Max is waiting at the top of the lawn, tail wagging as if nothing’s wrong, as if he hadn’t just spent the past hour barking at a corpse. When we get closer, he races ahead of us, up the curved steps to the front door.

It’s open. I can see Hugh standing shadowed just inside the house, still as a statue.

I nearly call out to ask him to help, but the way he’s staring at us, my step falters.

“Let’s go around the side to the kitchen.” I veer Marit left to the service door. “I’ll give you a tour once we get settled, if you like?”

It’s a better plan. This way is easier on her feet. The kitchen’s the best place to warm her up, get her some food and tea, clean her shredded toes, ask her some questions when she’s ready. Hugh can find us there.

I hear the front door slam.

Okay, well, he’s angry. I’m not ready to deal with that. There are more important things right now.

Sally flies across the room to open the kitchen door the second I pass the window. She starts to sputter something, a kind scolding, I’m guessing, a “We were so worried,” when she sees Marit behind me and her face falls slack.

She extends her arms. “Oh no, love, oh no no no. Were you visiting?”

Marit nods, mute, and staggers straight to the glowing hearth. I wince, wondering whether it’s safe for her to sit so close to fire on a day like this, especially given what’s just happened. Tempting fate.

I catch myself with a jolt.

There’s no fate. This is tragic happenstance. Stop feeding it. It’s belief that makes days like this happen. I’m not going to be sucked into superstition. I can’t lose myself to this.

I stand leaning against the thick kitchen table. Sally uncurls my fingers, opening my hand so she can slide a cup of tea into it. I hadn’t realized I’d had it balled so tightly.

“Sit down, Nina.” Sally nods to Marit, by the fire. “She needs a minute to herself before we fuss over her.”

I fall onto a stool. “Where are the kids?”

As soon as I ask the question, the multitude of possible answers triggers a wave of nausea strong enough to double me over.

“Up with Tinker Bell.” That’s her nickname for Avery. “Safe and sound.”

I watch the steam swirl up from my teacup and think of the fire, whether they’ve put it out by now, found the bodies. What will they do with them? With John? Leave them for tomorrow, or go ahead and catalog them? I’m picturing Brian with seven mortuary beds laid out ready in the police station. If this has really been going on this long, surely they have practical procedures in place.