“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks burning. I can’t have a conversation with Jack without ending up in awkward moments like this, feeling fifteen again.

He laughs. “Are you? You should be—you’re part of the reason we’re having trouble, after all.”

“Me? What…?”

“Apparently, I’m too distant. Apparently, I don’t commit. I blame it on my mother fucking off to another ready-made family.” He leans forward and the chair creaks. “Though I don’t think my mother has done any more good for you than she did for us, has she, Tess? You with your half-life, scared to sleep, and Leo watching her die, wasting away himself. And Bella…well, Bella certainly hasn’t come out of it well.”

I clench my fists, wanting to smack his stupid, laughing face. “Do you have to be so poisonous, all the time?”

His smile drops. “It’s all I’ve got left.”

“It’s not true. You have your brother. You have your mother upstairs—she’s not gone yet.”

“Which is why I’m here and not at work or home with my wife and son. To spend quality time with my dying mother.”

“So why are you out here? Why aren’t you upstairs?”

He puts the cigarette out, reaches for the packet, and lights another one. He offers the packet to me and I shake my head.

“She doesn’t want the curtains or the window open. The sun’s out but her room is like a crypt.”

“The daylight hurts her eyes.” She told me this last night. She sleeps most of the day. Like me, she’s awake most of the night. For the first time, my growing insomnia is a good thing because I’m awake to spend time with her when the demons come, whispering their death messages to her.

“All the clocks are wrong, have you noticed?” he says out of the blue.

I blink, wondering if I’ve missed half a conversation. He’s smiling at me again and I think I did zone out.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your dad has so many clocks—one in every room—but they all tell different times.”

I shake my head. “So?”

“I don’t mean a few minutes out. I mean hours out. It’s a different time in each room of your house. Don’t you think that’s strange? Midnight in the kitchen, four o’clock on the landing.”

I frown. Dad used to be religious about winding and synchronizing all the clocks he’s collected over the years. I got used to the ticking; it was like a heartbeat underlying everything. After a while, you stop hearing it. Have I noticed a slip in the rhythm since I’ve been back? Clocks ticking and chiming out of sync, adding to the loss of equilibrium I’ve felt.

“Dad’s got more important things to do than wind clocks.”