“Never a formal introduction, no,” Clay said. “She was a bit older than Henry, I think.” Clay got quiet for a moment and tilted his glass from side to side, swirling the last few sips at the bottom. “When he moved here, Henry was something of a recluse; we all knew he’d lost a kid.” Clay sat up slowly. “Didn’t see them for a while, even Charlie, and then …” Clay let out a pained sigh. “Jen was around for about a year, and she was the one watching the kid. Jen stuck to Charlie’s side like glue. I guess Henry just didn’t trust people anymore, and I can’t blame him.”

“I always kind of got the impression …” John paused, choosing his words again. “Charlie always gave me the impression that she was kind of cold.”

“Well, like I said, after something like that,” Clay said. “I was surprised when Jen took Charlie, after Henry died,” he went on.

“What about Charlie’s mother?” John asked hesitantly. It felt intrusive to pry, worse because Charlie was not here: he felt like they were talking about her behind her back.

“No, Charlie’s mother ran off before her and her father moved to Hurricane,” Clay said. “Henry never said anything bad about her mother. He pretty much never said anything about her at all, but I asked one day, just out of curiosity. Maybe it was the detective in me; I couldn’t help myself. He thought a long time before answering me, then he gave me this sad look, and he said, ‘She wouldn’t know what to do with my little girl.’ I backed off the subject after that. I mean, I knew they’d lost another kid. I guess I assumed Charlie’s mother had had some kind of breakdown, or else just found herself unable to care for a child so much like the one she’d lost. I think it should be said, though, to her aunt Jen’s credit, Charlie seems to have turned out all right.” He smiled and gave a nod. “She’s a bit odd, but she’s a good kid.”

“She’s unique, for sure,” John said.

“Unique, then,” Clay said drily. The walls trembled briefly as a strong wind passed over the house. John cast his eyes around the room uncomfortably, then lit on something familiar in the corner, tucked away between the end of a bookshelf and the wall.

“Is that Ella?” John asked, pointing. Clay looked blank for a moment.

“The doll? That turned up in the rubble of Charlie’s old house. The rest got hauled away, but I kept that.”

“Her name is Ella,” John said. “Charlie’s dad made her, she used to go around on a track, carrying a tea set.”

“I asked Charlie if she wanted it,” Clay said. “She wasn’t interested.”

“She wasn’t?” John repeated, alarmed. Clay shook his head absently.