Jasmine found it hard to believe that the person her father was talking about was the man living in their guest house. There was no warmth about him at all. But her parents weren’t the kind of people who took risks, so they must have been pretty sure about Tim to let him live with them.

Jasmine’s room caught the sun for most of the day, and even with the curtains drawn the heat seeped in. She was tired that morning because she’d stayed up late reading a true crime book about women who killed. She found things like that fascinating, but her parents hated that she was into the macabre so she tried to read when they weren’t around. She wanted to read another chapter but it was just too warm in there and there probably wasn’t enough time before she went to school anyway.

Jasmine had just settled in the kitchen with a bowl of muesli and her summer art project – meant to build her portfolio for college – when Tim knocked on one of the French doors. She felt she had no choice but to nod that it was OK for him to come in, remembering that her father had told her to be nice to him. So far, Jasmine had no reason to question her father’s judgement of character and if he trusted Tim then she had to as well.

‘Your dad told me he wanted me to work on the lounge today. Do you mind if I get started now?’

‘Why would I mind?’ Jasmine asked, a little more aggressive than necessary.

‘I just don’t want to disturb anyone. Is your dad here?’

‘No, he left for work already. Mum’s still in bed,’ she replied, wondering if she shouldn’t have let him in after all.

Tim looked up as though he could see through the floor into her parents’ room. When there was no movement from upstairs, he relaxed a little, the deep furrow in his brow disappearing as he pulled a dining chair out and sat opposite Jasmine, almost reclining, his backside on the edge of the seat and one leg stretched out in front of him.

‘What you drawing?’

‘If you can’t tell then I’m doing it wrong,’ Jasmine said flippantly. She saw him smile and it was like looking at a different man; softer somehow, kinder.

He placed his palms on the table then stood and leaned over, tilting his head to look at the drawing. She couldn’t take his eyes off his forearms; they were strong and tan and still sported those tiny white flecks. From this distance she could hear him breathing.