“Homo—” It never occurred to me that she would think my aversion was because of homophobia. “You’ve got to be kidding. I couldn’t give a monkey’s if you sleep with men, women or sheep; you can fuck the entire animal kingdom in alphabetical order if you want. I just don’t want you anywhere near Fiona.”

“What—”

“That woman just finished telling me she knows my father is dead, despite having no evidence, which is twisted and fucked-up beyond belief, on top of being just plain nasty, and her favorite game growing up was playing dolls with an actual skeleton. An actual skeleton! Which, incidentally, may or may not have been my father, and which she utterly failed to tell the police about. And that’s not even mentioning her obsession with this place.” I fling an arm out as if to sweep the Manse into the ring. “Did you know she even thinks my father was her father?” There are hot tears spilling down my cheeks. Carrie is frozen, staring at me with wide eyes. “So excuse me if I feel slightly ill at the idea of her in bed with my sister. But hey, you don’t even think enough of me to tell me the truth, so I guess it’s not my place to care.” A sudden thought occurs to me. “Wait, was she sleeping in your room that night? When I found the skull?” I can see from Carrie’s flush that I’m right. I looked in, I saw Carrie; how come I only saw Carrie? But I already know the answer: because Carrie was naked and that made me feel like I was invading her privacy, and I had no reason to look past her. Fiona could easily have been beyond her in the dark.

Unless she was elsewhere in the house. Placing a skull on a bed, perhaps.

Carrie’s phone has started to ring, faceup on the table in front of us. Both of us look at it involuntarily as the caller ID lights up the screen. Fi M. Of course it would be fucking Fiona. Carrie looks at me, then at the phone again, then back at me. It’s still ringing. “Take it.” The words are crimson and savage; they seek to rip and tear. “Ask her about it. Ask her about it all.”

“Ailsa—”

“Take it.”

And she does, like I knew she would, like I told her to, but it still feels like she’s made her choice as she reaches out for the phone. I leave the room.

•   •   •

Sometime later I hear the door slam. The instant she’s gone, the Manse abandons all pretense of silence. The wind has picked up outside, and I can hear it throwing rain at the windows, rattling the glass in its lead casing and whistling through the eaves. Closed doors strain at their frames. The bathroom door bangs.