“No,” he said. “I need you here while the work’s going on.”

“You said I’ve to leave the electrician alone. But you want me here. Which is it?”

She held his stare, would not drop her gaze, even as a deeper part of her mind said, danger, beware. Don’t push him. But she needed to talk to the woman. Needed to. She let her arms stretch, let the cardigan’s sleeves creep up past her wrists, letting the red, angry tracks on one forearm into the light.

“Just do what I’ve asked you,” he said, his voice sharp and flat like a blade. “Please.”

Sara swallowed and said, “I think I’ll do what I want.”

Damien stepped out of the doorway, came close to her. As he opened his mouth to speak, there came a knock on the door.

“That’ll be Tony,” Sara said.

Damien glared at her for a moment, reached for her right sleeve, pulled it back down to her wrist, then went back to the doorway and the hall beyond. He opened the front door, revealing Tony on the step, his toolbox in one hand, a backpack in the other.

“Morning,” Tony said. “Here, the supplier didn’t have those switch plates in yet. He told me he’ll have them by lunchtime. I’ll go and get them then, all right?”

Damien didn’t answer. He brushed past Tony and went to his car. Tony entered the house and closed the front door behind him. He leaned into the kitchen.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

Sara forced a smile, snugged her hands into the cardigan’s pockets. “Yes. Can I get you anything?”

“Maybe later,” he said, setting his toolbox on the floor. “I need to get on, but I brought you these.”

He carried the backpack over to the island and placed it on the worktop. Sara watched as he unzipped it and pulled out a bundle of yellowed newspapers.

“There wasn’t much,” he said. “A few Belfast Telegraphs, a couple of News Letters, and an Ulster Gazette.”

She stood confused for a moment before she remembered he’d promised to look in his mother’s attic for old newspapers with stories about the house. A sickly chill appeared in her stomach as she realised she wasn’t sure how much she really wanted to know.

Tony spread them out in front of her, eight newspapers in all.

“That’s them in order of date,” he said.

She read the headlines. Black letters screamed over yellow.

Police Seek Identity of Mystery Child.

Massacre on Family Farm.

Five Dead in Farmhouse Shooting.

Son Suspected of Killing Family, Then Self.

“My God,” Sara whispered, placing a hand on her stomach.

“Maybe you shouldn’t read them,” Tony said. “I can take them away.”

“No,” Sara said. “I should read them. I should know.”