“I take an antihistamine for hay fever, if that counts.”

I find I’m laughing again. Carrie sweeps her phone light over me anxiously. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” No. Trust the people, Fiona said, not the story. She was right; I’ve been building a false narrative. I’ve probably been doing it all my life. “Light the candles off the hob.”

In a minute or two she has three lit candles held more or less upright in a pint glass, like some kind of abstract art version of a vase of flowers. The yellow light forms a glowing sphere by the table but deepens the shadows elsewhere. On the floor, mere feet away from me, Jamie groans. Carrie’s hands cease moving as she looks across at him anxiously, then at Fiona, then she resumes the search more frenetically. “Try the boot room,” I suggest. My voice sounds as if it comes from a place very far from me.

“Yes. Right. Good thinking.”

Carrie steps into the boot room, and I turn my head very slowly toward Fiona, maintaining contact between the back of my skull and the cabinet unit. She’s chewing her lip, the gun still trained on her brother. “How does this end?” I ask her quietly.

“We dinnae shoot him,” she says, just as quietly. “But—”

“Got it!” Carrie returns, holding aloft a roll of garden twine, which she puts on the table. She’s very pale, but it’s obviously helping her to focus on tasks. “I’ll call the police now. And an ambulance.” She frowns at her phone. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—no reception. I’ll have to go upstairs.”

“Call my dad first, will you?” asks Fiona. “See if he’s found Callum. But dinnae tell him about . . . all this. I need him focused on Callum.”

“Yes. Okay. Yes.” She eyes Jamie dubiously, then mutters, “Right, here goes,” and picks her way gingerly past his supine figure on her way out of the kitchen.

I start getting to my feet, which is more of a struggle than anticipated with one working arm. I have to grab at a drawer handle to get enough purchase to lever myself up. Jamie groans. Fiona glances wordlessly at me.