THE CHRISTMAS GUEST

AN UTTERLY ADDICTIVE AND PAGE-TURNING CRIME THRILLER

B P WALTER

BOOKS BY B P WALTER

The Christmas Guest

The Winter Visitor

The New Boyfriend

As B.P. Walter

A Version of the Truth

Hold Your Breath

The Dinner Guest

The Woman on the Pier

The Locked Attic

Notes on a Murder

The Garden Party

The Treehouse

As Barnaby Walter

Scuttle

As S.G. Hartnell

Medlock

AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

The Winter Visitor (Available in the UK and the US)

For my parents, for many wonderful Christmases

PROLOGUE

CHRISTMAS EVE 2020

Forty-eight hours after Marguerite threw her children out into the snow, the guilt has started to set in. She doesn’t often have guilt in other parts of her life. In her view, it is one of the most self-indulgent pastimes, the sort of thing people pretend to feel much more than they actually do. But Marguerite knows the feeling well when it comes to her three adult children and is aware of the pattern that follows. A little nagging voice telling her she’s been too harsh on her offspring, that it isn’t their fault they are annoying, arrogant, entitled weaklings. They are part of a world that rewards arrogant, entitled weaklings. That’s just how things are, whether she likes it or not. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said what she said. Done what she did.

She knows the regret won’t last long. It never does. Soon, her backbone will return. She shouldn’t allow herself to get swept along by sentimental nonsense. Her children deserve harsh treatment. Birthing them was hell. Bringing them up was hell. Watching them go from obnoxious teenagers to spoiled adults was hell. And spending the various Covid lockdowns with them this year has been the hellish icing on the cake.

She is currently sitting in the occasional chair by the landing window on the north side of the house. This window affords a view across the garden and beyond it, to Hampstead Heath. Tonight, though, she doesn’t look at the heath or try to spot signs of wildlife in the garden. She is focused on a building just before the trees that border the property. The annexe, where her children are spending Christmas alone.

‘Serves them right,’ she mutters to herself. She wonders how they are getting on. They’ve never been very close, often sniping at each other, bickering, like a general hum of white noise. But sometimes she suspects their shared dislike of her has pushed them together. Perhaps they are all sitting in the living room of the annexe right now, talking about what a wicked mother they have. ‘Let them,’ she says out loud.

She sets down her cup of hot chocolate onto a little side table and gets to her feet, wondering if the fact she’s begun talking to herself is a sign she’s going mad. Perhaps it’s been a mistake to stay here throughout the Christmas lockdown. She knows people who managed to find loopholes and exceptions in the government’s regulations and jetted off on holiday. Maybe she should have done that. Some place on her own without her children. She doesn’t usually have to bother with them over Christmas. Normally, they spend it with their father on Liar’s Island, a depressing little bit of land off the Essex coast that he bought on a whim twenty years ago. He tore down the buildings that came with it and had a crass, ostentatious mansion constructed there instead, and that is where he and the children would spend the festive period each year. All of them sycophantically trying to win his affections. Not because they love him. No, definitely not that. It’s because he is the one with all the money.

During her ruminating, she has drifted from the landing into one of their bedrooms. The bedroom of her eldest son, Archie. Eldest by eleven and a half minutes. Since they are triplets, the relative ages of her children are measured by minutes and seconds rather than years. And Archie always acts like the oldest. Bold, bullish, always the loudest and angriest in the room.

Almost without meaning to, she ends up picking up his duvet, dragging it off the bed. Before she’s even really thought about what she’s doing, she’s thrown all of her son’s bedding out onto the landing. She goes for the cupboards next, taking out armfuls of his shirts and adding them to the pile. Then comes the drawers of socks, armfuls of cardigans and jumpers, hardback books from the shelves, copies of barely read Ayn Rand novels and political biographies, all of them added to the pile, mingling with pairs of Archie’s trousers and Armani belts and polished brogues.

The mess is spectacular, the action liberating. The sudden rush of chaos is like a salve to her soul.

And she isn’t finished yet.

She goes to her daughter’s room next. All neat, tidy, extremely organised. Well, not anymore, she thinks, as she pulls open the cupboard doors and begins to ransack Nicole’s belongings. Why on earth do they have all this rubbish here anyway? she thinks. They have properties of their own, they’re twenty-five, no longer children.

As she moves on to Cliff’s room – the messiest by some margin – and begins to grab his things, she fantasises about lugging everything out to the lawn in the falling snow, dousing it with something and watching it burn. Where she’d find such an accelerant, she doesn’t know, but she imagines the garage might have petrol or something flammable. The blaze would be seen from the windows of the annexe. The children would come out and stand in the snow in their pyjamas, shivering and confused, as their materialistic lives went up in smoke. A good reminder that life’s luxuries aren’t as everlasting or reliable as they think.

Thrilling though this idea is, she decides it’s impractical for a freezing December night. She surveys the mountainous terrain of items now filling the landing and the corridor leading off it, and then looks up at the ceiling.

The attic. Yes. That will do for now. Then, when she finally allows them back into the main house, they will be confronted with near-empty rooms, devoid of their usual clutter, and have to root around in the rafters for their stuff. It will be a hassle for them – a hassle for her, too – but it will make an emphatic point. And she likes that.

It takes her until the early hours of the morning to get it all done. There were already some empty boxes up there, so she stuffed everything inside and stacked them up. She doesn’t keep any order to the items or separate them by sibling. She just packs up the boxes and pushes them against the wall.

It’s when she’s entered the attic for what feels like the hundredth time that she hears it. A thud. She pauses, wondering if one of her children has decided to defy her and return to the main house under the cover of night. Although they’d be able to see she has the lights on, and she doubts they’ll be in a rush for a fresh confrontation. After a pause, she decides it’s probably one of Cliff’s many trainers sliding to the bottom of a box. She shakes some dust off her fingers and is about to head over to the shining square in the floor and lower herself through the trapdoor and down the ladder when the sound comes again. Closer and unmistakable.

‘Hello?’ she calls out.

Nothing.

Then a loud noise. A groaning, creaking sound, then a loud bang, comes from the floor below. Followed by another bang. Or more of a clatter.

The dim light around her becomes noticeably darker in an instant.

She knows what the noises signify. Knows what the drop in light level must mean. But she doesn’t want to believe it.

It’s OK, she tells herself. It’s a frustration, but manageable.

She walks the last few steps to the trapdoor. It’s now closed. The other noise she heard must have been the ladder, she guesses. Not ideal, but she will do her best. Make every effort not to panic.

But panic can’t be staved off. Because the ladder isn’t her only issue.

The trapdoor won’t open.

She shouts. First ‘Hello!’ and then, ‘I’m up here! I’m in the attic!’

But nothing. Nobody speaks. Nobody comes.

She tries again. Tries to get the door open, but it barely moves.

She scrabbles. Scratches. Breaks her nails.

Shouts again.

But it’s no use. She’s trapped.

ONE

NOAH

CHRISTMAS EVE 2026

They’re halfway through the meal when things turn nasty. Archie looks at Noah directly and says, in a stern voice, ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

If there had been any sense of festive enjoyment around the table before that point, his words dissolve it within seconds. The gentle sound of Carols from King’s emanating from the invisible speakers feels inappropriate. The twinkling tree with its cool-white lights in the corner suddenly seems like set dressing, rather than a Christmassy addition to the beautiful dining room.

Noah tries to keep calm, but his fork slips from his hand and falls on his plate with a clatter. It’s as if everyone else at the table is holding their breath, waiting to see how he’ll respond.

‘Sorry?’ Noah says, frowning at Archie. He does his best to keep his eyes on the man’s face – a classically handsome face, but made cruel and ugly by the look of anger and disdain. Noah clears his throat and adds, ‘I don’t understand.’ The lie doesn’t sound convincing, and he knows it.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Archie says. When Noah opens his mouth and starts saying again that he doesn’t understand, Archie cuts him off, his previously quiet tone getting louder. ‘No, cut the bullshit, Myers. What are you doing? And you know exactly what I mean, so don’t try any pathetic excuses to dodge the question.’

Silence follows for a few tense seconds. To buy some time and appear more relaxed than he feels, Noah pops a chunk of garlic bread into his mouth, then regrets it when he starts to choke. After a bout of coughing, Cliff slaps him on the back.

‘Leave him,’ Archie snaps at his brother.

‘What? Leave me to die?’ Noah says hoarsely, raising his eyebrows. ‘Is that what you mean, Archie?’

Archie points at Noah with his knife. ‘This. This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. That was a barely veiled reference to our mom’s death, wasn’t it?’

Noah holds up his hands. ‘I didn’t say anything about your mother, I was talking about me choking.’

‘Not working, Myers. Not fucking working!’ Archie waves the knife in a circular motion. ‘I’ve caught you in the act.’

Noah coughs again, his throat still feeling scratched and sore. ‘Can you please stop calling me by my surname and swearing while pointing a knife at me? It’s rather aggressive.’

Archie lets the knife fall. Noah sees fragments of cheese-covered macaroni smear across the red tablecloth. ‘Why do you keep bringing up Mom, and lockdown, and Christmas 2020?’ Archie says. ‘It’s so embarrassingly obvious what you’re doing. You’ve tried to get me to talk about it, you’ve been giving Cliff the third degree, apparently.’ He nods at his brother, as though expecting him to pipe up to corroborate this. Cliff doesn’t respond. He just lowers his chin and squints his eyes, looking confused, as though he’s trying to follow a foreign language film without subtitles. ‘Cliff!’ Archie shouts. ‘Talk!’

‘Archie, darling, please,’ Rose says softly. ‘Stop shouting at everyone. Let us eat our meal in peace. I know you’re upset that your father isn’t here⁠—’

‘This hasn’t got anything to do with Dad, this is all about him!’ Archie says, now pointing with his finger.

The irony of these words does something to Noah, his anger and frustration rising. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ he snaps.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ says Archie.

‘I’m saying, your dad invited me here. I’m here because of your father.’

‘Because he’s so happy about our little relationship,’ chips in Rose.

‘Be quiet,’ Archie barks at her, his face becoming strained and flushed. Noah notices Rose bite her lip. She obviously doesn’t like being yelled at by Archie any more than he does, but she stays silent. Archie seems oblivious, his attention still on Noah. ‘He’s been asking weird questions, trying to find things out. He’s been questioning me, questioning Cliff, he’ll probably start on Nicole next, if he hasn’t already.’ Archie hits the table with a clenched fist. ‘Tell me, Noah Myers, why are you obsessed with our mother’s death? Why are you dredging up our memories of the past, memories we’d rather forget? And don’t give me any nonsense about Dad wanting you to be here. I want to know the truth. Why are you really with us here on Liar’s Island?’

Noah doesn’t attempt to answer any of these questions. Instead, he glances at Nicole at the other end of the table. She has Clarissa open, one hand on the book, the other holding a fork, although its journey to her mouth appears to have paused. She’s watching the drama unfold, her expression typically unreadable.

‘How about you, Nicole?’ Archie says, also turning to her. ‘Has he asked you about Mom?’

