He gave her his gaze, full and hard and hateful. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Sara had the feeling of a line being drawn, of stepping across it, passing over a threshold from which they would never return. She should back down, be quiet, accept his word.

Instead, she said, “They found remains, didn’t they? I don’t know what. Bones, I suppose. That’s all there could be after all these years. Mary told me, they planted them like seeds. Is that what they found? Did they find the children?”

Damien held her stare as he slowly shook his head.

“And they called Francie,” Sara said. “They called your father and he came and he looked and he saw the remains, but they didn’t do anything, did they? They didn’t call the police because it would’ve messed everything up. There would’ve been an investigation, more digging, and the site would’ve had to close. So they said nothing.”

“Stop talking,” Damien said, his forefinger raised. “Shut your mouth right now and don’t you say another word.”

“Did they take the remains somewhere else?” Sara asked, closing the space between them. “Or did they just dig over them?”

“Shut up.”

“I suppose it would make more sense just to dig over them, bury them deeper. Is that what happened? Are we walking on graves?”

Damien glared at her for a moment, breathing hard, before he gathered up the bundle of newspapers and carried them to the sink. He dropped them in and opened a drawer, then another, and a third before he found what he wanted: a box of kitchen matches.

“Don’t,” Sara said. “They’re not ours.”

He struck a match, held it over the sink filled with old paper.

“Don’t,” she said again, crossing the kitchen to him, reaching for his hand.

He dropped the match, but the fall extinguished it. As he fished another from the box, Sara took hold of his wrist. He pulled his hand away, back, then swung it up, hard and fast.

The back of his hand connected with her jaw, the impact staggering her. She took three steps back before the room tilted, spilling her to the floor. Her vision tunnelled and sparked. She saw the matchbox fall, matches spilling.

Damien stood over her, his arms at his sides, his shoulders rising and falling.

“I . . .” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t have grabbed me like that.”

Sara got to her knees, then to her feet. She tasted blood and knew she had bitten the inside of her cheek. The room swayed, but she held her footing, went to the hall.

“Love, stop, come on,” Damien called after her as she opened the front door.