Diana stood alone in the kitchen, listening to the trudge of his feet on the stairs and the slam of his bedroom door. After a few minutes she popped the cork and took a thoughtful swig, straight from the bottle. She kicked her shoes off and went outside, making silent toasts—to the sea, to the house, to her sleeping son, to herself—as she wandered barefoot among the roses.

It grew cold when night fell, and Diana came indoors. Champagne bottle in hand—there were still a couple of mouthfuls left—she went up to the bedroom and threw open the wardrobe doors.

Top-quality, well-ironed shirts had been important to Mr. Byrne, and he’d amassed quite a collection over the years. Every time he unfolded a fresh one he would inspect it closely, and if there were creases or signs of wear he’d have something to say.

Diana tossed them over her shoulder one by one, forming a silky, crumpled, champagne-stained carpet on the floor. She walked across them with her soil-caked feet, and sat on the chair by the window.

The house—like her son—was studiously silent. Diana thought about her pale, tongue-tied boy with the bruise under his eye. What had the bruise been for? Failure in some school exam? Well, there’d be no more of that. Let’s call it a parting shot, she thought with a thin smile, and watch how quickly it fades.

The moon was white and bloated like her husband’s face as he lay on the beach with his mouth and eyes agape.

“You leave my son alone.” She pushed the window wide open and spoke into the night. “Now that you’re gone, stay gone. Byrne Hall has enough ghosts without you.”

The moon stared back at her, speechless. Diana staggered to her feet, drained the last of the champagne, and made for the bed. A man’s torso was lying on top of the quilt: headless, handless, sprawling and obscene, his arms thrown wide and wild. A whole minute passed before she dared to hook a finger under the well-starched collar and drop the shirt onto the floor.

Chapter 5

5

“You’re brave,” I called as I reached the sand, and Maggie came wading toward me out of the surf. It was a cloudless sunrise but cold, and I’d brought my towel and costume out of habit rather than intent. I was wearing Cory’s sweater over my T-shirt; he’d given it to me the other day when I was complaining I’d only packed for summer.

“It’s all right once you’re in,” she said, breathing hard and rubbing her hair with a towel. I sat on my usual rock, hugging my knees and looking away while she dried herself and dressed. She took a thermos flask from her bag, poured a cup of milky coffee, and handed it to me, shaking her head dismissively when I thanked her.