The things Diana really wanted to say would not be well timed—“She wasn’t for you . . . We didn’t really like her, did we? . . . Perhaps it’s best if she goes home now”—so she saved them up for later.

Cory said, “I love her so much.”

Diana’s relief warped into fear. The way he said it—“I love her so much”—made her feel sick. He sounded cold and strange and not childish at all.

She hesitated before patting his hand.

“So much,” Cory repeated. “You have no idea.”

Diana remembers lying in bed that night and staring at the ceiling, much as she is doing now. It was only five years ago, but there weren’t as many cracks in the plaster back then.

Cory was not in love, not even at the start. You only had to look at the febrile, untender paintings he made of the girl to know that they weren’t inspired by love.

If only Diana still had her faculties—her mind, her voice—she would take pleasure in pointing this out to the red-haired ghost.

Chapter 5

5

Cory opened the double doors of his mother’s wardrobe and dived in with both arms. Metal hangers clanked along the rail and plastic covers—the sort you get from a dry cleaner’s—swashed from side to side. Colours and patterns and fabrics flashed by: pinks and greens, zigzags and stripes, silks and chiffons.

“I have considered selling them, in the past,” he said. “It’s not like she’s ever going to wear them again, and most of them probably count as vintage nowadays. They might fetch quite a sum.”

“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. Diana was asleep only a few feet away.

“Anyway,” he went on, oblivious, “it’s a good job I didn’t. I can’t believe we haven’t thought about your outfit until now. Like, eight hours before the guests start arriving. How did we manage to overlook that?”

He puffed his cheeks out and shook his head. It was a gesture he’d made more than once this morning; he did it every time there was a glitch, or the faintest possibility of a glitch. I was tempted to be flippant—“Actually, I thought I might just swan around naked”—but he’d hate that, and if my betrayal were to have impact, he needed to trust me in the first place. Cory unhooked a dress from the rail and handed it over. As far as I could tell through the crinkled cover, it was a blue cocktail dress with big shoulders. Very 1980s.

“No,” he said, as I held it under my chin and turned to face the mirror.

“No,” I agreed.