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without inventing trickery of another kind: without souring the kindness of the one person in her life who appeared to be intent on helping her.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    When Emma woke, the events of the night before were so close to the surface of her mind that she opened her eyes and stared directly at the same spot where the man had been standing. She knew exactly where it was, that space between the doorways. She remembered the suit too, but for now, she didn’t want to look at it. Instead she went into the bathroom and splashed ice-cold water onto her face.
    To look into the cupboard and see that worn black suit would be to acknowledge that it had all been real. Had she really gone running to Charlie in the middle of the night? He must think she was mad. She probably
had
been mad. And yet she could still picture the man looking back at her, the malice pouring off him like a musty smell.
    At least the house felt like her own again. Sunlight spilled around and beneath the curtains, filling the rooms with diffuse light. Despite her interrupted sleep, she felt refreshed. Today she would clean and paint and later, when she was ready, she’d come back up here with a bin bag and knock that suit off the shelf and into it, yellowing coat-hanger and all. She’d put it out with the rubbish, shove it down deep into the bin, and never think about it again.
    For now, she headed downstairs. She could hear a noise coming from the drawing room. When she went in she saw Charlie, his arms stretched above his head, reaching into the corner with a roller covered in paint. He had almost finished. The soft green glowed in the morning sun. He turned and she saw that his face was spattered with it, that colour; it was in his hair and over his clothes. He grinned at her, but Emma felt nothing but dismay. It was
her
room. This was what she had been planning to do first, the thing that would make the house truly her own. Now he had taken it from her; there was nothing left for her to do.
    ‘Morning,’ he said, his voice bright, as if he hadn’t noticed her expression. ‘Nearly there. Doesn’t it look good?’
    She swallowed, fighting the lump in her throat. It did look good. He must have been working for hours. She was being childish; she should be grateful. ‘It does. Thanks, Charlie. This must have taken you ages.’
    ‘Ah, well – that’ll teach me to pick a room without any curtains. I woke up at dawn, so not much choice.’ As if to underline the point his jaws stretched in a sudden yawn and when he tried to cover it with his arm it looked as if he’d dipped that in the paint too.
    Emma’s cheeks flushed. His eyes were red as if he’d been rubbing them, and his hair was flattened at the back and spiked haphazardly at the front. He’d probably barely slept, what with her running to him in the middle of the night and then being awoken with the sun. ‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ she said, ‘and see what I can find for breakfast.’
    ‘No need: I made egg butties – might be a bit cold now, but should still taste okay. I left you one. And I found a coffee grinder in one of the boxes – I hope you don’t mind.’
    ‘Of course not. It’s good of you.’ She glanced at the window, wondering just how late it was. She’d slept the day away.
    ‘I had a look at the hot water too. There’s an immersion – should be piping in an hour or so, I reckon.’
    ‘You have been busy.’
    ‘Least I can do.’
    ‘Hardly. You didn’t have to do anything. I know you must have things of your own to be doing.’
    ‘Well – but we’re relatives, and all that. Even if it is only distant.’ The last words came out in a rush. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t head off without seeing if you were okay. Last night – whatever it was you saw – well, I would have been worried about you, that’s all.’
    Emma opened her mouth to say there was no need, then looked away. What
had
she seen? It felt further from reality than ever. And yet he’d said
what