Carrie. The thought propels me straight through the hallway and through the doorway, the door a few inches ajar, into her bedroom. Instantly I can hear her breathing: She’s safe. Some of the tension drains out of me. My eyes are adjusting, and I can see her lying peacefully on her back, one arm flung loosely out, her torso only half concealed by the duvet. She’s not wearing any nightclothes. I back out of the room quickly, feeling like a voyeur.

Back in the hallway, I try to work out which bedroom Fiona must be in. The remaining one on this floor, surely? It’s larger than those upstairs; it’s what I would offer to a guest. The door is closed. If there’s a light on inside, it’s not clear from the crack under it. I stand mere inches from it, then millimeters, straining to hear any noises from within, but I can’t hear anything above my own heartbeat in my ears. It would be extraordinarily rude to open the door, but I couldn’t care less right now; it was extraordinarily rude of Fiona to open my own bedroom door—rude, and sinister, and so very strange. There’s no way I will get to sleep until I’ve made sure I know exactly where she is, and even then, I’m fairly certain I still won’t manage it. Extremely slowly, holding my breath, I carefully depress the handle. It turns, and turns more, and finally—click—it gives. The door opens with the sound of a small moan.

I look at the gap. Three inches perhaps. I can’t hear anything from within the room. Reluctantly I push the door open a little more, enough to be able to peer into the bedroom. The bed is opposite the door; I can see the dark gray cuboid of it, a little darker than its surroundings on account of the navy bedspread. My breath is held, but my eyes are beginning to adjust; I can see a pale blob in the bed. There’s something odd about it, though. Surely it’s not big enough to be a person . . . and I can’t hear any breathing. I feel around the doorframe and press the light switch.

And then I start screaming. Because there is a skull in the middle of the bed.

My father is in many pieces. Two hundred and six, to be exact. Six are in a police lab somewhere, undergoing testing. One is laid out on a navy bedspread, as if on a giant presentation cushion, like the crown jewels. It’s hard to pin down the other one hundred and ninety-nine. They’re in the Manse, certainly, as he was at one time, but they slide in and out of focus and then abruptly, they slip, and they’re gone.

EIGHTEEN