I think of Callum and the injured bird. That was from before. Or later. She must have infected her son with her warped thinking. Only I’ve seen the bird, too. Or have I? Did I see it the first day and then reconstruct the image in my mind on subsequent occasions? It was always the end of twilight, almost into night proper. The brain can make extraordinary leaps when trying to make sense of limited information in crepuscular light. “Doesn’t sound ideal for a prospective hotel property.”

He smiles a little at my caustic tone. “I’ll take my chances. How is all of that going?”

“It’s fine.” I spread the fingers of the hand that holds the wineglass in a What can you do? gesture. “It’s a process, the Presumption of Death thing. We’re working through it step-by-step.”

“I suppose it’s bringing up memories.”

“Not of my father, or not anything new, at any rate. But I guess it’s helping make sense of some of the memories I had of the house itself, and the landscape.” And of the police visits, and my mother’s barely reined-in hysteria.

“Did you . . . did you think he was alive somewhere, when you were growing up?” His attention is on his coffee. He only looks up when he’s almost finished speaking.

“Of course, at first—after all, I was only seven when he disappeared. Less so, as I got older, I suppose.”

“Do you think it would have made a difference to you if you’d known for definite? Either way, I mean?” But he doesn’t actually mean either way. I can see it in his eyes; Ben thinks my father is dead. He thinks he’s always been dead.

“A difference to what?”

He shrugs. “To you. Your life. Your choices.”

I almost laugh. I can’t think of a single thing that wouldn’t have been different, if we’d known for sure what had happened. My relationship with my mother, my desperation to get away, my personal interactions and relationships, or lack thereof . . . I would have to have been utterly lacking in self-awareness not to have considered how my father’s abandonment has impacted me psychologically. Even when I was screwing my way through university I had a fair idea of why I might be doing it.

Ben looks at my face. “Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. There’s an uncharacteristic bleakness to the set of his mouth. “I suppose not knowing was the worst thing.” I look at him, temporarily at a loss for what to say. It feels like he’s grieving, over what happened to me. He visibly shakes himself. “Anyway. When does Carrie’s play open? We should organize for a group of us to get tickets. I could borrow a minibus from the hotel or something.”