“Hello.” I’ve lost a sense of perspective on exactly how much warmth I should project. Carrie crunches across the gravel, Fiona in her wake, looking at me rather as if I’m made of glass. Then in a rush, I add, “Is Callum okay?”

Fiona nods. “He’s fine. Really he is,” she adds, on seeing my dubious expression. “Dinnae worry. To be honest, he’s more worried about you. He didnae like the idea of you being here alone.”

“Are you okay?” asks Carrie searchingly.

“Fine,” I say brightly. Fiona hovers by the door when I step back to let Carrie in, an indecipherable expression on her face as she glances up at the facade of the Manse.

“Come on in,” Carrie says encouragingly, jerking her head, and she does. She’s been invited; I can hardly complain about it. And I wouldn’t want to either. I’m feeling wretched enough about Callum and the bones that in that moment my uneasiness around her seems exactly what it is: petty and unfounded.

“I can’t apologize enough,” I say to Fiona when we reach the kitchen.

“Dinnae be daft. You were doing me a favor, looking after Callum. You couldnae have known that would happen.”

“It’s probably nothing anyway,” says Carrie. “Most likely chicken bones, right?”

“Right.” But even as I’m speaking, I’m looking at Fiona, at her sharp wary eyes and determined chin, waiting for her to agree. She sees me looking, and she doesn’t say anything.

It doesn’t mean anything that she hasn’t said anything. It doesn’t.

I offer drinks and start to make tea, because that’s what you do when people come to your house, regardless of whether you’re comfortable with them being there—which I am, really I am—regardless of whether it’s entirely your house. Though I wonder if the Manse has ever truly belonged to anyone. There’s an odd expression on Fiona’s face as she looks around the kitchen, similar to Callum’s: But . . . but it shouldnae look like this. I want to ask her about whether Callum was really born here, but Carrie has picked up a block of paint swatches I’ve left on the table. “Are we redecorating?” she asks, settling into a chair.

“I thought I might repaint the kitchen, at least.” I got them from Ali’s hardware store, along with Finley and the cameras and a hefty dose of sarcastic repartee.

“Any particular color in mind?”

I lean over her shoulder to pick out a strip and point to one specific shade. It’s a strong purple, almost blueberry. “Just for that wall.” I point to the wall opposite the window. “The rest in one of the gazillion variations on white.”

“Bold choice,” says Carrie, sounding impressed. “I like it.” She holds it up to show Fiona. For a second Fiona looks startled, but then she smiles and nods in a noncommittal way.