‘You’re being very loud, Archie,’ Nicole says, her voice calm and quiet. ‘You’re distracting me from my book.’

‘I want to know what’s happening!’ Archie says, sounding almost hysterical.

‘Well,’ Nicole says, putting down her fork. ‘Lovelace has taken Clarissa to a brothel, defiled her, and as a result, she’s steadily going mad and is currently begging to be admitted to an asylum. She hopes to die in peace there.’

She says all this in a calm, almost bored voice that seems to enrage her brother even further. ‘I don’t mean what’s happening in your bloody book, Nicole! What’s happening here?’ He jabs a finger again at Noah, then makes a sweeping motion over to Rose. ‘They are not a couple. It just can’t be true.’

‘Why can’t it be true, darling?’ Rose says.

‘How can you…? Why are you…?’ Archie seems to be struggling with his emotions, and for the first time since his loud diatribe began, Noah wonders if there’s another level to this outburst he isn’t quite understanding.

Then, still keeping her voice quiet and calm, Nicole says, ‘Isn’t it obvious, Archie? I think it’s plain to see why Noah’s on this island. He’s here to catch a murderer.’

TWO

NOAH

TWO DAYS EARLIER, 21st DECEMBER 2026

Noah’s dream is interrupted by a shove. He isn’t happy to be dragged back to consciousness – in his head, he’s back at university, at a ceremony. A ceremony of celebration, for him. There had been three murders at the university – ‘The Campus Killings’ as the press called them – and in the dream, he’s been recognised by the dean for solving them. As he steps up to receive his award, he notices the dean’s face is a confusing mixture of King Charles and Andrew Lloyd Webber, but he doesn’t worry about it. He’s just happy to take the award, while everyone claps. It’s time for him to make a speech, and he does so with an audience of reporters, bloggers and grateful police officers hanging on his every word.

Things take a turn for the surreal when his dream is interrupted. The speech he is making seems to be built out of jumbled-up paragraphs borrowed from the works of Marcel Proust. Then he is in the dean’s study, and the dean is staring back at him, now with the face of Tony Blair, and slamming down a heavy Penguin Classics edition of In Search of Lost Time, asking him why being the celebrated ‘Student Sleuth’ gives him the right to vandalise the prose of one of the greatest works of literature ever written.

‘Noah! Wake up, for God’s sake!’

Noah is about to mount his defence to the dean, say he doesn’t know what’s going on, when a thought enters his head. Ah, this is a dream, isn’t it?

‘Noah!’ He feels his shoulder being shaken. He pulls his face away from the desk, light hitting his closed eyes. Daylight.

‘Whaddayouwant?’ he says, the words merging together into a grunted slur. He feels too uncomfortable to be manhandled like this.

He leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and yawning. ‘God, my legs are freezing.’

‘Because you’re not wearing any trousers,’ says an irritated voice. ‘But you’ve still got your pants on, so don’t panic.’

Noah looks down at his crumpled shirt and bare legs and sees that she’s right. After four hours of solid writing the previous evening, he eventually decided it was time to sleep around 1 a.m. But halfway through getting undressed and brushing his teeth, he had a sudden rush of inspiration. A new twist for his detective story, a key clue that nobody would even realise was a clue… just so long as he got it on the page before he fell asleep and forgot…

‘There’s toothpaste on your chin, by the way.’

Noah groans. ‘Ruby, why did you wake me?’

‘Because there’s someone here for you. A journalist.’

Noah blinks at her, the light coming in from the windows still hurting his head. ‘No, no, that’s tomorrow.’

‘It is tomorrow, you idiot,’ she tuts. ‘What were you doing, anyway? Trying to save your business, I hope? I hear your current online investigation thing is going down the drain. Even after the money my father poured into it.’

Noah isn’t sure why he doesn’t want to tell her he was writing, isn’t sure why he keeps his yearning to be a novelist a secret. But as usual, he evades and lies and says, ‘Oh, yeah, I was going over a revised business plan.’

‘Let’s hope it works. Being an entrepreneur in your twenties is exciting. But at thirty-one, it’s just called being unemployed.’

‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ Noah mutters.

‘Don’t be too long, your mum’s already gone off on one about your irregular sleeping habits and how unreliable you’ve become.’

Noah takes a deep breath, then forces himself to sit up. ‘Don’t worry, I’m well aware that she’d rather you were her actual offspring.’ He looks at his stepsister, then frowns. ‘I thought you were crawling around some sort of dig in the desert looking for artefacts with Beebow or whatever his name is.’

‘His name is Jeffo,’ she says crisply. ‘He’s gone ahead to Iraq. I decided to come back for Christmas. I’ll join him out there in the new year.’

‘I swear you’ve been doing that PhD for years,’ Noah says, locating his trousers on the floor and pulling them on. ‘Have you seen my teal cardigan?’

‘Well, that’s the whole point about PhDs,’ Ruby says, leaning against the edge of the open door, ignoring the cardigan question. ‘They take a long time, it’s in-depth study, it’s⁠—’

‘You always did like uni too much.’

She tuts again. ‘Excuse me, pot calling kettle and all that. You bloody loved it, too. And you’re the student sleuth. You still use that to try to get work? I presume that’s what the woman downstairs is about?’

Noah stretches, his neck clicking uncomfortably. ‘I’m not using it. And what woman are you talking about?’

Ruby rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘The journalist. I told you, just now.’

Noah nods, hurriedly, then wishes he hadn’t. His bad sleeping position has left him with a very stiff neck. ‘Yeah, yeah, sorry. I only agreed to that to be polite.’ He massages his neck absent-mindedly. ‘I still feel half-asleep.’

‘Go and have some coffee or water or something, Noah,’ she says. ‘I’m heading into Southampton to do some shopping. I’d get down there quickly if I were you. She’s currently talking to my father, and if she’s writing a piece about you, that might not be a good idea. He’s not exactly your greatest fan.’

Noah heads downstairs, still barefoot, aware his hair is sticking up and feeling desperately thirsty. He’s about to head to the kitchen to grab some water when he hears his name being shouted. ‘Noah!’

The booming Yorkshire vowels of his stepfather, Frank, make his heart sink. He forces a smile onto his face as he goes into the living room. Frank is standing awkwardly by the fireplace, hands on hips, and on the sofa to the left of him is a young woman with golden blonde hair. She’s dressed in a close-fitting, professional suit of a dark red colour, which looks pleasing next to the Christmas tree and twinkling lights.

‘This must be the man of the hour,’ she says.

‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ Noah says. ‘It was ten years ago.’

The woman gets up and shakes his hand. ‘I’m Elissa. It’s so nice to see you in person after all our emails.’ She gives the end of the sentence a weighted tone, as though they’ve corresponded enthusiastically for months, rather than just short messages to arrange a time for the interview. Noah wonders if she’s flirting with him. The way she looks him up and down the moment she lets go of his hand confirms it.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ his stepfather mutters, glancing at Noah’s bare feet with wide eyes as though he finds the sight obscene, then heads to the doorway. He almost collides with Noah’s mother.

‘I thought I’d bring in some tea and mince pies,’ she says, giving them both a smile.

Something about mince pies in the morning feels incongruous to Noah, but he doesn’t complain as his mother puts them on the coffee table. She casts a nervous glance towards the young woman on the sofa, as though she is presenting tea to royalty rather than a freelance newspaper reporter, then backs out of the room, muttering, ‘Call me if you need anything.’

‘I think it’s so sweet you still live with your parents,’ Elissa says, leaning forward to pour the tea. Something about the way she says this irritates Noah, and he wonders if he’s being judged. He doesn’t especially want tea, but takes the cup she hands him with a smile of thanks.

‘So,’ Elissa says, smiling back, taking out her phone, ‘I’m going to record this if that’s OK?’

‘Sure.’

Elissa taps the screen, puts her phone down on the sofa next to her, then says, ‘Plunging right in then… Just over ten years ago, you were named the “Student Sleuth” by the press after publicly accusing two of your fellow students of murder. They conspired to kill a sporting competitor by exploiting his peanut allergy, something the police had astonishingly overlooked.’

‘That’s right,’ says Noah, feeling awkward. In many ways, it feels like yesterday. In others, it was like a thousand years ago. And in spite of the awkwardness he feels when talking about it, there’s always a burst of happiness, excitement even, when he thinks back to that time. The police accepting he was right to suspect his flatmates and, after telling him for weeks he was being a conspiracy theorist, eventually conceding there was foul play in a death they’d previously regarded as an accident. He was a hero. A genius. Or to put it in the words of a reporter for the campus newspaper, ‘a modern-day Miss Marple, except young, male and handsome in an antique-bookstore-worker sort of way’. But like all reminiscences, eventually the excitement fades, and he has to come back to the here and now.

‘You published a true crime book,’ Elissa says, reaching into her bag on the floor and producing a well-read paperback. The British Heart Foundation £1.50 sticker on the cover reminds him of its out-of-print status. ‘Murder on Hilltop Campus,’ she says, holding it up. ‘A very entertaining read, I must say, and it was published to rave reviews, becoming a bestseller back in 2016.’

Noah nods at these two factually incorrect pieces of information. The book received one disappointingly small review in a national newspaper, in a paperback round-up column, which simply told readers what it was about and when it was out and offered no comment on the merit of its content. The book didn’t trouble any print bestseller lists, although it did get to number twenty in the ebook sub-category ‘Rural Northern Irish Crime Fiction’, despite being about a real-life murder in Hampshire.

‘What I’d love to know,’ Elissa says, ‘is how the past ten years have been and how that whole success changed your life.’ She looks around her at the cavernous living room, as though his parents’ manor house was purchased with the undoubted millions he made from book royalties and media appearances.

‘Oh, yeah… um… very much so,’ he says, realising he should have expected this question and prepared something impressive to report. ‘I’ve done… um… lots of things. I mean, I stayed on and did a master’s at the university and wrote the book while doing that. Well, I got some help, the publisher hired a ghostwriter, but it was fairly collaborative. At least some chapters were.’

Aware he’s sounding like a disappointing fraud, he thinks of his failed online investigation business and wonders how he can dress that up as a success without making it sound like he tried to monetise Facebook stalking. ‘I’ve had various entrepreneurial projects since then,’ he says, ‘including things to do with… like, research. Online research. For example, if a woman thought her boyfriend was cheating on her, my business would see if there was online evidence. That sort of thing.’

He almost winces at how cheap and tacky he’s made this sound and feels a stab of guilt that his phrasing has also implied the company is still a going concern.

‘That’s fascinating,’ Elissa says, leaning a bit closer. ‘Tell me more.’

Noah struggles to think of any of it as ‘fascinating’. It used to be, but the steady tick of time has faded his memories and dimmed his enthusiasm. ‘Er… well… you want all the details?’

She smiles. ‘All the details. But before that, can I just say, I cannot believe you’re thirty.’

‘I’m actually thirty-one,’ Noah says, shifting uncomfortably. A friend once said to him that if you haven’t ‘made it’ by the time you’re thirty, you probably never will. He isn’t sure what ‘making it’ looks like, but he is pretty sure he isn’t a prime example.

