“Who is it?” Sally asks, leaning against the counter. A sad smile is fixed on her face, a shield against sorrow. I’m not sure it’ll work.

“Two hikers,” I whisper first, nodding to Marit’s slumped back. It takes me a second to get past the easier answer. “And John Ashford.”

“Oh. Oh. That hurts.” She looks skyward, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “It always does. But.”

She lets out a huff. Shakes her head.

“Quick, though,” she says. It’s not a question.

“I think so,” I say, my eyes filling up again. “The truck rolled.”

She laughs. Loud.

I’m too shocked to even blink.

“That damned lorry! He loved it like a tarted-up mistress, and just look how it repays him!”

I shake my head at her. “Sally!”

She nudges me. “Come on! John’d be the first to appreciate the irony.”

Footsteps thud behind us. I press my lips together before I turn.

Hugh glowers at me from the other side of the low kitchen doorway.

Sally brushes her hands off on her apron. “I’ll just get some antiseptic for her feet. Won’t be a minute.”

She bustles out of the room and past Hugh like he’s a sleeping guard dog.

Hugh doesn’t even look at her. He’s glaring at Marit. “Who is this?”

I stand. “Hugh.”

Marit glances over her shoulder, as startled by his tone as I am.

I grab his arm and murmur, “She’s just lost two friends.”

“So you bring her into our home. Near our children.” He’s not even bothering to lower his voice.

I draw him forcefully out into the corridor and shut the kitchen door. “What is the matter with you?”

He looks away instead of answering.

“Of course I invited her in. That’s what you do when someone needs help.”

“Not on the Day—”

“I would think especially on the Day!” I grip his arm, fighting the urge to physically shake sense into him. “This isn’t like you.”

“This is exactly like me—ask anyone here.” He turns, eyes gliding away, around, anywhere but at me. “And it’s just bloody like you to act so cavalier, waltzing out like you have no responsibility to any of us. To Charlie. Emma. You’re just an island unto yourself, aren’t you, Nina? You could take all this or leave it.”

His hands are in his pockets, but it feels like he’s shoved me.

“Right. So. You’re trying to start a fight.”

I will coolness into my voice. It’s not easy—my hands are shaking—but I’ve had years of practice. Mom used to turn on a dime, in unpredictable moments, try every angle she could to get me to snap.

“Can you hear me? Are you deaf now on top of everything else?”

“Becca says you embarrassed her at school. She’s very upset. What do you have to say about that?”