“Let me tell you why I came,” I said, “and then I’ll be out of your hair. You see, the thing is, my elder sister—”

“Stella Lyell?” The name seemed to drop of its own accord from Cory’s mouth, and Diana’s fidgety hands fell still.

“I knew you reminded me of someone!” Cory threw me one of his almost-smiles, which fell again when he added, “She went missing, didn’t she? And they found her under the cliffs, just along from here. It was a big story in the local press.”

“Yes,” I said. “It will be five years ago in October.”

“Five years,” he echoed.

I thought he was going to apologise for speaking out of turn—people often apologised when they referred to Stella—but he didn’t, and I was glad of it. There was too much whispery circumspection around Stella’s name. She had gone missing round here, and she had died, and she had looked like me. They were facts; why should he be shy of stating them?

“Mum?” Cory moved his hand to his mother’s shoulder. “Do you remember Stella Lyell?”

Diana nodded, although she didn’t seem entirely sure.

“But you only knew about her from the news?” I said. “You didn’t meet her in real life?”

The muscles squirmed along Diana’s jawline. I wanted to look at him—not her—but my eyes kept straying. She was like a barrier stretched out between us. Her legs reminded me of boiled chicken bones, with the flesh all fallen away.

The room was getting darker by the second. It was different from the darkness that comes with night—harsher, somehow, and metallic. There was no birdsong, as there is at twilight, and the seething sound of the rain seemed to deepen, rather than disrupt, the electric silence.

“I didn’t know her,” said Cory, “but I did meet her once. She sat for a quick sketch, which I may have made into a painting . . . In fact, I’m almost sure I did.”

“She was very beautiful.”

I meant it as a bald statement of fact, but Cory said, “Was she?” and I was struck by that. Everyone who met Stella in the flesh came away—one way or another—overwhelmed. Nobody, in my experience, was noncommittal with regard to my sister.

“Did you talk to her?”

“Not much. Or if we did, I’m afraid I can’t remember what we said. I just took a quick sketch and we parted, and a week or so later her photo was all over the local rag.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. I just . . .”

I thanked him, and went to the door to pick up my suitcase. I expressed my hope that Diana would be better soon—she made no reply—and suggested I’d better get going. Neither of them tried to stop me. One last look round the shadowy room, a quick glance at Cory’s grey eyes, and I was on my way, trundling my suitcase across the chequerboard floor. I thought about calling him into the hall and showing him the space where the portrait had hung, but what was the point? I wasn’t especially keen to see it again, anyway.