‘And yet you still look like you do in the newspaper photos. Barely more than twenty-one.’

‘That’s nice of you to say,’ he says, swallowing. ‘So, what else do you want to know?’

‘Let’s just explore what it’s been like, living as the “Student Sleuth” all these years. Any fun little facts, amusing anecdotes, strange things that have happened – readers love that sort of thing. Just talk freely and if we hit upon something particularly juicy, I’ll home in on it.’

Noah thinks he might have reached his limit. He doesn’t want to be rude, but at the same time feels he needs to be honest and clear. ‘OK, here’s the full truth,’ he says, standing up suddenly, turning around to face his guest. ‘I have no life. I’ve had multiple failed online businesses. I’ve tried all kinds of jobs. I’ve been a proofreader, an intern at a publisher, an office clerk at a private detective agency, I’ve even worked in the menswear section of John Lewis. I’ve only ever had one girlfriend since uni who lasted six months. I’ve lost touch with most of my friends. The fact is, I haven’t done anything in the last ten years. I don’t know what I want to do with the next ten years. I just feel… lost. Like I’m just waiting for something exciting to happen again.’

After saying all this, his mind flits back to his furious typing at his computer the night before. Then he pushes that aside. Even within this burst of candour, there are limits.

‘Right,’ Elissa says, slowly, a slight frown on her forehead. The enthusiasm that was so apparent on her face minutes before has now dimmed. ‘When you say you’d like something “exciting” to happen again, do you have an idea of what sort of thing?’

Noah sighs, sitting back down in a different chair. ‘I have no idea. Just something that makes me feel… I don’t know… a bit more engaged with life. I want to feel alive again. It’s like I need some sort of challenge. I’m just not sure what.’

Elissa raises an eyebrow. ‘Like, perhaps, another murder?’

Noah lets out a low laugh. ‘I think that’s unlikely.’

THREE

NOAH

21st DECEMBER 2026

Less than ten minutes later, Noah watches Elissa depart the house, head lowered against the falling snow, handbag clutched close. She wound up the interview pretty quickly after his little speech, saying she felt she had enough and would think about ‘how best to move forward’ with the piece. This made Noah suspect it may be killed entirely.

‘That didn’t take long,’ his stepfather grumbles when he sees Noah come out into the hallway. Noah eyes him suspiciously. He’s never got along with his stepfather, and over the years, when he returned home after various failed ventures, tail between his legs, he had to contend with his moods, digs and attempts to expel him from the property.

‘I didn’t have much to say,’ says Noah with a little shrug. He hears a noise to his right and sees his mother walking into the hallway.

‘Hello, darling,’ she says. ‘Has your nice young lady left?’

‘She wasn’t his young lady, she was just a journalist,’ Frank says before Noah can answer. ‘I told you earlier.’

‘Yes, she wanted to interview me,’ Noah adds. ‘About it being ten years since… you know.’

His mother raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh yes. Since you solved your little murders. It’s amazing it’s been so long.’

The phrase ‘little murders’ makes Noah wince, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘I hoped you’d started dating again,’ his mother says mournfully. ‘I was getting a bit worried you’d rather given up on that sort of thing. I’ve never seen you bring anyone home, and you never mention any dates to me. Your aunts often ask if you’ve got a girlfriend, and I say I never get told anything. And four out of your six cousins are either married or engaged. But I guess you have lots of London types you meet up with that we never hear about. “Friends with benefits”, I hear they’re called nowadays. And I suppose that’s no bad thing. After all, we were all young once…’ She trails off, leaving Noah feeling embarrassed and Frank looking sceptical.

‘Er, newsflash, he’s not that young. He needs to get a handle on his life, rather than just moping about here.’ Frank stands there with his mouth open, as though he has more to add. After a few seconds, he seems to think it best to leave it on this damning assessment and marches off in the direction of his study.

‘He’s never going to like me, is he?’ Noah mutters.

‘Oh, darling,’ his mother says, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps he’s got a point. You need to find a good job, meet someone nice and settle down. I do think you need to get a firm handle on things. A bit of structure. You’re a very sweet, handsome boy, you always have been. And you’ll always be a boy to me. But the truth is, you’re not a boy, you’re a man. I think you need to get a bit better at knowing the difference between the two.’

As his mother turns away from him, Noah is struck by how profound his mother made this sound, something he isn’t used to. He also thinks it a bit rich for his mother to suggest he has a lack of structure in his life, considering she’s never had any such thing herself – every day she just drifts around the house, pursuing craft projects, reading magazines, dabbling in gardening. But before he can point this out, she claps her hands together and says, ‘Now, I think I’m going to go and finish the papier-mâché owl I’ve been working on… and have another large brandy.’ She disappears in the direction of her craft room. Noah watches her go, feeling, not for the first time, as though he’s let her down. He’s still standing in the hallway when he hears a door open behind him, and his stepfather’s booming voice calls his mother’s name.

‘Terri! Terri!’

She comes out of the room, her right hand clutching a large bottle of PVA glue, looking stressed. ‘What is it? Frank, can you stop all this shrieking? It’s playing with my nerves!’

‘Terri!’ he shouts again, then stomps into sight.

‘She answered you!’ Noah calls back. ‘Perhaps you should consider getting your hearing checked.’

Frank frowns at him, but doesn’t answer. He’s staring at his phone.

‘Well, what is it?’ Noah asks.

‘Frank, what’s wrong?’ his mother asks as she approaches her husband.

He looks up and says, ‘It’s Ruby. She needs help. Something’s happened.’

Noah has never got on very well with his stepsister, but they’ve made an unspoken agreement to be generally civil with each other. They both know life will be easier that way. He definitely wouldn’t want to think of her hurt or in danger. So when Frank said ‘Something’s happened’, then followed it up with the words ‘car accident’, he prepared himself for a big medical emergency that would come to dominate and define that year’s Christmas.

The truth was less exciting. There was no major crash. Ruby was not in any immediate danger. A pothole had damaged her car. She was at the side of the road awaiting the AA. That was it. Noah had tutted at the anti-climax and was about to head upstairs when Frank grabbed him by the arm. ‘You need to go and get her.’

‘Why do I need to go and get her?’

Frank launched into an explanation of a business meeting he had in Winchester, which was in the opposite direction. ‘Your mother can’t go, she’s three sheets to the wind already,’ he finished.

‘I am not!’ she said, looking outraged. ‘I’ve only had one brandy because it’s Christmas.’

‘It isn’t even lunchtime!’ snapped Frank.

‘Enough!’ shouted Noah. ‘I’ll go. I don’t want Mum driving in these conditions anyway,’ he added, thinking about the ageing Mercedes in the garage she barely used. And even when she did, she never seemed sure when to change gears and how to go about doing it.

His mother’s expression changed from fury to wide smiles in a split second. ‘So sweet of you to offer, darling,’ she said, tapping his shoulder, then disappearing back into her craft room.

Now, as he takes the bend of a road a little too sharply, he feels the car skid. He steadily manages to slow the vehicle in time to see movement at the side of the road. It’s Ruby, waving.

He pulls carefully up on the side of the verge and winds down his window. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You all right?’

‘No, I’m absolutely freezing,’ she says. ‘Something’s happened with the power in the car.’

He looks at the Ford Focus, already being layered with fresh snow, then back at Ruby. ‘Go on, get in. I’ll drive you to civilisation.’

She shakes her head. ‘I have to wait for the AA.’

‘Then what am I here for?’ Noah says, exasperated.

‘Um, to be kind? To wait with me? Give me a lift when they eventually tow the car away?’ She opens the passenger door and gets in with a huff.

‘You’re being rather snappy to someone who’s just driven to your rescue,’ Noah says. ‘It’s not my fault you’ve barely been in the country five minutes and already written off your car.’

Ruby splutters in disbelief. ‘Written off? If that’s a dig about what happened to that Ford Ka when I was at uni, that wasn’t even my car, that belonged to a friend.’ She sniffs, then says, quietly, ‘I’d never own a Ka.’

‘If you’re going to be like this,’ Noah says with a sigh, ‘I think I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk.’

‘It’s so typical of you to reference something that happened a decade ago as though it still matters.’

Noah swivels around in his seat to look at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Ruby has a smug look, her mouth twisting. ‘Well, it’s true. You talk about uni like we’re still there. From what I hear, you’re often sitting on your bed, your head buried in novels or watching old detective shows on your laptop, eating toast at your desk. It’s like you’re still a student. Like you still think you’re the “Student Sleuth” and all that nonsense.’

‘There it is,’ Noah says, shaking his head, a grim smile on his lips. ‘I knew it would come sooner or later. There’s the dig at my success.’

Ruby laughs. ‘Success? Can you hear yourself? You’re not successful or famous, Noah. Not anymore. And all your business ventures, your so-called online detective agency, have just been a distraction from what you’ve always wanted to do.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Noah says. ‘What’s that?’

‘Write,’ she says. ‘You want to write mystery novels. Crime fiction. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been obsessed with your collection of dusty volumes and dog-eared paperbacks that practically cause the house to tilt sideways with the weight of them. You did English at university, went to creative writing classes, but never had anything to show for it. You’re scared to write for some reason, and you’ve tried to use your real-life “Student Sleuth” nonsense as a way to put it off. When really, it should have been the thing that fuelled your fiction.’

Noah feels himself getting uncomfortably warm under his fleece. ‘What fiction? I’m not a writer. Not… not really.’ His mind darts to the ‘Works in Progress’ file on his laptop. The partially written novels. The first drafts of short stories, many of them imitations or retreads of his favourite Poirot short stories or Sherlock Holmes mysteries.

‘You may have convinced your mum that you don’t have a creative bone in your body, but you haven’t fooled me. And you’re definitely not fooling yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so unhappy.’

‘I’m not unhappy,’ he says, though as the words leave his mouth, he feels the doubt creep in. ‘And anyway, I tried writing a book and they brought in a bloody ghostwriter.’

Ruby lets out an exasperated breath. ‘That’s because you didn’t actually want to tell that story, or at least not how it happened. You weren’t writing what was in here.’ She taps her chest. ‘It wasn’t going to work, you bashing out a journalist true crime sort of book. It wasn’t you.’

This sparks Noah’s anger afresh. ‘Wasn’t me? How would you know what’s me? You don’t even know me. You jet off to America and Middle Eastern deserts. I barely see you. We’d never have met if my mother hadn’t needed your father’s hamster food money.’

He sees he’s gone too far with the jibe at her father’s pet supplies business.

‘Well, I’m sorry that my common father has meant you’ve had to suffer my company these past thirteen years. But at least he’s actually successful at what he does rather than just pretending he is.’ She opens the car door. ‘Screw you, Noah.’

‘Where are you going?’ Noah says, feeling the cold air hit him as flakes of snow float into the car.

‘Anywhere! Freezing to death in my car seems like a more preferable option to spending another second with you.’

