“Or his wench!” she chimed in.
“I think it’s a time traveler,” George said. “Someone from the year 2050. Maybe they came here and got stuck? Or someone in the olden days saw their futuristic clothes and got so scared that they killed them.”
“Brilliant idea,” Adam enthused. “What do you think, Vic? Time traveler, pirate, or wench?”
Victoria looked up from where she had been scrolling on her phone.
“I think this game is dumb,” she said.
Skye caught Louisa’s eye. They exchanged a quick, awkward smile, then Louisa turned away, tucking a loose strand of red hair behind her ear.
“It’s getting late,” Skye said to no one in particular. She hadn’t shown the pouch to the others yet nor what was hidden inside it. A quick online search had returned numerous matches for the name Giulio Muti, though nothing relating either to wartime or any person missing since. Could the bones beneath the tarpaulin belong to him? Or was the Italian linked in some way to the remains that had been uncovered in her own garden? She must read more of Katerina’s correspondence, scour the letters for clues.
George began to yawn widely.
“Come on,” Theo said, putting his arm around his son’s shoulders.
Mia pulled up in Dusty’s truck as they were walking back to their respective houses, a comatose Bruno beside her on the front seat.
“How is the poor little mite?” Joy asked.
“His back paw is fractured,” Mia said, her voice strained.
Theo offered to help her carry the dog inside, and Joy looked on, wringing her hands.
“What a bloody day it’s been,” she said. “I’m ready for a beer. Anyone else?”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Cassandra cut in before Skye had a chance to reply. “My daughter and I have things we need to discuss.”
Darkness was closing in. The moon shone bright in a cloudless sky, while far beyond, the sea churned, silvery black beyond the hillside.
“I sent Martyn a message.”
Skye froze in the process of unlocking her front door.
“Saying what?”
“Telling him to come back here.”
“What?” Skye drew back as if the words had struck her. “Why would you do that?”
“He has a suspected concussion,” Cassandra replied. “It’s not safe for him to spend the night alone. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened.”
“Well, I hope you’re willing to sit up all night with him, then,” Skye said, slamming the door behind them and going through into the main living area. “Because I won’t be.”
“You still haven’t told me what all this is about,” her mother persisted. She removed her straw hat and held it in front of herself like a shield. “According to Martyn, you gave him no prior warning. He says you simply up and left in the middle of the night.”
Skye went into the kitchen. A dustpan and brush were hanging from a hook by the back door, and she set about sweeping up the shards of broken glass and crockery. More smashed items, another scene of devastation. She had dealt with so many. Too many.
Her mother appeared in the archway, lips pursed.
“It wasn’t the middle of the night,” Skye told her.
“You still left. Still treated him as if he was some kind of sordid one-night stand rather than your husband.”
“I wish I had stopped at one night,” Skye retorted, tipping the contents of the dustpan into the bin. “If I’d known what he was really like, I’d never have gone on a second date, let alone married him. It was the worst mistake of my life.”
Cassandra said nothing, her jaw tight, gaze pointed.
