There were more stories in the newspapers today. I walked to the village shop and there was Dean House, on the front pages of several of the national papers. It’s only a matter of time before Bella’s death reappears in connection with it. The local paper has already run a story asking, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ARABELLA COOPER? I haven’t told Max and Lena. I don’t know if they’ve seen the stories as well, if they’re just avoiding discussing it with me. It sits between us—between me and Max, anyway. Lena appears to be asleep, face white under her dark glasses and newly dyed black hair. She looks the same as she did back then, regressing, like I am.

“Tess?” Dad appears at the back door and I’m glad to get up, away from Max’s mirrored gaze. “Will you sit with Julia awhile? She’s awake and she asked for you.”

I nod and go upstairs, putting the sunglasses away as I enter the gloom of her room. The curtains are closed, only a narrow shaft of light coming through the gap in the middle. She’s awake and watching me as I walk across the room to sit by the bed.

“Hey, lovely,” I say. “It’s a beautiful day out there. Maybe later we could go out in the garden for some fresh air?”

She shakes her head and winces. “I don’t think so, Tess. I’m so tired.”

I swallow down a lump in my throat. How stupid of me—that optimism when I spoke to Sophie, my ridiculous hopes of remission. The strength that got her out of bed those first few days when we came back…looking at her now, I don’t know where she found it.

“I wanted to tell you…” she says, and I wait for her to catch her breath and continue.

“I wanted to talk to you about Ellie. About the accident and after…”

“You don’t have to,” I say, touching her hand. Leaning closer, I realize her breath smells sour, as though the rot inside her is creeping out. I resist the childish urge to hold my breath—don’t let it in, don’t let it get you too. “Dad told me. You don’t need to talk about it.”

“I want to,” she says. “I need to. My boys won’t listen and I want…if I tell you, you can try to explain to them why I had to leave.”

In the darkness of her room, leaning in close to hear the whisper of her voice, holding her cold, thin hand, her story becomes a fairy tale—not a Disney version, but a Brothers Grimm tale, a Hans Christian Andersen tale.