Why had I assumed it would be Hugo Livingstone, Milena’s husband, who answered the door? The youth who stood in front of me was tall and skinny, all angles and joints. I thought he must be in his late teens. He had long, dark, unbrushed hair, eyes that were almost black. He was wearing boxer shorts and a faded T-shirt; as on the day of the inquest, he had a stud in his nose. I smiled cautiously at him but he stood blocking the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a flat, assessing stare on his face.

“Is Hugo Livingstone in?” I asked.

“No.”

“You’re his son, aren’t you? I saw you at the inquest.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He gave a mock bow, knees knobbly below his boxers, quite unembarrassed by his state of undress—indeed, I thought he was reveling in it. “Silvio Livingstone.”

“Silvio?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, in an assertive tone, as if daring me to comment on it.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I said.

“Stepmother.” The way he said it was so blatantly contemptuous that I was startled. He must have seen my expression change for he gave a challenging grin.

“I’m sorry all the same,” I managed. “Do you know when he—”

“No. He works from early to late.” Everything he said seemed to have a sarcastic ring. “It’s only me that lounges around.” He was obviously imitating someone when he said the last two words—his stepmother, I guessed.

“Right,” I said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“You’re his wife, aren’t you?”

I didn’t pretend not to understand who he was talking about, simply nodded.

“What do you want here, then?”

“I thought we should meet. Given everything.”

“You want to come in?”

“It was only if your father was here.”

“He isn’t.” He gave a shrug. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About them, of course.”

“No,” I said. “Did you?”

“Not about your husband,” he said.

For a reason I didn’t understand, I found I was more comfortable with this wretchedly sarcastic, angrily self-conscious young man than I had been with anyone else since Greg had died.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “Unless you think your dad would be angry.”

“It’s my house too.”

“Just for a few minutes, then. Maybe you could make me some coffee.”

“And you can ask me questions about her instead of asking Dad. At least I’ll be honest. I’m not the one she made a fool of.”