‘Ruby! Wait, I’m sorry, I—’ But she’s slammed the door. In the side mirror, he sees her marching through the snow over to her car. Once she’s inside, Noah waits for a bit. Then, when there’s no sign of her return, he mutters, ‘Well, sod you too,’ and starts the engine.

He’s barely made it off the verge when he sees an AA van making its way up the road behind him. Safe in the knowledge that he’s not literally leaving his stepsister to freeze to death in a broken-down car, he drives off.

Instead of going home, Noah ends up driving into Southampton’s city centre. It’s only half an hour away, and the main roads are perfectly passable, the gritters having prepared the ground early before the snow started to fall. He parks in the West Quay shopping centre car park and heads through the crowds of Christmas shoppers and into the large branch of Waterstones near the entrance. Inside, he gravitates towards the crime section and looks at the rows of books, taking out a hardback gift edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and opening it up at one of his favourite stories. He’s already got multiple copies at home, but he pays for it at the counter and heads down the escalators to the café. Armed with a hazelnut hot chocolate and crumble-topped mince pie, he sits in the corner of the café near the windows overlooking a grey concourse, snow falling heavily. Even though the main part of the bookshop upstairs is heaving with shoppers, down here on the lower floor it’s relatively quiet, and as he begins to read, he feels himself relax, the anger and frustration he felt earlier in the car with Ruby starting to ease out of him.

‘Are you up to the one where the gemstone is found inside a goose?’

Noah lowers the book. In front of him is a man of around fifty, perhaps more, with greying hair and a thin face. He’s smartly dressed in a dark grey suit and sits in front of Noah with the calm of someone who feels completely in control. It’s like he’s been there for ages, waiting for the right moment to speak and alert Noah to his presence.

‘Sorry?’ Noah says, frowning at the stranger.

‘The Christmas story, where someone force-feeds a stolen gem to the goose,’ the man says, his voice smooth, his face expressionless.

Noah has seen several television dramas featuring people being murdered by insane strangers in everyday settings like cafés, and he wonders for a moment if he’s slipped into one of these, and the man is about to produce a knife or a gun. Perhaps his reference to the Sherlock Holmes story was the prelude to him acting out a similar bizarre crime. Maybe he even has a rare gemstone hidden amongst his person and is about to force it into Noah’s mouth.

‘I believe it’s the seventh story in that collection,’ the man says, nodding at the book.

Noah clears his throat. ‘Yes, I know, but – I’m sorry, do I know you?’

‘No, you don’t,’ the man says. ‘But I know you, Noah Turner.’

There’s something about the way the man says his name that makes Noah shiver. It’s as though, for a moment, he truly believes the man is aware of the contents of his head, knows his whole life, every deed, every mistake, everything he’s proud of, ashamed of, scared of and hopeful for. As though he can read him as easily as taking a book off one of the shelves in the shop around them.

‘I know that you’re thirty-one years old. I know that you graduated from the University of Hampshire North over ten years ago. I know you’re living with your parents in their large country manor house. I know that your mother is named Theresa, usually abbreviated to Terri, and your stepfather owns a company called Pets R Best.’

‘Yeah, that’s all great, but I don’t see⁠—’

‘I know that you solved two murders at your university. This brought you media attention and a book deal. I know that you have since tried to launch an online investigative business, with limited success. I know that, until recently, you shared a flat in Upminster with a friend named Theodore, but have recently moved back to your family home. I know that you order a lot of books online.’

This makes Noah sit up straighter.

‘I know that you purchased the fleece you’re wearing from JohnLewis.com on the twenty-eighth of September this year. I know that you like to buy navy blue socks. I know you prefer Ralph Lauren Polo Green aftershave to the Blue variety. I know that you frequently watch videos on writing techniques and recently read several articles on how to structure a crime novel. I know you like to view both heterosexual and same-sex male pornography. I know that you’re halfway through a rewatch of the television series Hetty Wainthropp Investigates on BBC iPlayer. I know that⁠—’

‘OK, this is weird,’ Noah says, snapping the book shut. ‘I don’t know what sort of stalker you are, but I think you should go⁠—’

‘I know that you’re feeling lost, Noah. I know that you feel directionless, confused, in need of a project. In short, you need help. And I know someone who can help you.’

‘Oh yeah, who?’ Noah asks.

‘My employer. Turner Wentworth.’

This makes Noah laugh. ‘Oh come off it. Turner Wentworth?’

‘Why does that amuse you, Mr Myers?’

‘Because it’s ridiculous!’ Noah says, louder than he meant to. An elderly lady at the next table raises her head from a Jackie Collins novel and shoots him a disapproving glare.

‘Why is it ridiculous?’ the man says, his voice still calm and quiet.

‘Because… well, Turner Wentworth is a billionaire.’

The man nods. ‘That is correct. And he wants to speak to you. Is that so surprising, considering you know his children?’

Noah feels himself blushing.

‘Yes, I’m aware of all that,’ the man says.

‘I wouldn’t say I know his children, I haven’t seen them for— Anyway, what’s it to you?’

The man takes out a business card. ‘My name is Mark Stone. I’m his assistant.’

Noah takes the off-white card and looks at it. It doesn’t offer any further information than what Mr Stone has just said, though as Noah tilts it, he sees a UV-highlighted ‘TW’ in the top right-hand corner.

‘So, what you’re saying is that Turner Wentworth has been wasting his time stalking my internet history? Why would he do that? You do know that’s illegal?’

Mr Stone surveys him for a few seconds, then says, ‘As I previously mentioned, he wants to speak to you.’

‘Surely there are less criminal ways of doing it?’ Noah asks, getting up and tossing the card back onto the table. ‘This is too weird for my liking. Feel free to finish my mince pie.’

He’s about to walk away when Mark Stone speaks again. And his next words make Noah freeze.

‘It’s about a murder.’

FOUR

NOAH

21st DECEMBER 2026

‘What murder?’ says Noah, turning back to look at the man.

He thinks he sees a triumphant look in his eyes, but his expression otherwise remains blank. ‘You’ll need to speak to my employer about that.’

Noah feels himself sway with indecision. Then he sits back down. ‘How do I go about doing that? Is he here?’ He looks around him, but only the Jackie Collins lady remains.

‘He’s not, no. He’s in London. I’m going to take you to him.’

Noah laughs. ‘You think I’m just going to get into a random car and be whisked off somewhere? I don’t think so.’

The man raises his eyebrows. ‘I would advise you to accept the offer. We can be in Central London within a few hours.’

Noah looks out at the grey skies and falling snow. ‘In this weather?’

Mr Stone looks unworried. ‘I have a very good driver. I can assure you he is more than capable of navigating some snowfall on the M3.’

Noah shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I… I don’t like any of this. It’s weird you’ve been spying on me. Weird you’ve followed me here. I’m not getting in any car with you.’

He gets up to leave again. Mr Stone pushes the card across the table and says, ‘Please take this. When things start playing on your mind at 3 a.m., you can reach me on this number.’

Noah frowns. ‘What do you mean, at 3 a.m.?’

Mr Stone holds his gaze. ‘Well, you’ve already said how strange you find all of this. You’re well aware my employer knows a lot about you. He’s taken the time to research you. And you know this concerns a murder.’ He gets to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Noah the whole time. ‘I predict those facts and the resulting questions will begin to drive you mad before too long. And when they do, give me a call. Or text me.’ He leaves and Noah watches him walk away along the concourse and out of sight.

Noah shudders, and he isn’t sure it’s got anything to do with the cold air that’s just been let in.

Keen not to bump into the man again, Noah goes back up the escalators and through the shop. He returns to his car in a daze, and the journey home flies by. His mind keeps replaying the conversation, his attention so fixed on it, it’s a miracle he doesn’t crash.

Once home, he finds Ruby sitting on the sofa under a blanket, her eyes glued to the TV. His mother is kneeling by the coffee table, wrapping tinsel around the head of a papier-mâché badger. Frank is asleep on a chair by the fire.

‘Oh, hello, darling,’ his mum says as she sets the badger down. ‘Do you want to see the little friends I’ve made for the church Christmas Eve giveaway raffle?’

‘No,’ Noah says distractedly, then when he sees his mother’s hurt expression, he adds, ‘Sorry, I mean, not right now, I have a headache. I’m going to sleep.’

‘OK, darling. Have a rest,’ she says. ‘I’ll wake you for dinner later. Or shall I leave you sleeping?’

Noah nods, not properly registering the question, then glances at his stepsister. Her eyes are still focused on the TV screen. ‘Er… Ruby, I’m sorry about earlier.’

She ignores him.

‘What happened earlier?’ his mother asks, turning around again. Noah’s relieved Ruby didn’t get home and give a highly biased rendering of their argument earlier, and he decides it probably would be best not to mention it if she hasn’t.

‘Nothing,’ he says.

‘Then what did you mean?’ his mum says, looking confused.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Noah says.

‘Can we stop talking through Paddington 2, please?’ Ruby says, not looking up.

Noah takes this as his prompt to leave. Upstairs in his room, he decides to get into bed. He actually does have a headache now and feels the after-effects of his hangover from the night before returning. He puts his fleece and T-shirt on the chair by the window, closes the curtains, then unzips his trousers and begins to tug them off. As he does so, his phone, keys and wallet fall out of his pockets onto the floor with a clatter. And with them is the little white business card.

Noah picks it up and puts it on the side of the bed, then climbs under the duvet, lying on his side. Staring at the card. When he closes his eyes, it’s still there, as though the reflective TW has been printed underneath his eyelids.

He manages to sleep for hours. When he wakes, he looks at his phone and sees that it’s gone midnight. He walks to the door and looks out on the landing. The house is in darkness. Annoyed that everyone seems to have gone to bed without a thought for him, he makes a quick visit to the kitchen and then returns upstairs with multiple slices of toast and a mug of ginger tea. Back in his room, he sits on the edge of his bed and thinks. Thinks of all the things the strange man said. The invasion of his privacy. And those four haunting words.

It’s about a murder.

Picking up his phone, Noah googles ‘Turner Wentworth’ and ‘murder’. The only thing he can find are articles about his wife’s death six years before, and that was ruled an accident. He remembers hearing about it on the news. It happened during one of the Covid lockdowns. Or regional lockdowns. He can’t quite remember if it was the whole country under restrictions that Christmas or just zones or tiers or whatever the government called it. Marguerite Wentworth’s death was reported as just some freak accident. Maybe this has nothing to do with that, though. This could be about something completely different. A death nobody knows about. Or one nobody realised was murder.

He thinks back to his time at university, when he realised one of his housemates had been killed deliberately. And how it was connected to another death. That rush of excitement when it all slotted together in his mind, when the arrests were made.

He can’t lie to himself. He’d love to feel that again. That sense of accomplishment and completion.

Unsure whether he’s doing the right thing, he sends an iMessage to the number on the card.

OK, I’m interested.

A response comes back almost immediately.

I’m glad to hear it. A car will be at your home at 8 a.m. sharp. Mr Wentworth is looking forward to meeting you.

