the whipcrack and roar of thunder. The air smelled metallic; I could taste it on the side of my tongue.

I walked across the dried mud to the red-painted barn. Nothing here. No sign of life. I pushed open the great wooden doors, stood looking in. The archaeology of the farm: the broken machinery and the abandoned coal store, the carriages and the winter sleighs: all dead now, their time long past. Enamel flaked from a large white tub that had once fed cattle. Hay stood in neat bales, aged and yellowed. Gasoline stood in rusting red cans.

In a corner was a gun rack. Four shotguns and a small-bore rifle, recently cleaned. Not comforting, but nor was it evidence of intent. This had once been a working farm. In the drawer beneath I found rifle bullets, and in the drawer beside that, pellets, gunpowder, and shot. Nothing that spoke of the massacre on Garden Island.

Still the barking of the dogs. They could feel me on their territory.

I drew the barn door closed behind me, walked slowly toward the dogs. The dry mud was marked with rain now, the first spots from the coming downpour. The barking rose to a frenzy. They could see me. You could feel their movement through the slats, see the height of them, hear the chains that bound them as they dragged across the concrete floor.