I made my way through the media room to the living room. At first sight it looked empty, but then a movement caught my eye, and I walked slowly to the far corner of the room, filled with shadow where the morning sun had not yet come round. She was wedged in between the end of the sofa and the wall, almost invisible apart from her blond hair, and the tips of her shoes peeping out.

“Ellie.” I crouched down, holding out the letter. “Did you write this?”

She nodded.

“It’s really good. How did you know all the spellings? Did Maddie help you?”

“I did it myself. Only . . . the acorn helped me.”

“The acorn?” I was puzzled, and she nodded.

“You push the acorn and you tell it what you want to write and it writes it down for you.”

“What acorn?” I was bewildered now. “Can you show me?” Ellie flushed with shy pleasure at demonstrating her own cleverness, and squeezed out of the little corner. There was dust on her school skirt, and her shoes were on the wrong feet, but I ignored both, and followed her through to the kitchen, where she picked up the tablet, opened up Gmail, and pressed the microphone symbol above the keyboard. Light dawned. It did look a little bit like a stylized acorn—particularly if you had no idea what an old-fashioned microphone looked like.

Now she spoke into the tablet.

“Dear Rowan, this is a letter to say I am very sorry, love Ellie,” she said slowly, saying the words as distinctly as her childish palate would allow.

Dave Owen the letters unfurled on the screen, as if by magic, this is a letter to say I am fairy—

There was an infinitesimal pause and the app self-corrected.

very sorry love Ellie

“And then you press the dots here and it prints on the printer in Daddy’s study,” she said proudly.

“I see.” I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. I compromised by crouching down and hugging her. “Well, you’re very clever, and it’s a lovely letter. And I’m very sorry too. I shouldn’t have shouted, and I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

She hung on to me, breathing heavily on my neck, her chubby cheek warm against mine.

“Ellie,” I said softly, unsure if I was about to wreck our hard-won confidence, but unable not to ask. “Ellie, can I ask you something?”

She didn’t say anything, but I felt her nod, her little pointy chin digging into the tendon that ran from my collar bone to my shoulder.

“Did you . . . did you put that dolly head on my lap?”

“No!” She pulled back, looking at me, a little upset but not as much as I’d feared. She shook her head vehemently, her hair flying like thistledown. Her eyes were wide, and I could see in them a kind of desperation to be believed. But why? Because she was telling the truth? Or because she was lying?

“Are you sure? I promise I won’t be angry. I just . . . I wondered how it got there, that’s all.”

“It wasn’t me,” she said, stamping her foot.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I backpedaled a little, not wanting to lose what ground I’d gained. “I believe you.” There was a pause, and she slipped her hand in mine. “So . . .” I was treading carefully now, but this was too important not to press a little further. “Do you . . . do you know who did?”

She looked away at that, not meeting my eyes.

“Ellie?”

“It was another little girl,” she said. And somehow I knew that was all I would ever get out of her.

“Maddie, Ellie, come on!” I was standing in the hallway, keys in hand as Maddie came flying down the stairs with her coat and shoes already on. “Oh, well done, sweetie. You did your shoes yourself!” She slipped past, avoiding my outstretched arms, but Ellie, coming out of the downstairs toilet, was less quick and I caught her up, growling like a bear, kissed her squashy little tummy, then set her squealing and laughing back onto the floor, and watched as she scampered out of the front door after her sister to clamber into the car.

I turned back, to pick up their schoolbags, and as I did, I almost collided with Mrs. McKenzie, standing with her arms folded in the archway that led to the kitchen.

“Shit!” The word slipped out without meaning to, and I flushed, annoyed with myself for giving her more ammunition for her dislike of me. “I mean, gosh, I didn’t hear you come in, Mrs. McKenzie. Sorry, you startled me.”

“I came in the back way, I had mucky shoes,” was all she said, but there was something a little bit softer than usual in her face, as her eyes followed the girls out to the car. “You’re . . . ,” she stopped, and then shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, what?” I said, feeling annoyed. “Come on, if you’ve got something to say . . .”

She pursed her lips, and I folded my arms, waiting. Then, quite unexpectedly, she smiled, transforming her rather grim face, making her look years younger.

“I was just going to say, you’re doing very well with those girls. Now, you’d best be getting a move on, or you’ll be late.”

* * *

As I drove back from Carn Bridge Primary School, Petra strapped into the car seat behind me, pointing out the window and babbling her half-talk, half-nonsense syllables to herself, I found myself remembering that first drive back from the station with Jack—the evening sunset gilding the hills, the quiet hum of the Tesla as we wound through the close-cropped fields, filled with grazing sheep and Highland cows, and over stone bridges. It was gray and drizzling today, and the landscape felt very different—bleak and raw and entirely un-summer-like. Even the cows in the fields looked depressed, their heads lowered, rain dripping off the tips of their horns.

When the gate swung inwards and we began to climb the winding drive up to the house, I had a sharp flash of déjà vu back to that first evening—the way I had sat there beside Jack, scarcely able to breathe with hope and wanting.

We swung around the final curve of the drive, and the squat gray facade of the house came into view, and I remembered too the rush of emotion I had felt on seeing it for the first time, golden and warm and full of possibilities.

It looked very different today. Not full of the potential for a new life, new opportunities, but as gray and forbidding as a Victorian prison—only I knew that was a kind of a lie as well, that the Victorian facade presented to the driveway was only half the story, and that if I walked around to the back, I would see a house that had been ripped apart and patched back together with glass and steel.

Last of all, my gaze went to the roof, the stone tiles wet and slick with rain. The window Jack had shut was not visible from here; it opened onto the inner slope of the roof, but I knew that it was there, and the thought made me shiver.

There was no sign of Jean McKenzie’s car in the drive—she must have already left for the day—and both Jack and the dogs were nowhere to be seen, and somehow, what with everything that had happened, I could not bring myself to enter the house alone. It had come to something, I thought, as I parked the car and unclipped Petra from her seat, that even fending off the dogs from trying to put their noses up my skirt would have been a welcome distraction from the silent watchfulness of that house, with its glassy egg-shaped eyes observing me from every corner.