The car arrives the next morning just as Mr Stone promised. Noah was waiting in the living room near the window, looking out for the vehicle, but his stepfather spots it first. ‘There’s a limousine coming up the driveway,’ he calls out from the hallway.

‘It’s for me!’ Noah says, grabbing his coat and heading for the front door. ‘Tell Mum I’m out on a business thing.’

‘I’m not your bloody secretary,’ his stepfather snaps back. ‘And anyway, we’re going for lunch at the⁠—’

Noah doesn’t wait to hear anything further about the lunch outing or whether he is supposed to be participating. He crunches his way through the snow over to the sleek black car that’s come to a stop in front of the house. The passenger window rolls down, and the expressionless face of Mark Stone appears. ‘I’m pleased to see you, Mr Myers. Do get in.’

Noah opens the back door and slides inside.

They don’t talk much on the drive to London, and Noah’s surprised how quickly the journey passes. He asks a few questions along the way, such as ‘Whereabouts in London are we meeting?’ and ‘How long will I be speaking to him for?’ But Mr Stone only says, ‘All will become clear.’ The driver, a young man whom Noah isn’t introduced to, remains silent the whole way.

Their destination turns out to be a long garden square in the Pimlico area of London, lined with townhouses. Noah presumes they’ll be going into one of these when the car pulls up at the end of the square. But to his surprise, Mr Stone leads him towards a gate into the central garden.

‘In here?’ Noah says, frowning. ‘Are we meeting outdoors?’

‘Be thankful you brought a coat,’ Mr Stone says as they step into the snow-covered garden. The path is still visible around the edge of the grass. Two boys, one a child, the other an older teenager, are building a snowman in a corner. Not far away from them is a middle-aged woman walking a golden retriever. At the end is a young man and young woman, the woman posing for a photograph, the man pointing his phone at her. Then, at last, Noah’s eye settles on a bench where a middle-aged man is reading a book. He has a woollen hat on and a thick winter coat, gloves and glasses. Noah doesn’t recognise him, and is about to turn his gaze back to Mr Stone, asking him what’s going on here, when the book in the man’s gloved hands catches his eye. It’s The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The exact same hardback gift edition that Noah was reading in the café the day before.

It’s too much of a coincidence. Noah feels a prickle of unease run down his neck.

Then the man sits up and removes his woolly hat and thick-rimmed glasses. It’s Turner Wentworth. He sets the book down on the bench and gets to his feet. ‘Noah Myers!’ he calls out. ‘Noah, Noah, come over here, boy!’ He opens his arms, as though he and Noah are old friends, rather than first-time acquaintances.

Unsure what else to do, Noah steps forward, taking a shortcut across the stretch of grass, and holds out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says.

Turner still has his arms outstretched and, ignoring the invitation for a handshake, pulls Noah in for a big, tight hug. ‘Good to see you, lad. Good to see you. I love fresh air, I love the cold, I wanted to meet you out here. Isn’t it glorious!’ He releases him and sweeps a hand around the garden square and takes in a deep breath. While the view is pleasant, Noah finds his enthusiasm strange, as though they are surveying the wonder of the Alps, rather than a suburban area in the City of Westminster. But he’s aware of Turner’s eccentric ways. Some people in the media portray him as mad, a dangerous force in the world, a man whose erratic and eccentric behaviour can sway governments, affect share prices, change consumer buying patterns and voting habits. One post on social media from him often causes several outraged comment pieces, sometimes even from the very newspapers he owns. So perhaps this little performance is just part of that, Noah thinks as he looks around at the garden and nods.

‘Yeah, it’s… it all looks nice in the snow.’

‘Nice?’ Turner says. ‘What sort of word is “nice”? Nothing’s nice in this world. It’s either awful or spectacular. If you want to get on in this world, my boy, that’s the way to see everything.’

Noah frowns. ‘Aren’t there any shades of grey in your world, Mr Wentworth?’

He sees the man scrutinising him, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re a clever one, Noah Myers,’ he says, then beams. ‘I love it! Come on, come on, take a seat. I warn you, lad, you’ll have a cold bum by the end of this chat, but it’ll be worth it.’

Noah sits. ‘I think it’s fairly frozen already. If I’d known we’d be meeting out of doors, I probably would have chosen thicker trousers.’

Turner laughs as though he’s said something hilarious. ‘That’s the spirit, boy,’ he says, giving Noah a slap on the back. Noah wonders if the man uses drugs and if he’s on them now. He also doesn’t like the way he keeps saying ‘boy’ as though he’s a child rather than a grown man.

‘What’s this about?’ Noah asks. ‘Your assistant mentioned murder.’

Turner’s expression changes. He frowns, and then brings up a hand to scratch at his stubbled chin. ‘Straight to the jugular, I see,’ he says, his voice now much quieter, his part-English, part-American accent giving the words a strange slant. ‘You don’t beat around the bush. Although you could at least buy me dinner, Noah, before you try to frisk me for details.’ He lets out a sharp laugh, although there’s no humour in his face.

Noah shifts uncomfortably, his legs turning numb from the cold. ‘There are a lot of metaphors there, Mr Wentworth. I’d be grateful for some concrete reason to explain why I’m here.’

Turner looks at him. Then says, ‘I think we need some privacy.’

Noah holds back a comment about perhaps not meeting in a public garden and simply says, ‘OK.’ He expects to be led somewhere, perhaps into one of the houses, but instead, Turner pulls off his gloves, raises his hands and claps twice. The sound echoes around like gunshots. And the result chills Noah more than the winter air.

Everybody leaves.

The woman with the golden retriever crosses the grass, leading the dog to the exit.

The teenage boy by the snowman takes the small child by the hand and follows.

The young couple at the end of the garden put away their phones and walk purposefully towards the other gate at the far side. Everyone is silent. Nobody looks their way, nobody speaks, nobody acknowledges what’s happening.

Noah turns to Turner, amazed.

Turner holds his gaze. ‘Never underestimate me, Mr Myers. Whatever picture you’re seeing, know that I am its painter.’ He lets a few seconds pass, then he laughs. ‘Whoa, man, you should have seen your face.’ He slaps Noah’s arm again. ‘I saw that in a movie once, wanted to try it. I liked the effect. I won’t bother you with the logistics. A magician shouldn’t ever reveal his secrets.’ He reaches to his right and picks up the book next to him. ‘Do you know, I may have even seen that trick in a Sherlock Holmes movie. The face of Jared Harris comes to mind. I think he was the villain, not the detective. Which leads me neatly on to you, Mr Myers. The Student Sleuth.’ He laughs again, though this time it’s more of a low, gravelly chuckle. ‘Do you know, it was one of my drivers who made me think of you. He reads books while waiting for me to come out of meetings, gets them from charity shops, apparently. I mean, I’ve never set foot in a charity shop in my life, but I hear you can get an armful of paperbacks for hardly anything. And one of those paperbacks was your book. I asked him about it, and he said it was about a kid who solved murders on his university campus. It sparked something in my head. Gave me the flicker of an idea. So I started researching you. And I discovered something fascinating.’

Noah thinks he knows what’s coming, and he braces himself for the awkwardness.

‘I discovered that you know my children.’ His eyes seem to be searching Noah’s, as though keen to see the reaction these words cause.

‘Er… well, like I told your assistant, I’m not sure I know them exactly. I met them when I was at university.’

‘Met,’ says Turner. ‘Met.’ It’s as though he’s trying the word out in his mouth. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

Noah is feeling more tense with every second that passes. ‘Would it do any good to ask again what all this is about? I’d quite like to⁠—’

Turner’s hand shoots out and grabs Noah’s leg. The position of his palm would feel strangely intimate if the strength in his fingers wasn’t so forceful. ‘You screwed my daughter, didn’t you?’ he hisses into Noah’s ear.

‘Ah, get off me!’ Noah says, trying to pull his leg away, but Turner clenches on tighter.

‘You had your fill and then broke her heart,’ Turner continues, digging his nails in deeper.

‘Get off!’

‘You broke her heart, you randy little prick.’

‘She didn’t have a heart to break!’ Noah says, managing to get his leg free, propelling himself away from the bench. He trips and falls with a thud into the snow.

Turner watches him try to pull himself up for a few seconds, then reaches out his hand. ‘There we go, that’s what I was looking for. Insight, lad. Insight!’

Once Noah’s standing again, Turner pushes him down onto the bench once more. ‘Stop manhandling me,’ Noah says through gritted teeth. He thinks he’s jarred one of his shoulders when he fell, exacerbating an injury he sustained when out running a few weeks earlier. He rubs at it and gets his breath back.

Turner is smiling again. ‘I knew you were the right man for the job. “She didn’t have a heart to break.” My God, that’s a better summary of my daughter – in fact, probably all three of my offspring – than any psychoanalyst could give me. That’s what I want. That’s why I know you’re the man for the job.’

‘What job?’ Noah says, frowning at him.

‘I want you to solve my wife’s murder.’

Noah looks at him. At the intensity in the man’s eyes. ‘Your wife died in an accident, didn’t she?’ Noah says.

Turner shakes his head. ‘No. Not an accident. The police and coroner decided it was, but I don’t believe it. She died of dehydration, trapped in the attic of our family house in Hampstead, while my children were sleeping in the annexe in the garden. It was when Covid was ravaging the earth. December 2020. And I’ve suspected for a while that it wasn’t an accident.’

Noah blinks. ‘But… then who?’

He raises a finger. ‘Nicole.’ Another finger. ‘Clifford.’ Then a third. ‘Archibald.’ He nods his head slowly. ‘One of them did it. One of my children killed their mother. And I want you to find out which one it was.’

FIVE

NOAH

22nd DECEMBER 2026

Noah thinks about what he’s just been told. What’s just been asked of him.

‘I don’t understand. Why me?’

‘I think I’ve made that very clear,’ Turner says.

Noah pauses, unconvinced that this is true. Then says, ‘If… if I were interested, we need to talk about this somewhere else. I won’t be solving any murders if I die of frostbite.’

Turner shakes his head. ‘No need. I’ve said all I have to say. Other than the brief, which is fairly simple. I want you to spend Christmas with them. On Liar’s Island.’

Noah stares at him. ‘Where?’

‘It’s an island I own, in the middle of an estuary in Essex. It’s a Christmas tradition. I spend it there every year with my kids.’

A vague memory is coming back to Noah from over a decade ago. Nicole mentioning spending Christmas on an island with her father. But he presumed it was somewhere tropical. Certainly not Essex.

‘Well… that’s nice.’

Turner grimaces. ‘It isn’t. An unlikeable bunch. Maybe the money’s spoiled them. Maybe their weird mother messed them up more than I ever could. Who bloody knows?’

‘You don’t sound that sad about your wife’s death,’ Noah says. ‘Why are you so keen for it to be looked into?’

Turner makes a long ‘Hmm’ sound, as though considering a profound point. ‘It’s true, you won’t find me sobbing by her graveside. But it’s just unfinished, do you know what I’m saying? I hate unfinished things, they’re like little flies I can’t swat. Buzzing around in here.’ He taps his forehead. ‘The bigger the unfinished issue, the louder the buzzing. Lots of little flies. Sums up my kids, really. And the only way to get to the bottom of it all is to send you in there and let you loose amongst them. A wolf amidst the sheep. Or a spider among the flies. Ha!’

