“Oh, forgot to tell you, my lawyer called.” She has her head down, chopping chilies on a wooden board. “It turns out the investigating officer for my father’s disappearance was none other than Glen McCue.”

She pushes her fringe off her forehead with the back of the bent wrist that holds the knife and shakes her head blankly. “I don’t—”

“Jamie and Fiona’s father.”

That at least stops her in her tracks. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“He’s a policeman?”

“Was. He’s retired now.”

“Wow. Talk about close to home. Will he have to be involved with all of this?”

“A bit. I shouldn’t think it will be too onerous though: most likely just a phone interview.” She’s stirring the chopped chilies into the sauce, her back to me. “I was thinking someone ought to warn him it’s coming, though,” I say casually. “I don’t suppose you got a phone number from Jamie last night? He could pass on the message.”

“No, but I got Fiona’s. My phone is—oh, right there.” She points with her knife at the kitchen table, barely looking round. “But I’m seeing Fiona tomorrow. I could tell her then if you like.” She’s one hundred percent focused on the sauce as she says this. I have the feeling it’s deliberate. I consider, then discard any number of possible responses whilst my mind revolts from the same image as last night: Carrie and Fiona, their heads together, giggling at the kitchen table. Even to myself, it’s hard to explain the wrongness I feel about that, the dank cold dread that pools in my stomach.

“Well, thanks. Yeah, that would be great,” I say eventually, because there is nothing else that I can say. I’m too aware of the fragility of the truce that we’re enjoying. Somehow I know it will be shattered if I start casting aspersions about Fiona. “No rehearsal tomorrow then?”

“We’re getting Sundays off. At least for now.”

Tomorrow is Sunday. I’d rather lost track. “So are you . . . are you going for coffee or something?”

“She invited me to see the equestrian center.” She’s draining pasta now, in movements that are smooth and economical. A small hum escapes her to thread itself around the tinny melody emanating from the radio. It occurs to me that Carrie is enjoying herself. She actually likes to cook. The concept is extraordinarily alien to me.

“Does she work there?”