“Yes. And we’ll end up staying here for breakfast . . .”

“And?”

Tom reddened. “It would be good to talk to you, on your own.”

Sounds ominous. I would have said it out loud in normal circumstances—in a lighthearted way—but not now.

I hung about while Tom scribbled a note for Dad and stuck it under the windscreen wiper. We set off down the drive toward Bligh, and I only looked over my shoulder a couple of times. The lawn was empty and, as far as I could tell, the house had all its eyes shut.

We plumped for the first café we saw. It was called Jeanette’s and there was a tinkly bell above the door, which made everyone—the four customers and a waitress—look up when we entered. Tom sat with his back to the window, and I sat opposite with the sun in my eyes. The light was bouncing off the water in the harbour, so pure and sprightly that everything else seemed squalid by comparison. The air inside the café was thick with dust, and there were toast crumbs in the sugar pot and greasy little handprints on the window. The room was too small for the number of tables, and the whole place smelled of vegetable oil and frying.

“What are you having?” Tom sighed, rubbing his face, as I unstuck my elbows from the plastic tablecloth and reached for a menu. The cloth was decorated with pink ice-cream cones and cartoon seagulls with goofy eyes, and it seemed strange to me. Everything seemed strange and hyperreal. I kept blinking as if I’d just left the theatre; as if I’d emerged from a startling play and come back to earth with a bump.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You decide.”

The waitress came over and Tom ordered two bacon sandwiches and two coffees.

“It’s a beautiful place,” he observed when she’d gone. “Byrne Hall, that is.”

I nodded dully. I couldn’t decide whether the flowers in the little white vase were real or fake; it was hard to tell just by looking. I touched the tips of the pink carnation and felt the prickle of plastic.

“And thingummy seems pleasant enough. Cory.”

Pleasant. I almost managed a smile. There was something funny about the way Tom said beautiful and pleasant. He didn’t quite turn them into dirty words, but he made them sound suspect.

“What’s his mother like?”

“Not very well. Confused, I think.”

Tom nodded and kept on looking at me.

“So? Have you seen the painting again?”

“What painting?”

There was a newspaper lying on our table; a copy of this morning’s local rag. I turned the pages listlessly and read the upside-down headlines. They were all depressing. Husband Led “Double Life,” Court Hears. Bereaved Couple Plead for Justice. Motorist’s Tyres Slashed.

“The painting.” Tom leaned forward for emphasis. “The painting of Stella. The whole reason you came back.”