Damien stood at the island, shrugging off his rain-damped jacket as he studied the stack of old newspapers on the island’s worktop. He lifted the one on top, a Belfast Telegraph, and read the headlines. A sigh escaped him as he slumped against the island.

“Fuck’s sake,” he whispered, loud enough for her to hear. He read the piece, his forefinger tracing the words, his breath deepening with his anger.

Sara cursed herself for not hiding them away. She remained locked in place, unable to move for fear of alerting him to her presence but knowing that she must. She went to speak, her inhalation giving her away. His gaze shot from the page to her. He stared, unmoving, unreadable. She breathed out but no words followed.

When she could stand the silence no longer, she said, “You’re home.”

Stupid, stupid words, her tongue betraying her guilt.

Guilt? What for? She had done nothing wrong, had she?

“Yeah,” he said, a smile splitting his face, an ill fit that went no further than his lips. “I finished up early.” He looked down at the newspaper. “What’s this?”

With terrible effort, Sara took another step into the kitchen. “I was just reading up about the house.”

“Where’d you get these?” he asked.

Sara scrambled for a lie but could find nothing. As one part of her mind searched, another part told her the longer she stood in silence, the worse it would be. She had no choice but to tell the truth.

“Tony brought them,” she said, as if it didn’t matter at all.

“The spark?”

“Yes. He told me his grandfather collected old newspapers, they were still in his mother’s attic. So he dug these out. You can ask him.”

Damien cracked a joyless smile and said, “Don’t you worry, I’ll ask him all right. And what exactly did you find out from these?”

Sara took another step closer. “About the family,” she said. “Not a family, exactly, but there were three men and two women, and Mary, she was just a little girl when—”

“When one of the men lost his head and killed everyone then himself,” Damien said. “That’s what you found out.”

“I don’t know if it was as simple as that, no one really—”

“It’s history,” he said. “Sixty years ago. What are you dredging all this up for? What good could it do you? Why do you think this place was so cheap? They died. That’s the end of it.”

“They died,” Sara said, her anger rising in spite of her fear. “That’s right. All but one of them died in this room. How am I supposed to feel about that?”