“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. It’s not even him I’m upset at. Or maybe I am. Maybe I’m upset at absolutely everyone right now. I open the car door and get in. I’m probably soaking his luxury seats, but I really couldn’t care less. To be fair to him, he doesn’t seem to care either.

He drives in silence for a moment, sneaking nervous glances at me. It’s too murky to see clearly across to the other side of the valley. The mountains that I know are there are an ominous dark shadow, crouching like a giant beast ready to pounce. “You know what Fi said . . .” he starts hesitantly. “About it being . . .”

“Yes. What kind of person would say something like that? Without a shred of evidence?” Except I know why she would say it—and I know she believes it. I hate that one of my splintered selves believes it too.

“The thing is . . . The thing is, she’s always right.”

“Is this another piece of crap like time folding at the Manse?” My delivery is brutal. My filter has gone; it’s been blown sky-high by the roiling fury within me. I can’t even begin to describe how completely I want to wash my hands of Ben, Fiona, Jamie, the Manse, everything, everything, everything. I wish for the rain to wash me clean and clear and pure again, but it doesn’t seem to be that type of rain.

“Look,” he says patiently, but stubbornly. “The Manse is . . . whatever. The Manse is the Manse. But I can tell you, you’re just shooting the messenger. Fi is right. She’s always right. You can believe it or not, as you like. But if you choose not to, then you’re just ignoring the evidence. You’ve seen it yourself. We all have. Everyone round here knows it, whether they acknowledge it or not. She might not have a bloody clue what time it is or when things happened, but if she tells you something, she’s right.” He glances at me. I’m thinking of a drunken Fiona outside the Quaich: A Fi fact. Incontrovertible. I’m thinking of Piotr and the accident in front of him; I’m thinking of Callum’s football score. Callum. I will miss him, I think, and something twists in my chest, but we have to leave. I’ll tell Carrie; I’ll convince her to leave too. I should have left weeks ago. I should never have come back here in the first place.

Ben goes on after a moment. “So I wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. I should have gone to the police all those years ago. I know I should have. It would have made a difference in your life for you to know.”