My hands are shaking as I open the envelope and my shoulders sag as I look at the first black-and-white photograph. It’s a squirrel on a wall, close up and beautifully detailed and shadowed, but it’s just a squirrel, not an answer to anything. The next couple are the same—a shot of the woods, moodily shadowed, one of the river, light playing on the water’s surface. I pause as I get to the next photograph. It’s me, standing in the garden at home, head bowed, curls covering my face. I never noticed her taking this. My heart thumps as I flick through the next ones. They’re of Dean House, taken at night. Darkness, dust, the creepiness of those empty rooms captured by Bella in stark black and white.

When did she take these? Did she visit Greg at night? Or did she go there alone—before she took me there? There’s the living room, the hallway, the stairs. I stop at the next one and then flick back through the others. What did I see? Something different. There, in the corner of that one. A shadow that when I squint takes on the shape of a figure. Whenever she took these photos, she didn’t go there alone.

There’s another photo, near the end, that shows the figure with more clarity. It’s a boy, facing away from her, dark clothes, head in shadow. I can’t tell who it is, but I can guess. I stare harder at the photo, willing it to come to life, willing him to turn and face me so I can be sure. It has to be Jack, who haunted her last months, who took her back to Dean House at night, who’s present in these photos, but hiding in the background. Hidden. Secret. Guilty.

The last photo, though, that’s the one that steals my breath.

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The morning of Julia’s funeral, I give up on sleep at six o’clock and tiptoe out of my room. Dad’s room is open and empty, so I’m not the only one struggling to sleep. He’s nowhere downstairs, and I worry until I catch sight of him in the garden. I fill two mugs with tea and go outside. He’s sitting on a peeling wooden chair on the terrace, staring at the daffodils that have just come into flower. Winter has turned to spring in the time I’ve been here. He doesn’t look up or seem to notice my approach and it makes me wonder if this is what he’s been doing when no one else was here and his wife was slowly dying upstairs.

“You’re up early,” I say.