She returned his smile and lifted a basket from a stack by the door. Browsing the shelves and chillers, she selected milk, butter, a half-dozen eggs, then came to the rows of bread. She chose a wheaten loaf, which she knew Damien liked, along with something called Irwin’s Nutty Krust, which came wrapped in waxy orange and white paper. She added a bag of apples to her basket, some oranges, plums, and then browsed the vegetables. Peppers, onions, courgettes; there was some dried pasta at home, and tinned tomatoes. Perhaps she could make up a ragu for dinner. It seemed an age since she had really cooked anything.

As she brought her items to the counter, the man winked and said, “That’s not a local accent.”

“No,” she said. “I’m from just outside Bath, originally.”

“Ah, an English girl.”

She almost bristled at being called a girl, but his easy manner disarmed any offence he could have caused.

“My husband’s from Lurgan,” she said, placing the basket on the counter. “We just moved into an old farmhouse out the road. The Ashes, it’s called, because of the trees around it. It still needs a lot of work, but it’s getting there.”

He looked more closely at her now, as if he hadn’t really seen her before.

“The old Jackson place?” he asked.

His friendly manner had cooled, and the urge came upon her to leave the basket and exit the shop. She gave him her warmest smile as she searched her memory for the name Tony had given her.

“You’re Mr. Buchanan, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he said, his expression drawn and tight.

His scrutiny burned her, as if she had done him some wrong by coming here. She should say nothing more, pay for the groceries and go. But she wanted to know.

“Someone told me you know Mary, the woman who lived there before us.”

“Aye, I do. In fact, I was about to take a spin over to the care home and see how she’s doing. I was told she wandered off early this morning.”

“Yes,” Sara said, a defensive feeling rising in her. “She came to the house around six, knocked on the door. She was confused. My husband brought her back.”

“Well,” Mr. Buchanan said, lifting the first item from her basket and ringing it up on the till. “So long as she’s safe, that’s the main thing.”

“I wondered about her,” Sara said.

“Aye?”

He seemed to have no desire to discuss Mary further, but Sara’s time working with vulnerable children had taught her that such apparent reticence is often deceptive. Coax him a little and he might open up.

“About what happened to her. About what happened out at the house all those years ago. I tried searching online but I couldn’t find much.”

Mr. Buchanan looked up from the till, studied her, his eyes watchful.