I flinch. The room is whole again, restored to all its glory and elegance, the bloodless walls aglow with sunlight once more.
“They are,” I manage, pretending to be tracing the bevel with my fingertips.
“Searching for a secret door? Let me know if you find one.”
I follow the others to the door but hang back at the last second. I need time to collect myself.
Silence buzzes as I stand in the empty room.
I exhale slowly, then I lean my back against the wall, the plaster cool on my neck. The past seeps through me like water through stone, seeking every crack, every weakness—until I force it back, schooling my features still, my eyes drifting shut.
Calm—at least on the surface.
But inside, everything spins, past and present colliding in the space between Jack’s grin and Lily-Anne’s gentleness.
What am I missing?
It’s nothing to do with Lily-Anne. Yet somehow, her arrival in Whitstable has started a tidal wave I’ve no hope of stopping, stirring up silt long settled.
The real instigator was Jack, years ago when he plunged Natalie into that glittering, noisy world. He enjoyed the fame and the thrill.
The responsibility, not so much.
“Brandon…”A gentle whisper, more Natalie than Nova.
“Brandon?”
I snap my eyes open.
It’s Lily-Anne. She came back, her soft voice a balm against the chaos still ringing in my head. I almost reach for her, my hand twitching before I rein it in.
Now, more than ever, I cannot.
“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, concerned eyes peering at me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I give a hoarse laugh. “Yes. You could say that. I lost myself for a moment.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes…I imagine conversations,” I admit quietly. “They’re not real. Just thoughts spliced with memories.”
“Thoughts of Nova?”
I blink. “Yes, actually. Only lately, my mind conjures her when I’m tired, or when…” I trail off, hating how exposed I feel.
“You can tell me,” she says.
“When I see the colour red.”
She blinks. “Really?”
“It reminds me of her.”
We’re quiet for a moment. Just when I expect her to suggest I see a therapist, she says, “You know, I’m not sure I like red either.”
I frown. “But your dress…?”
“I’m trying to embrace the colour again.” She shrugs, her smile sad. “Toby used to give me roses, and they were always red. I was thrilled, of course. Who doesn’t like roses? But…” She gives a bitter laugh. “He wanted me to keep them. Dried and preserved, as if throwing them out would offend him.”
