I don’t think she heard him. Or maybe she’s in too much shock about Dale to deal with anything else. Her eyes are red from crying. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for her. That is, if this isn’t some mysterious scheme cooked up by her and Dale.

I lift one of the candleholders. “Here, take this in case the power goes off again. Have you still got a lighter?”

She pats her pocket. “Yeah.” She eyes the corridor uncertainly.

“I’ll come with you.” I brace myself to get up.

But Brent gets to his feet. “I’ll take her.”

He snatches up the brandy bottle as they leave.

Curtis grips his forehead. “Am I losing my mind to think my sister’s out there?”

I check the corridor to make sure Heather’s gone. Curtis is going to flip when I tell him, and Heather has enough on her plate right now. “You know the credit card transactions? How much was spent?”

“About three grand.”

“In France or the UK?”

“France, and right across Europe in shops and restaurants. Mum and Dad didn’t know what to do. If it was her or someone else. They gave her that card for emergencies. Her sponsors weren’t paying her anywhere near as much as mine were. You know what she’s like. She has expensive tastes.”

I notice the tense he uses. She has expensive tastes. He really thinks she’s still alive. I must have misunderstood him earlier. He didn’t kill her. But what else could he be keeping from me?

He sighs. “Dad stopped the card eventually. My parents nearly split up over it. Mum didn’t speak to him for weeks.”

“Couldn’t they trace the transactions?” I say. “From security cameras or something?”

“The police did their best, but the restaurants didn’t have cameras. A few of the shops did, but the images were poor. Could have been anyone.”

I take a deep breath. “You’re not going to like this,” I tell him. “It wasn’t Saskia. It was Dale.”

Curtis looks at me, stunned. I tell him about the conversation I overheard earlier.

Good thing Dale and Heather aren’t here right now. Rage is coming off Curtis in waves. He’s doing his best to hold it in but the little muscles in his jaw clench; his foot taps a rapid beat on the floorboards.

“It’s weird, though,” I say. “Wouldn’t they have needed her PIN number?” At least if they were using the card in France and Switzerland.

A bitter laugh from Curtis. “She’d written her PIN on a bloody Post-it note that she kept with the card. Left it lying on her kitchen counter. I gave her a hard time about it but it was still there the next time I went round. She was clueless sometimes. It wasn’t her money, so she didn’t care.”