Mag-log inEstelle’s POVI was standing near the cake table when Claire passed me on her way out of the room.I watched her go. Then I set my glass down on the cake table and went after her, before I had finished giving myself permission.She was at the far end of the corridor, by the cloakroom door, with her hand flat on the wall.She wasn’t crying. She had done the thing she did right before she cried—the swallow, the chin lift—and stopped herself before the line.“Claire.”She turned slowly.“Estelle.”“Are you all right?”“I’m fine, Estelle.”I opened the cloakroom door. I did not look at her. I held it.She went in. I followed. I shut the door behind us. Claire stood with her back to the sink and I leaned against the door.“I was watching the toast that’s coming,” she said quietly. “I was watching Helena. She has not stood for anything yet. She will stand for that one. She wants me to know she will, and she wants me to feel it.”She breathed out.“Estelle.”“Yes?”“I am not going to apologi
Estelle’s POVI was downstairs before the birds.Five forty-seven on the kitchen clock, which I noted because the clock was the first thing I could focus on after the light switch. I filled the kettle and got to the table before I remembered what day it was.I sat with the mug in both hands.Chloe came down at eight twenty-five in the dress.The dress was yellow. Nobody in the store had sold it to her as aggressive. Chloe had made it aggressive by force of will. It was the color of a highway sign. She walked into the kitchen with her hands on her hips.“Well.”“Chloe, you look—”“Don’t.”“—extraordinary.”“Thank you.”Daisy laughed wetly into her coffee.Lucas came down four minutes later in the bowtie and a plastic shark. I raised my brow, pointing at the shark. He shrugged and walked to the couch. He sat down very straight to wait to be useful.I went back upstairs at nine. Harrison was in the bathroom with the shower running.I put on the dress, zipping it myself. I checked the hem
Harrison’s POVThomas came over at one with his own hammer and a fresh bag of nails.He didn’t bring mine. I noted that and didn’t ask.“You’re early.”“I’m on time,” he said mildly, setting the bag on the patio table. “You’re late, because you haven’t started.”“I was going to start at one.”“It’s one-twelve, Harrison.”“Thomas.”“I brought the right nails this time.”Lucas was already on the step with his shark book facedown across his knee. He hadn’t looked up from Thomas in about ten minutes. Inside, Chloe was shouting at Estelle about a sheet of lists. Lucas had excused himself from that situation at nine. He had not been called back.“Hi, Thomas,” Lucas said promptly.“Hi, Lucas.”“Are you fixing Dad’s fence?”“I’m helping your dad fix his fence.”“Dad did it wrong.”“So I understand.”Lucas sank back into the book.We walked down to the corner section I’d put up for his birthday three weekends back. The slats had bowed out by Thursday. Estelle had noticed. She had not commented
Estelle’s POVHelena Donovan called me Thursday evening.I was on the couch with a cooking show playing on mute, my feet tucked under a blanket, a glass of wine at my elbow I had forgotten to drink. Harrison was upstairs. Chloe was at the kitchen table doing her Spanish homework out loud to herself because she said repeating the conjugations helped. Lucas was in his room reading a book about basking sharks.My phone rang, and it said Helena Donovan.I sat up slowly. I paused the television. I let it ring a second time before I picked up.“Hello?”“Estelle. It’s Helena.”“Yes. Hi.”“I was hoping you and I could have coffee tomorrow morning. Somewhere quiet. I won’t keep you long. It’s about Saturday.”Harrison had warned me she had gone to Claire’s. He had told me about the four rows and the don’t-turn-around. He had not warned me she might call.“Of course,” I said.“There is a coffee shop on Blackwell Road near the roundabout. I can be there at nine.”“I’ll be there at nine.”“Thank
Claire’s POVThe bell rang at ten past ten.I was drying a mug that had dried itself ten minutes ago. That was how my Wednesday mornings went now—I would pour a cup of coffee I did not drink, wipe down counters that did not need wiping, fold a dishtowel I had already folded, and wait for the clock to tell me it was an acceptable hour to telephone someone.I set the mug on the drainer. I went to the door.Through the peephole I saw a cream wool coat, pearl studs, and silver hair pinned the way it had been pinned in every society photograph I had ever seen of the woman wearing it. Helena Donovan. On my doorstep. On a Wednesday.My hand went to the collar of my blouse, checked it, and dropped.I opened the door.She stood on the mat the way she stood in those photographs—back straight, handbag at her shoulder, collar flat—and she did not apologize for coming unannounced. She did not smile. She waited.“Helena,” I said again, because my mouth had not yet caught up with my brain.“Good mor
Harrison’s POVKarl brought a Barolo he’d been saving. Thomas brought nothing, because Thomas never brought anything to dinner except himself and the faint smell of sawdust.The restaurant was a small Italian place on the west side that Karl had chosen for the booths in the back where nobody would bother us. The hostess seated us at seven-fifteen.Karl slid into one side of the booth. Thomas sat next to him.I sat across from both of them, which felt strange for about thirty seconds and then didn’t.Karl ordered the risotto. Thomas got a steak, medium, with a baked potato—the kind of plain, straightforward meal you order when you’ve spent years eating whatever was put in front of you and just want to choose something simple.I got pasta.Karl poured the wine without ceremony. Thomas drank carefully, slowly, as if he still wasn’t entirely convinced he was allowed.“So,” Karl said, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. “Harrison Emerson is getting married. Again.”“Again,”
Harrison’s POVThree days I’d been parked outside her building like some kind of criminal.Different spots each time. Across the street the first morning, further down the block the second. Today I’d found a space with a clear sightline to the front entrance, half-hidden behind a delivery van, and I
Lyndsey’s POVI changed three times before settling on the cashmere sweater and jeans. Not too polished, not too casual. The concerned friend. The woman who just happened to stumble across something troubling and felt obligated—reluctantly, of course—to share it.I checked myself in the hallway mirr
Harrison’s POVI sat in the car for a long time.The folder from the investigator lay on the passenger seat, the cream-coloured cover slightly bent from where I’d gripped it too hard, and I stared at it without seeing it because the only thing in my head was one sentence, looping over and over.She’
Estelle’s POVI woke to the gritty pull of dried mascara against my eyelids, and for about three seconds I didn’t remember any of it.Then it came back. The photos. Karl’s face. Chloe is crying. The whole room staring.I groaned and dragged the pillow over my head and pressed it down hard enough to