His laugh makes Noah jump. Not for the first time, he wonders if Turner’s entirely sober. Maybe he’s one of those rich people who experiment with ‘microdosing’ as they call it, although he suspects Turner’s dose of whatever substances he favours isn’t that micro.

‘What makes you think they’ll talk to me?’

Turner raises his eyebrows. ‘Don’t doubt your own wits, young man. You can build on your, er, experience with Nicole. You can be pals with Cliff and Archie. Just pretend, if necessary. And there’ll be a sizable financial reward for you at the end of it. It will all go swimmingly.’

Noah doesn’t believe this last bit for a second. Nor can he imagine him happily sending one of his children to prison. Or perhaps he would. Perhaps his eccentricity goes as far as not caring if a child of his gets a life sentence for murder. Noah’s aware, though, that there are more immediate logistical issues. ‘I don’t think I’d be a welcome guest. I wasn’t exactly “pals” with your sons at university. I didn’t really know them. And I don’t think Archie liked me.’

Turner scoffs. ‘Well, he’s a fool. You’re obviously a likeable guy. Talk to him about, I don’t know, football, or soccer as he calls it. The boys’ American accents are an unfortunate symptom of me having them educated in the States.’ Turner shakes his head, regretfully, apparently unaware his own voice carries a definite mid-Atlantic edge. ‘And Cliff’s a bit of a puppy dog. Too kind for his own good. Not very bright, though.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I was probably a bit harsh, earlier, when I suggested he didn’t have a heart. But kind people sometimes do terrible things.’

He goes quiet for a moment. Noah watches him for a bit, then says, ‘Won’t it look strange if I suddenly turn up with you?’

Turner shakes his head again. ‘You’re not coming with me. I’m going to be absent this year. My presence would make your job harder. But you’ll have a cover story, don’t worry. Our family friend Rose, a lovely woman, lives in the house year round. She’s a little older than you, but unmarried and isn’t a stranger to dating younger men. Not that she sees much action, living on an island. But regardless, I’ve arranged with her that you’ll be coming as her new boyfriend. That way, they’ll just have to accept you.’

Noah isn’t sure if his head is hurting from the cold or the sheer madness of what he’s hearing. He can think of a thousand things that could go wrong. This is akin to embedding him undercover. He’s never done anything like this, not even back when he solved the crimes at university. It’s not just a puzzle-solving situation; it would involve major acting and thinking on his feet.

Despite all these doubts, though, a little voice in his head is starting to pipe up and offer an alternative way to view this request. Like how it would be more exciting than Christmas at home with his mother and stepfather. And hadn’t Ruby suggested he should do something bold with his life rather than just moping around? Then he shakes his head. No, Ruby was talking about trying his hand at writing, making up murder mysteries, not throwing himself head first into a real one. He can’t do it. It isn’t for him. Now he just has to convince Turner Wentworth of that.

‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘I’m grateful to you for thinking of me, it’s very flattering, but I really don’t think I can do this.’

Turner waves his hand. ‘Oh, come off it. You’re the Student Sleuth! You were at university with my kids, you’ll all be living in a big house together. It will be like a throwback to college! And you can solve another mystery while you’re at it.’

Noah breathes out, trying not to get exasperated. ‘I didn’t live with your kids in a house at uni, and I really don’t see how I’ll be able to⁠—’

‘Mr Myers,’ Turner says, his expression turning very serious. ‘I’ve tried being polite.’

If Noah didn’t feel so uneasy, he’d laugh at this. ‘I think my bruised thigh and jarred shoulder would disagree.’ He stands up. ‘Thank you for the interesting chat. I’m going to leave now.’

Turner stands too. ‘I’m not asking.’

‘What?’ Noah says.

‘I said I’m not asking. This isn’t a request, Mr Myers. I’m telling you to do this. You’ll be well paid, I promise you. But I repeat, I’m telling, not asking.’

Noah stares at him, then moves to leave.

‘Dylan Volkher.’

Noah walks two paces, then curiosity gets the better of him and he turns around. ‘Who the hell is Dylan Volkher?’

Turner sits back down on the bench, stretching out his legs as though he’s relaxing on a sofa. ‘One of my daughter’s previous lovers. Do you know what happened to him?’

‘No,’ Noah says, hating himself for being drawn once again.

‘He just—’ He holds up his hands and makes a sprinkling motion, like he is dusting a cake with sugar. ‘Vanished.’

Noah stands very still. ‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

‘Alastair Smith,’ he says. ‘Do you know that name?’

Noah shakes his head. ‘Why? Did he, um… vanish too?’

Turner smiles. It isn’t a nice smile. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, they found the body for that one.’

They both stay still, facing each other. Then Turner says, ‘You’re an ex-lover of my daughter’s. But unlike those other two, you’re still here. Currently.’

Noah swallows, his throat dry and uncomfortable. ‘I don’t understand what you’re telling me.’

‘Are you sure?’

Noah stares at him for a few seconds more, then walks away, out of the garden square and into the street.

Mr Stone is waiting by the car. He goes to open one of the doors, but Noah says quickly, ‘I don’t think so.’

To his surprise, Mr Stone doesn’t say or do anything, doesn’t try to stand in his way or change his mind. When Noah reaches the end of the garden square, he turns back and can make out the car still at the other end. He isn’t sure if he expected to see it racing towards him, Mr Stone ready to bundle him in and take him to the Essex island. Or maybe it would just mow him down. He is pretty sure there was more than a suggestion of a threat in Turner’s last words.

Trying to slow his breathing, Noah looks at the road name and sees he’s in St George’s Square. Although he has a fairly good idea where he is, he takes out his phone, sets the Maps app to Victoria and begins his journey on foot.

Once back in Hampshire, Noah decides to get a taxi from the station to his family home to avoid too much questioning about where he’s been.

‘Christmas shopping in London?’ the woman driving the taxi asks in a voice so loud and cheerful, it makes the ghost of Noah’s headache resurface.

‘Er… yeah, sure,’ he says, not quite registering what he’s agreeing with.

‘Where are all your bags, then?’ she asks after a few seconds.

‘Oh, I… I didn’t find anything I wanted.’

Is that true, though? All through his train ride, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d just turned down an amazing opportunity. Instead of the depressing anaesthetic of the family Christmas awaiting him at home, is he letting the chance of excitement and adventure slip through his fingers? And the promise of a financial reward, too. That could come in useful. Then he remembers the stranger, more unnerving aspects of the whole situation. The invasion of his privacy. The possible threat to his safety. Turner’s unpredictable and eccentric ways. ‘It’s for the best,’ he says out loud.

‘Oh, so true, love,’ the taxi driver says. ‘No matter how many so-called deals they advertise for the air fryers and sandwich makers, they’ll all be a fraction of the price come January. Don’t be fooled.’

Something about those final three words makes Noah feel even worse as the taxi draws up outside his home. He pays the driver and mutters ‘Merry Christmas’ as he gets out of the car. He’s about to use the little electronic fob on his keys to open the gates when he realises there’s no need. They are already open.

This is unusual.

His mother is very security conscious and, for all his faults, Frank isn’t forgetful. He wouldn’t leave the gates open. Noah walks through them, confused, a bad feeling starting in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps Ruby has gone out, maybe to pick up her car from the garage, and forgot to close the gates if she’d got a taxi.

But that still wouldn’t explain everything. Because the gates should close themselves.

Noah comes to a halt, then turns back to them. There’s nothing obviously wrong at first glance. Then, just about visible in the snow, he notices a large stone wedged up against the bars on the left side, stopping it from closing.

Someone has deliberately jammed the gates.

Part of him knows he should probably stay where he is and phone his parents or the police, but he dismisses these thoughts and carries on walking. The closer he gets, the faster his heartbeat.

The front door is open. Swinging in the chilling breeze.

‘Oh fuck,’ Noah says, and he begins to run, his feet kicking up a mixture of snow and gravel as he skids towards the doorway and hurtles into the hall. ‘Mum!’ he shouts. ‘Frank! Ruby?’

Nobody answers. The building feels empty – he can sense it. But somebody has been here. The usually clear hallway is littered with coats that normally hang on the hooks in the entrance. The side table that houses the landline phone and internet router is on its side, the phone off the hook, a constant beeping emanating from it, the router by its side, the small light that usually glows green on the front now blank.

‘Mum!’ Noah calls out again, marching through into the living room. Cushions everywhere. The coffee table upturned. Broken glass, too, by the hearth rug. Books have been pulled down from the shelves, fluttering open on the carpet. The movement of their pages makes Noah turn instinctively to the windows. They’re all open, curtains billowing.

Then his phone rings.

SIX

NOAH

22nd DECEMBER 2026

‘Mr Myers,’ Turner Wentworth’s voice says on the other end. ‘I trust you got home safe and sound.’

‘What have you done?’ asks Noah, looking around him, as though the man might suddenly step out from behind a door.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. As you’ve probably seen, “safe and sound” might not be the best choice of words to describe your family.’

‘You’re mad…’ Noah gasps, running out into the hallway. ‘What have you done with them?’ He turns towards the stairs. At the bottom is one of his mother’s tinsel-covered craft projects – the badger she was working on earlier. Its face has been smashed.

‘Sorry, did you say something, Mr Myers?’ Turner says. ‘Was that a “Yes, Turner, I’ll gratefully accept your offer”? Or are you still prevaricating?’

‘I said, what the hell have you done with them? Where are my family?’

As he speaks, his eyes take in the mess on the stairs. Clothes litter every step. He recognises a lot of them as his own. His shirts are off their hangers. His chinos and smart trousers creased and crumpled. It looks as if they’ve been ripped from his room and chucked down the stairs. He picks his way around them, vaguely wondering whether he should avoid touching anything. Perhaps this is a crime scene. Though what crime has been committed remains to be seen. And with each step, he begins to feel sick. Begins to dread what he’s going to find when he gets upstairs.

On the landing, he steps past multiple pairs of his underpants and socks and heads towards his room. More clothes, shoes and papers cover the floor, along with a large number of his books. Noah looks at the spine of Murder on the Orient Express lying up against The Sign of Four, The Moving Finger up against Gaudy Night. All out of order, some splayed open, as though they’ve been tossed aside by a careless hand. Whilst staring at this mess, he lowered the phone without realising. He hears Turner’s voice at the other end of the line, and he raises it again to his ear. ‘I suggest you change the answer you gave me earlier,’ Turner says. Then, after a pause, he prompts, ‘Have you? Anything new to say?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got something new to say,’ Noah spits into the phone. ‘Give me my family back!’

He hears Turner let out a breath. ‘That isn’t new. I’m waiting, Mr Myers. I think you know the deal here.’

Noah clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s made a decision. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll do it. Just let them go.’

There are a few seconds of silence at the other end, then Turner says, simply, ‘Good. The car’s outside.’

