We sit at the table, the three of us, with a mug of coffee in front of Ben and me and tea in front of Ali. The mugs are part of a white china set, with various depictions of dogs cavorting round each one, and are wholly unsatisfactory, spindly where they should be solidly reassuring, and too hot to hold. If I were to stay, I would replace these. If I were to stay, which I won’t. Someone or something doesn’t want me here.

Ali clears his throat in a series of staccato half coughs. I’m trying not to look like I’m watching him closely, but I am. I’m watching Ben, too. “Where’s Carrie?” Ali asks, looking around as if she might suddenly appear.

“I don’t know.” I see a flash of something—what?—cross Ben’s face as I answer Ali’s question, and then he clears his features. It’s too deliberate, out of keeping with his natural openness. Jamie’s words float up to me. Nobody is such an open book as he makes out that he is.

“I’ve never been in here,” says Ali, looking around. “Apparently my dad wanted to buy it when it came on the market—when your folks bought it—but my mum wasnae having any of it. Too isolated.”

“I think my mum ended up wishing they hadn’t.” Both men look at me cautiously. Perhaps that didn’t come out as drolly as intended. “It’s weird that we didn’t see the dead fox on the way in,” I say again.

“I must have been too focused on the tire,” Ben says, absentmindedly rubbing at his neck where the collar of his light jacket touches it. He got it from the boot of the car, I remember. What else could he have taken out of the boot at the same time? Or perhaps Ali had the fox in his car. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Ben to let him know we were on our way back. Or maybe it was there all the time, and we just didn’t see it.

“So what’s been going on?” Ali’s jerky gaze is roving over my face. From his expression, I think he’s trying to be solicitous. It doesn’t sit well on his features.