I go out onto the lane and text Dad while I wait for Sean, so he can warn Julia. The grass at the back of Dean House stretches out and down to the border of the woods. A mist has settled and the trees are half-hidden, truncated. Instead of trees, they’re a regiment of brown-suited soldiers, silent and still, watching me.

There’s a pheasant on the grass, picking for worms with the smaller birds. It’s a scene that should be idyllic, but it’s not my house, not my view, and at the end of it all, always at the end of it all, the woods, the woods.

My head is full—of Julia, of Sean and Jack, the summer of death when everyone in the village lived in the grip of fear. I don’t want to be here. I want to be back in my flat, listening to city noises, smelling wet pavement and car fumes, the greasy breakfasts frying in the café on the corner. Two-for-one cocktails with Sophie, picking up city boys. Familiar comforts of a life I’ve adopted, the Tess I’ve become since leaving here. God, I even want to be back in the school corridors among all that noise and commotion, being mocked by Rebecca Martin.

“You ready?” Sean appears next to me.

I nod. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it was here.”

The pheasant takes flight and he smiles. “It is, isn’t it? I haven’t been back in so long. I might take some time while I’m here, explore the coast, take some walks.”

I stare at him, frowning as we walk out into the lane. “You’ve changed so much.”

“Have I?”

“You were always so…” I spread my hands out.

“So what?” He’s smiling again.

“Grumpy. Hostile. Always lurking and scowling and, well, scaring the shit out of me.”

His smile turns to laughter. “Was I really? That’s not how I remember it. You think I was hostile? It used to come off you in waves.”

A smile tugs unwillingly at the corners of my mouth. God, I wouldn’t be a teenager again if someone offered me a million dollars. Sean’s portrayal of us as truculent little jerks makes me think of Rebecca Martin again.

“There’s this girl I teach, she’s like that. So abrasive. Challenging me with every look and word. I guess…it’s all an act, isn’t it? It was with me.”

Sean nods. “Do you like it? Teaching?”

If I squint into the morning mist, I can almost see Bella, the day she told me she didn’t want to be a photographer anymore, that she was going to do a teaching course instead. Did I ever question her about it? It was such an odd and abrupt change—she’d wanted to be a photographer since she was twelve.

“It’s something I’ve been asking myself recently.” I cringe inside as I remember the time Rebecca Martin had annoyed me so much that I scrawled a D across her Shakespeare essay when it was worth at least a B, if not an A. “I don’t think I’m a very good teacher. I think I’d make a better landscape gardener. That’s what I wanted to do when I was a kid.”