I shoot her a side-eye. “Is there another Matthew here I’ve never met?”

“When it matters,” she amends, sighing. “Be quick; you don’t want the Smiths wandering over here and finding out this way.”

I walk with her back to the kitchen door and peek in at Charlie, resting his head on his elbows, staring at the light dancing on the wooden tabletop, Emma peeling stickers from a sheet and gently placing them into her sticky curls. She sips orange juice from a plastic cup, and a little dribble slides down her chin and I need to go in there, to wipe it up for her, but then I’ll never leave.

“I will protect them with my life.” I’ve never heard anyone say this so fiercely as Jo. “You know I will.”

“I know.” I walk away, backward, watching them disappear from view, the kitchen door getting smaller. “Oh God. I can’t.”

I curse and breathe and curse again, my heart flapping, frantic. This could be the last time I see them. It defies logic, even parent logic. I cannot imagine leaving my children or losing my children. Even as my eyes well up, my fear goes numb. My brain won’t allow the idea of it.

I cannot imagine what Avery’s parents are about to go through, what I’m about to put them through. They’ll need someone who understands. In that way, I’m glad he’s coming.

Matthew scratches the back of his neck as he watches me cross the lawn. When I reach him, he nods to the house. “He left this to you, then.”

“I took it on myself.” We walk up the drive, a few yards separating us. Meters, whatever. I cross my arms against the sea breeze, but breathe it in deeply. I feel impossibly awake. Everything looks sharply edged, vivid, jewel colored. “You don’t have to come with me. I know the way.”

Instead of determined, my voice comes out prickly. Maybe it always does. It’s no wonder he avoids me. Maybe he can see me more clearly than everybody else here.

“Do you want to be alone?” he asks.

That’s a more complex question than it should be.

“No,” I finally say.

We pass into the empty lane of the village, our footsteps crunching. The pub is closed—vacant, it seems. The terraced cottages are quiet and dark. It seems that people are either at home hiding from the Day or up at the house, facing it. Matthew and I are alone out here together, and I feel it.

Breaking the silence between us is like stirring concrete. “How should I put it to them?”

“They’ll know already when they see you coming.”