Noah waits in the handsome reception of the Wood View Wellness Centre. He asked where he was being taken when he got in the car, but Mark Stone just said, ‘Somewhere warmer than earlier.’ That was all he said, ignoring Noah’s increasingly loud and furious demands that he explain everything and tell him where his family is. When he arrived at the hotel, or ‘Wellness Centre’, after an hour of travelling, he briefly wondered if he’d find his family relaxing by the pool. Perhaps Turner had put them up here, and they were OK. Or maybe he owned this place and had them locked in the basement somewhere, with psychopathic staff members paid to keep them prisoner until Noah agreed to his unhinged requests.

After ten minutes of waiting by the enormous Christmas tree in the entrance, Mr Stone walks over to the seats and says, ‘Mr Myers, come this way.’

He’s led through the main entrance up a short flight of stairs and then down a corridor. Mark Stone lets him into a suite of rooms and tells him to sit down. Turner Wentworth is sitting at the desk with his back to him. ‘I’ll be with you in one moment, Mr Myers,’ he says, typing on a laptop. He appears to be in a bathrobe, and when he turns around, Noah sees he’s only wearing a pair of dolphin-patterned swimming shorts underneath it, with red slider sandals on his feet. It seems incredible to Noah that this is the man he sat next to, bundled up against the cold, in a chilly garden square in Central London just hours previously. Now here he is again, miles away, dressed for relaxation at a wellness retreat. If Noah didn’t know better, he’d have thought the man had been ensconced here all day, perhaps all week.

‘Nice of you to join me,’ he says with a wide smile, closing the laptop and coming to sit on the sofa opposite. ‘Sorry, I had to finish a bit of work. I’m having endless trouble with one of the studio CEOs. He wants to keep this fucking pretentious arthouse movie label going even though it makes a net loss each year, but cleans up at the Oscars. Prestige doesn’t always equal profit. One of their current projects is about a lesbian social club that meets up in a barn in Berwick-upon-Tweed to talk about red squirrel conservation – I’m not making it up, that’s the whole fucking plot. Based on a stage play, apparently.’

‘Where’s my family?’ Noah says, ignoring everything else.

‘The studio boss, his name is Otis, was planning to throw another million at the project, but I was like, fuck that, mate, axe the whole sodding thing. Do you know, it’s the squirrel CGI that’s draining the cash.’

‘Where’s my family!’ Noah shouts at him.

Turner looks stunned. ‘Noah, Noah, my dear boy, calm down. Is the stress of Christmas getting to you?’

‘You’re mad,’ Noah says, shaking his head in consternation. ‘You’re absolutely mad.’

Turner smiles. ‘I’m not mad, Noah. But you have my complete assurance you don’t need to worry about your family.’

‘Then where are they?’

‘At home, I presume,’ Turner says with a shrug.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. Just… just tell me where they are.’

Turner shakes his head, ‘Noah, this isn’t something you should be worrying about. I promise you, to the best of my knowledge, your parents are safe and well. Have you tried calling them?’

Noah feels his heart skip a beat. He hasn’t. Through all the panic and weirdness of what he found in the house, he can’t believe he hasn’t tried just giving his mother a call.

‘Go ahead,’ Turner says, nodding towards Noah’s pocket. When he takes out his phone, he sees a message on the screen. It’s from his mum. He can make out the words, Will you be home for dinner?

He’s amazed. He hits call.

‘Oh, hello, dear,’ his mother says breezily. ‘I don’t want to pester, but I just needed to know if you’re going to be back for supper – Frank’s putting in some chicken Kievs, you know how he likes anything frozen and processed within an inch of its life, and he wanted to know if you’re joining?’

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘Are you… are you OK?’

‘OK? What do you mean?’

‘The mess… the house,’ he starts to say.

He hears the sound of the doorbell, and then his mother says, ‘Oh goodness, that’s the Simmonds woman from the library, she said she’d drop off the reading glasses I left there when I helped out at the Christmas fete, I’d better go and answer the door. So no chicken for you, then, love?’

‘Er… no,’ Noah says. ‘No, I’m… I’m fine. See you soon.’

He cuts the call.

Turner is smiling at him. ‘Satisfied?’

‘I don’t understand,’ says Noah.

‘They’re fine, as I’m sure you realised from your phone call. And if you want them to stay fine, then you will accept my very exciting request.’ His eyes shift to the desk to his left. He then gets to his feet and walks with slow, lazy steps and takes an iPad off its surface. He holds it up, waves it as though he’s excited about something, then hands it to Noah. ‘Take a look. There’s no passcode.’

With trepidation, Noah does as he’s told. The Photos app is already open, and at first he struggles to make out what he’s looking at. Then he turns the iPad to landscape and sees that it’s a photograph of an arm. An arm with a small dot on the flesh. ‘That’s an autopsy photograph of a man named Alastair Smith,’ Turner says. ‘Swipe to the next image.’

Noah swipes. The next is obviously a CCTV still of a man entering through the doors of a hotel, into the same foyer where Noah was sitting just minutes before. ‘That’s Alastair Smith, not long before he died,’ Turner continues. ‘He was found dead in this very hotel a few years ago. It was a bit of an unwellness resort that night for Alastair Smith. Shortly before his death, Mr Smith dated my daughter, Nicole. Well, “dated” makes it sound more official than it was. I think they were both in it for the sex. I don’t like to think of my daughter doing such things, no father does, but I have to face the fact she’s an adult. She can decide who to sleep with. Although Mr Smith wouldn’t have been my first choice for her. He had very dark business connections and friends who were rather unsavoury characters, so when he was found dead by the side of the swimming pool, it was no loss to the world. Hardly surprising he met an unfortunate end, considering the company he kept. Nobody was ever arrested, no charges were ever brought. The pathologist discovered he had been injected with a lethal amount of pentobarbital shortly before his death, the puncture mark just about visible in that photo you looked at.’

Noah takes his eyes away from the CCTV still and frowns at Turner. ‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’

Turner looks surprised by this question. ‘Well, you and this man are connected, don’t you see? You’ve both been intimate with my daughter. You’ve both known her in that way. That means you’re part of a pretty exclusive club.’

Noah lowers the iPad. ‘I don’t know how exclusive that club is. You’ll have to speak to Nicole.’

Turner drums his fingers on his bare knees for a bit. Then he says, ‘Swipe again.’

Noah looks down and swipes across. A bright, smiling photo of a much younger man appears before him. He appears to be in his teens or early twenties. He’s on a beach, wearing small Speedo trunks, holding up a large cocktail, grinning at the camera.

‘That’s a photo of Dylan Volkher,’ Turner says. ‘A handsome young lad, isn’t he? Or rather, wasn’t he? Past tense. This nineteen-year-old musician from Munich was another of my daughter’s boyfriends. He and Nicole met at a party in Turks and Caicos, just before she started university.’

Noah feels a creeping sense of dread.

‘Nicole had a fling with him during the first week of her holiday. And like I told you earlier, Dylan Volkher just… vanished.’ He lies back on the sofa, lets out his breath and puts his hands behind his head. ‘It’s possible that Dylan was a silly boy and went off swimming one night, perhaps drunk, and just got washed away out to sea. No body, no post-mortem. Worked out quite well for you, though, not having a handsome German clarinettist to get in the way of romancing my daughter during your first term at university.’

Noah stands up. ‘Stop making it sound like this has anything to do with me.’

Turner puts his hands up, a mock-innocent expression on his face. ‘I’m not saying it does. I’m just saying that these things happen, unfortunate as they may be. His parents are undoubtedly still mourning the disappearance of their poor boy. Imagine if that were your mother. The grief she’d feel if something similar happened to you.’

Noah puts the iPad down on the sofa. It takes all his restraint not to hurl it across the room. ‘You’re sick. This is all sick.’

‘I didn’t realise you were so squeamish, Mr Myers. Considering your love of crime fiction, I would have thought you’d understand how this all works. There have been two men. One before you were involved with my daughter, and the other after. The odds of your survival are not in your favour.’

Noah drops back onto the sofa. He puts his head in his hands, his vision swimming, his heart pounding. Turner lets him sit there, silently, until eventually Noah raises his head and says, ‘I’m going to have to do what you want, aren’t I?’

Turner nods, a slow smile widening his lips. It makes Noah feel sick.

He takes a deep breath, then says, ‘OK. I’ll go to Liar’s Island, or whatever it’s called. I’ll spend Christmas with your children. I’ll find your wife’s killer.’

SEVEN

MARGUERITE

CHRISTMAS EVE 2020

Marguerite rewatches the video again. The satisfaction of being right all along hits home each time she clicks play. She’s always known that young man was awful, and she partly suspected her daughter had only started dating him because she knew she’d be met with disapproval. He is loud, uncouth and common. All the things her daughter isn’t. There is no earthly reason why she should choose to associate herself with such a man unless it’s to try to annoy her mother. Well, she has succeeded. As she thinks about this, Marguerite sees a new email pop up – a follow-up to the one she just received.

From: Michael Allerton, Allerton Quinn Consultance

To: Marguerite Wentworth, Wentworth Enterprises

Apologies, Marguerite. I meant to mention in my previous email that the situation involving Clifford has worsened. The video has now appeared on six websites. The links are available in the attached document. Please be aware that there is evidence of malware on the last link, so I wouldn’t advise you to visit that one. The others are safe, but the content and pop-up advertisements are very explicit.

As we previously discussed, this was a situation we predicted and had a plan in place for. Some of the websites may prove difficult in terms of VPNs and mirror sites, but I have a contact who is very reliable with this sort of thing. I await your instruction.

Wishing you and your family a good Christmas – or as good as possible during these strange and difficult times,

Michael

Marguerite peruses the attached Word document but doesn’t click on any of the links. She knows what they contain. That can wait for later. She scrolls back up to the previous email. The email that concerns her daughter. Or rather, her daughter’s boyfriend, Mateo.

She picks up her phone and taps her daughter’s name. ‘Nicole, please could you come downstairs to the library. There’s something I think you should see.’ She ends the call before any response can arrive. She doesn’t want to get into a discussion about this on the phone. She wants to see her daughter’s face when it hits her.

After a short wait, the door opens and her daughter walks in. Even though it’s only 6 p.m., she’s dressed in grey silk pyjamas, a book clasped in her hand.

‘I called you five minutes ago, Nicole,’ Marguerite says, peering over her glasses.

‘And?’

‘And your little power games are not appreciated. If I ask you to come to the library, you come to the library.’

Nicole gestures at herself with her free hand. ‘Look, I’m here. This isn’t a hologram, Mum.’

‘You kept me waiting.’

For a moment, Nicole looks like she’s going to continue to be defiant, jutting out her chin, pressing her lips together. Then she lowers her head and says, ‘Sorry.’

Marguerite nods. ‘That’s better. Put the book down, my dear, you’ll want to pay attention to what I’m about to show you.’

