“Because that’s when he died.” I can connect almost all the dots now. Hugh had told me his father slipped on the rocks on the beach, and it had never made sense, how someone could die that way. Such a silly little thing. A foot out of place, a jutting innocent weapon in place, and life gone, hope gone, orphans made, parents not parents anymore.

I glance at Matthew. He doesn’t glance back.

Ernest Withers is standing in his front doorframe, staring out at the lane, tapping his heel on the floor. I give him a wave as we pass. He looks like he wants to wave back but doesn’t dare move a muscle. A college friend from California once told me that the best place to stand in an earthquake was in a front doorway, sturdiest part of the house. Or maybe she was telling me that was debunked. I can’t remember now. Ernie is a fisherman and built like a fishing boat, sparse, overgrown blond hair over a tublike frame. He goes out in all weather, sometimes alone, and his nets are always writhing and taut when he comes back to dock with an eager grin. I hardly recognize him today. There’s no blood in his cheeks at all.

His family has been on this island longer than Hugh’s. It obviously doesn’t make him any more cavalier about all this.

“Be careful!” he shouts, so suddenly it sends a jolt through me.

“And you,” Matthew calls back.

I nearly call back to Ernie too, something about joining us at the house, but not knowing what exactly I’m offering, I stop myself.

Matthew and I trudge up to the house’s long drive.

“Do you think we should have a dinner? Sally says it’s tradition, but Hugh hasn’t mentioned a thing and I feel like it falls to me to—”

“Stop asking my opinion.” Matthew shakes his head, jaw locked tight. “It’s naught to do with me, Lady Treadway. This is your house, your decision.”

He starts walking again.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

Any other day, the question would have made me shrivel with shame as I thought it, let alone voiced it, but not today. This seems like as good a time as any to ask why. And I’ve asked it calmly. No emotion spilling loose.

He turns, sputtering wordlessly. “You…”

I could wind it back, blush, laugh as if I’d been joking—it might be kinder—but before I can decide one way or the other, his chest deflates and he starts away again, muttering behind him, “I can see why you would think that.”