In a world that’s kinder than this one, my brother is standing over a cake, flames from the birthday candles dancing over his face, and he’s laughing.

He was always laughing.

In this world, Oliver and I hold hands and walk along the Seine, William’s ghost keeping pace beside us.

Maxine and Lena are still up when I return to the flat after dark.

They’re sprawled across the drawing room floor, a game of backgammon between them. Maxine is levitating a black chip, twirling it between her fingers, so I don’t know if it’s going well.

“She’s cheating,” Lena says as I enter the room.

“Am not,” Maxine retorts.

“No progress on my father’s papers then?” I interrupt their bickering.

Maxine shakes her head. “We snagged my father’s newspaper from this morning, but there were no additional details about the murder. We think we should go to the church tomorrow to investigate for ourselves.”

I nod. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

Outside, a sudden summer rainstorm taps against the window, making the room feel like a cocoon against the cold and wet.

“Where were you?” Lena asks. I hate that she sounds worried for me.

“With Oliver. Today is my brother’s birthday. We went for a walk.”

Lena looks sympathetic, but Maxine lies back on the carpet and barks a laugh. “I hope you celebrated him better than you celebrated me.”

Maxine has never let a single thing go. Me and the little girls making the world’s least appetizing Pavlova last September for her birthday celebration is something she’ll never let me live down.

“How could I have known little Flossie Packard snuck corn into the batter?”

“There were whole kernels, Frances! You think you would have seen them as you stirred!”

“I thought I’d overwhipped the egg whites!”

Lena laughs. “I sent you a lovely card and that’s why I’m your favorite.”

Maxine flicks the backgammon piece at her. “You already were.”

We’re startled by a rapping at the window, sharper than raindrops.

First short, a single tap. Then a rapid tap, tap tap.

“Did you hear that?” Lena whispers.

“Was it the rain?” Maxine offers.

As if it can hear us, it begins again, urgent and too precise. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Not the rain,” I say.

Lena pushes herself up off the ground, the bravest of us, and crosses the room to press her face to the window that looks out to the street.

“There’s… a figure. A man, I think.”

Tap, tap.

She turns to us and chuckles softly. “Good Lord, it’s pebbles. He’s throwing pebbles.”

Maxine laughs and falls to the floor in relief. “Looks like your Romeo isn’t quite ready to say goodbye.”