I fill the silence with a forced laugh. “I’ve just seen pictures of you is all, arm in arm, your little school uniforms. And somebody named Andy? I guess he moved away?”

It could be true. This could be a different Andy from the one buried in the churchyard.

Matthew frowns now. He thinks I’m teasing him. I should have just asked directly.

My hair drapes my face in the fresh wind. I scrape it back behind one ear. “Hugh finds ways of avoiding the question. That’s why I’m asking you. It’s frustrating.”

The way Matthew stares at me now makes it clear how inappropriate he finds this conversation, and okay, yeah, I have to agree. I’ve just admitted to communication problems in my marriage, like he’s my therapist, like I’m waiting for him to tell me what to do. Jo’s right—I’m a piece of tissue paper, a flower on the heath, bending in the wind, not a person at all.

I should push back more with Hugh. When he goes icy, I always choose to inch away, tiptoeing back to warmer ground. I’m good at being careful. It’s partly self-preservation to play by Hugh’s unspoken rules, and it’s hard to know how much is him and how much is cultural. I need to fit into this marriage, this country, this island, or I’ll be disliked and rejected. Or ejected. I’ll have to go back home to a place that’s never felt like home.

I hate fighting. That’s the truth. I hate the irrational feeling of it. The violence of confrontation. I hate how naked anger makes me feel.

That’s not moral purity. Just cowardice.

Matthew has stopped walking, and I think for a second it’s because he’s too exasperated by my question, confession, and subsequent silence to continue along with me another awkward step.

Then I see the green awnings rolled up, the peonies in their cheerful little window boxes. I see Gemma Smith standing in the window already, watching our approach. Her gray-blond hair is tied up in a messy bun. Her hands are pressed against the glass of the window, holding her steady as her body sinks out from under her.

I should wave. Raise one hand, no smile, a hint of what’s to come. Before my body catches up with my thoughts, she calls behind her and starts away from the window, face in her hands.

She knows. My eyes sting hot, my lungs hard as iron. I have to be strong, an authority, some sort of a balm here.

I glance back at Matthew, an unwilling reflex. He smiles tightly. There’s sympathy in his eyes, maybe even support, but I can see from his stance that he’s not coming in with me. This is my job.

The door opens. Avery’s father, Tom, fills the entryway.