It had been seventeen years since Barty had been this nervous when walking up a driveway. At thirteen, he had been on his way to pick up his first date. By the time he knocked on the door, his palms were sweating, and he was sure his heart would burst as she appeared, his blood splattering her dress and ruining the date before it had begun.

In fact, they’d had a fantastic time.

The feelings at thirty were similar, albeit with added concerns about Mary and his inability not to compare his sister’s home with the one where he had grown up.

Assuming she was his sister, that this was not all some cruel trick, she lived at number one Loughton Close. The house was about halfway down the road. Before that, there was only woodland on either side. No pavements, so Barty walked close to the trees, ready to dive in should a car appear.

Sunlight streamed through the leaves in the trees, creating spotlights on the leaf-strewn ground. There were no human-made sounds. Barty could hear only bird song and the wind whistling through the branches, a far cry from his childhood estate, where engines and shouting and booming music permeated the walls of their mid-terrace home at all hours of the day and night.

The comparison, which sprung unbidden into his mind, encouraged shoots of jealousy to sprout. Disgusted with this selfish emotion, he worked fast to kill the weed before it could take hold and become unmanageable.

Number one Loughton Close was a semi-detached white stone house that sat opposite and in front of open woodland. The closest homes were another pair of semi-detached properties thirty feet along on the opposite side of the road.

Barty opened the gate and stepped onto the gravel drive. Straight ahead, a stile offered access to a small strip of grass and the woods behind the house. Across the driveway from the property was a low, brick building – like a garage but without car access. Tall oak trees to the left of the property line hung over this brick building, casting it in ominous shadow.

The front door was on the side of the house. Reaching it, Barty remembered his first date. As he raised his fist, the memory expanded to the afternoon before he left. He saw his father ruffle his hair and tell him to be himself “‘cause he was a great kid”; this chick – his father’s word – was bound to enjoy his company.

He had left home in a daze. Kindness and compassion were alien concepts to Vincent Symonds. When he favoured you with either, it was impossible not to experience a rush of elation. It was like a drug hit, and as with a drug hit, you knew there’d be a comedown. Vincent was drunk when his son came home. When Barty tried to tell him about the date, he snorted and said, Whatever, mate.

That was the real Vincent Symonds. The man Barty so often hated.

Barty was unsure if he wanted to see his father again. Reminded himself as he knocked on the door that he was there because ofVincent, not for him. Not that seeing his old man was likely. If Florence was his sister, Barty had the chance to support her in the aftermath of Vincent’s latest disappearing act. No one had been there to do that for him – his mother certainly wasn’t up to the job. He was determined that Florence would not find herself in that same situation.

The door opened, and Barty stared at the woman on the other side.

“Florence? I thought you’d be younger.”

The woman who had answered had to be at least eighty. She sighed. “Oh good, we have a joker.”

“Sorry. Florence phoned. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” the woman cut in. “When Florence said she’d phoned you, I called her a fool. Some number given her by Vincent. How do you know he’s your brother? I asked. Then she showed me the photo.”

“She has a photo of me?”

“Another gift from Vincent. In it, you can’t be older than thirteen, but you look just like him. As an adult… you’re his spitting image.”

That made him flinch. The older woman smirked.

“Don’t want to look like your father? I’m told women find him handsome. He’s not to my taste, as it happens.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

“If you like.”

“Besides, if I remember rightly, my father had a larger nose than me. Sort of bulbous.”

“Fair point. Yours is rather dainty.”

“Walked into that one,” said Barty. “Moving on, Florence said on the phone a woman named Harriet was looking after her. That’s you?”

“Correct. I’m her guardian, at least for the time being. It’s my job to protect her.”

This final sentence contained an implicit warning, and Barty was not blind to how Harriet gripped either side of the door frame, shielding the entrance. If she deemed Barty a threat, she’d do everything in her power to keep him out.

He liked that.

“I thought Florence was a fool for calling you before I realised you were almost certainly Vincent’s son,” Harriet continued. “My opinion hasn’t changed knowing you are. We don’t know you. That girl doesn’t know you.”

“Through no choice of mine,” said Barty. “I had no idea she existed.”

“I believe that. Fifteen years I’ve known your father. Not once has he mentioned you.”

That came as no surprise. Even so, it hurt. Harriet knew it, but his feelings were not her concern, and she wasn’t sorry.

“I understand you don’t know if you can trust me,” he said. “I’d like to meet my sister. What’ll it take for you to let me inside?”

“That’s the question. How does one prove one is not a serial killer? That’s why I’m here. I’m old, expendable. Chop me up, it’s no great loss. Florence is hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.”

The voice was soft but insistent, nervous but determined. As it leapt over Harriet’s shoulder, Barty’s heart rate quickened.

“You should be,” said Harriet.

“I want to meet him. I called him. Let him in.”

“I told you I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s my house.”

“Children can’t own property. Nor are they good judges of character.”

“This is what Dad wanted.”

“Your father isn’t—” Harriet stopped herself, regret spilling onto her face. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she repeated.

“I know,” said the girl. Then, “Please, Harriet.”

“I want to reiterate,” said Barty. “I understand your reticence to let me in. But I’m going nowhere. Please, can’t we work something out?”

Harriet stared at Barty for what felt like several long seconds. Then, she called over her shoulder.

“Child. Get my bag.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do as you’re told.”

Footsteps stomped down a flight of stairs. Barty heard Florence rush through the house, find something, and return. Keeping her eyes on Barty, Harriet reached back to collect her bag. Florence’s footsteps ascended the stairs again. Barty did not catch sight of the girl who might be his sister.

Harriet rummaged in her bag. It was small, and she found what she wanted quickly enough – a pair of silver scissors, no more than three inches in length.

“If at any time while you’re here I feel threatened or I’m worried about that child, these are going in your neck. Understood?”

“Absolutely.”

“They may not look dangerous. You’ll see how dangerous they can be.”

“I believe you.”

“Maybe I won’t put them in your throat. I might pop one of your eyeballs.”

“As would be your right if you felt the need to defend yourself or the child in your care.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. Come in.”

Just like that, she stepped back and out of the way, allowing Barty into the porch. The door into the house was immediately to his right, and when he turned, he found himself facing a flight of stairs. His eyes went up them one at a time until he found the child sitting three-quarters of the way up.

“Hi,” the child – Florence – said.

“Hi,” he said back, smiling for the first time at his younger sister.