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His mother shrugged. “Just because.”

“Because death doesn’t cure homosexuality, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Baxter said. “I didn’t resurrect as straight. Sorry to disappoint you on that score.”

“I see you haven’t lost the desire to shock,” Clive said sharply. “You were always like that, even as a child. Your mother was simply sharing a couple of pleasant anecdotes about your funeral.”

I felt as if I’d wandered into The Twilight Zone. A strange place where arguments resumed after two decades, with death treated as little more than an inconvenient pause. No wonder Baxter hadn’t wanted to come here. I’d intended to stay out of it and offer silent support, but I couldn’t just sit there like a useless lump whose sole contribution was unwanted facts about Ada Lovelace. “You must be extremely happy to have him back,” I said.

“Of course,” they both replied in unison.

Baxter laughed. “You might want to tell your faces.” He reached over and deliberately placed his hand over mine. I threaded my fingers through his and smiled at him. It was pure provocation, but I couldn’t blame him.

“So Lake is…?” Ada asked, letting the rest of the question drift.

“My boyfriend,” Baxter said.

They didn’t sneer or pull a face. They simply said nothing, and somehow that was worse.

Baxter sat forward, realized it brought him closer to the untouched coffee, and leaned back again. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to introduce you to Lake. I came here to tell you I’m alive, and—”

“And what?” Clive prompted.

“Who’s Owen?” Baxter asked.