Nicole glances at the book as though she’s only just noticed she has it with her. She puts it down on a small table near an armchair and comes over to where her mother sits by the writing desk near the window. Marguerite turns away. Snow is falling outside – a light dusting, some flakes floating up close to the glass – and Marguerite watches her get nearer in the reflection. When she’s standing close behind her, Marguerite opens the MacBook on the desk. ‘Look closely, dear,’ she says. ‘You won’t want to miss this.’

She opens the most recent file in her downloads. The video is in a landscape ratio, but the motion suggests it’s been recorded on a mobile phone. The scene shows the outside of a villa, with a man swimming in a pool. The swimming pool’s glittering blue surface suddenly becomes distorted as the man pulls himself out at the side. The video zooms in on him, and someone else comes into frame too – a young woman, lying on a sunbed. The young man looks around, and from behind her, Marguerite hears her daughter’s intake of breath.

‘Oh, you recognise him?’ Marguerite says. ‘I thought you might.’

Nicole doesn’t say anything. Just carries on watching in silence as the young man in the video adjusts his trunks, which were slipping down his slim frame, and goes over to the woman on the sunbed. He bends down and kisses her on the lips, then picks up a drink from a table to her left and takes a sip. She reaches for it – presumably because it’s her drink and he’s helped himself to it. He laughs and continues to down it. She playfully bats at him with her hands, bringing her body up to his toned torso, letting the white shirt she had around her fall to the floor, revealing a black bikini. He drops the glass onto the sunbed and allows himself to be backed into the pool, both of them falling in, splashing about and laughing.

‘Can you stop the video, please?’ Nicole says so quietly that Marguerite almost doesn’t hear her.

‘Wait, dear,’ Marguerite says, ‘or you’ll miss the bit where he proposes.’

This causes another intake of breath. ‘What?’

Marguerite turns around. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you not know? Your boyfriend, Mateo – or former boyfriend – is now engaged to be married. This was recorded two weeks ago. I would have thought he’d have told you by now. Do you think you’ll go to the wedding? I presume it depends on when the restrictions are eased. But Mateo doesn’t look too bothered about Covid in this video. It doesn’t look very socially distanced to me.’

‘Turn it off,’ Nicole says, her voice louder now. Marguerite reaches forward and presses the space bar.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Nicole says. She has her eyes closed now, and there’s a tremble in her voice.

‘Doing this to you? I’m not doing anything to you. I’m just sharing something with you. Sharing the knowledge that the man you’re dating seems to be in a very meaningful relationship with another woman. A young blonde woman called Malaga. Yes, she’s literally called Malaga – named after the city where she was conceived, the city where this video was shot. Although she’s not Spanish, she’s from Vange in Essex. What a charming name for a town. She owns a business that specialises in genital decorations known as “vajazzles”. It all sounds rather horrid, doesn’t it? But I thought you should know as much as possible about the woman you’ve been replaced by.’

Nicole starts to walk away. For a moment, Marguerite thinks she’s going to leave the room without any further discussion, without this confrontation descending into an argument. Then, at the final moment, Nicole turns back and says, ‘I guess you must really hate me, Mum. You must do, in order to behave this way towards your only daughter. I just want to know why. Why do you hate me so much?’

Marguerite watches her for a few seconds, narrowing her eyes. Then she glances at the book by the armchair to her right. ‘Don’t forget your book, dear. Reading is so important. Where else would you learn such melodramatic speeches like the one you’ve just performed?’

Nicole folds her arms. ‘I haven’t performed anything. I’ve just made it clear how you make me feel. Unwanted. Unloved.’

Marguerite tuts. ‘Oh, come now. Any more of that and I’ll have to get out my violin. And it never was my best instrument. I could always wheel out a bit of “Moonlight Sonata” on the piano if you need a soundtrack to your pity party?’

Nicole is staring at her, her eyes wide. ‘Can you hear yourself? You sound mad. Mad with bitterness.’

‘Mad with bitterness? Darling, under that dull exterior, I think you’re actually a frustrated dramatist.’

‘Cold. Cruel. A stranger to everyone, even your own children. You push us away. It’s deliberate. Sadistic. Callous.’

Marguerite throws her hands in the air. ‘I’m sorry, have I slipped into a play by Pinter? You’re just saying words, Nicole. I’m sorry if you thought this was going to be some explosive, emotional moment between us, but if that was the intention, you might want to go away and rehearse it. Impact is all in the delivery. Yours needs refining.’ She lets out a breath, then says, ‘And when you go looking for your next young man, try to aim for someone a little more… tasteful.’

She takes off her glasses and walks coolly past her daughter.

‘He was my friend,’ Nicole says. ‘I liked him. I knew you wouldn’t, but I did.’

Marguerite pauses and looks at her daughter. ‘You don’t have friends, Nicole. You never fall in love. Not properly. Because you’ll never know if someone’s there for love or money. And trust me, my dear, I think the latter is most likely.’

EIGHT

NOAH

22nd DECEMBER 2026

When Noah is dropped back home an hour later, he’s amazed to find the hallway tidy, perfect, exactly as it should be. He guessed this would happen – his mother hadn’t mentioned any mess or disruption on the phone and she wouldn’t have been able to miss it. But he still finds it hard to take it in. Who did it? Who cleared it up? He knows it must be people in Turner’s employ, people he sends out to do his bidding, likely bound by NDAs and lacking in personal morals. But he still wants to know who they are. Hates the thought of these faceless strangers who turned his home upside down and then, with apparent ease, put it right again.

‘Noah, we’re in the living room, darling,’ his mother calls out. He goes in to find her just as she was before, crouched in front of the coffee table, working on one of her craft creations. ‘I was so foolish, I knocked the badger off the table before we left to go to the Ashtons’ for lunch. Gosh, the drive to Oxfordshire took quite a while, and the whole way I just wanted to be here sorting out this little fellow.’ She lowers the glue gun and taps the badger’s nose.

‘Can you not get in the way of the TV?’ Frank murmurs from the sofa. The tub of Roses balancing on his stomach wobbles dangerously.

Noah steps to the side and turns to the screen in time to see a woman being hacked to death on a bus. ‘This looks… festive,’ he murmurs.

‘It’s Luther,’ grunts Frank. ‘Fifth rewatch. Bloody love it. Better than that fluffy Miss Marple stuff you like.’

‘How were the Ashtons?’ Noah asks, ignoring the dig.

‘Oh, you know,’ his mother says. ‘They’re a funny pair. They don’t live in the main house anymore; they’re in the annexe near one of the north fields. Not the same. I couldn’t imagine being cooped up like that. It would be awful.’

‘Well, it’s lucky we haven’t got an annexe,’ Frank says, sitting up, sending the tub of chocolates tumbling to the floor. Noah watches as his mother picks up a hazelnut swirl, unwraps it and eats it slowly while rummaging in a bag to her left, pulling out some tinsel. Frank makes no move to pick up the rest of the chocolates, something that would irritate Noah, were it not for the word echoing in his head.

Annexe.

He thinks of Turner Wentworth’s three adult children, spending Christmas together in a separate building from their mother. Unable to hear her hammering and screaming and eventually going silent as she passed out from dehydration.

‘Noah? Are you listening to me?’ His mother is looking at him. ‘I said, we’re going to New York.’

He blinks back at her. ‘New York, as in… America?’

‘Christ,’ Frank mutters. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No,’ Noah says, ‘I’m just… I’m trying to get my head around it. When was this decided?’

‘There’s not much to get your head around,’ Frank says, yawning. He jabs the remote at the screen, pausing the sound of a woman’s screams before they reach an unbearable pitch. ‘I’ve got a business meeting in Manhattan on the twenty-seventh of December. Late-notice arrangement. It’s about a possible takeover bid for one of their pet supply chains at an incredibly reasonable price.’

‘At Christmas?’ Noah says.

‘Unlike the UK,’ Frank says, ‘the US doesn’t put on the out-of-office notifications the moment they put up their decorations. They understand hard work there.’

‘And this was just arranged?’

‘Yes, apparently it’s urgent,’ his mother says tersely. ‘We’re flying out tomorrow.’

Noah can’t help but wonder if this is a coincidence. Or something arranged by Turner. Something to make it easier to be away from home. How can he miss his traditional family Christmas if it isn’t happening?

‘Well, that’s actually quite… um… convenient,’ Noah says. ‘Because I might be spending Christmas with friends.’

‘Friends?’ His mother repeats the word as though Noah having friends is something strange and unlikely.

‘Yes, friends,’ he says. ‘University friends.’ While this might be stretching the truth, it’s at least close to it. ‘You haven’t met them. It’s sort of… a reunion.’

‘That sounds fun, dear,’ his mother says. ‘I’m pleased you’ll be occupied. Of course, I said you should come with us, but…’ She leaves this hanging, and he hears Frank sniff loudly. He presumes objections were raised about the idea of his accompanying them.

‘Darling,’ his mother goes on in a lowered voice. ‘Could you go and check on your sister?’

‘Stepsister,’ Noah corrects.

‘She’s been in a bit of a mood ever since her car broke down and she’s a bit put out that we’re going to the US. After all, she’s just come from there, ready for her family Christmas, so I think she’s a bit disappointed and… I don’t think the whole thing was explained to her very sensitively.’ He sees her eyes drift over to Frank. ‘She’s making dark threats about going to an archaeological dig somewhere dangerous.’

‘I think Ruby can look after herself,’ Noah sighs.

‘That’s what I said,’ murmurs Frank.

‘Please, Noah,’ his mum says.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll talk to her. But I doubt she’ll listen to anything I say.’

He leaves the living room and heads upstairs, marvelling again at how clear the stairs and landing are compared to the mess that was there just a few hours before. It’s like it never happened. He goes into his room first and opens his drawers. All his clothes are packed away, just as he left them. He isn’t sure he’d have noticed anything was different. Still feeling very odd that his belongings have been handled multiple times by complete strangers, Noah has a hot shower, inhaling the steam slowly and deeply, trying to calm his racing mind. Then he gets into his pyjamas and walks down the corridor to Ruby’s bedroom. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, papers and photographs laid out in front of her. Noah sees most of the photos are of statues and objects situated amidst dirt and sand, no doubt from her archaeological digs.

‘Sorry, are you working?’ Noah asks.

Ruby has her headphones on and lowers them when she sees him, but doesn’t reply.

‘Are you still angry with me?’ Noah asks.

‘Maybe,’ Ruby says, pursing her lips. She continues to rifle through a pile of documents, picks up her phone and photographs one of them, then sets it aside.

‘I wanted to say sorry for yesterday,’ Noah says.

‘Uh-huh,’ Ruby says.

He sits down on the edge of her bed. ‘I understand you’re not impressed that Mum and your dad are going to New York.’

‘I don’t care what they do,’ Ruby says, her voice louder than Noah expected. She sounds as though she does very much care. ‘The same way they don’t care what I do. Do you know, nobody has asked how the dig in Iraq went? Nobody checked in when I got back to the US, either. I’d get the odd message to check I hadn’t been blown up or kidnapped, but no interest in my work. None at all.’ She sets all the papers down and starts picking up the pictures. ‘So I’m going back to the dig. I’m flying to Baghdad tomorrow.’

Noah digests this in silence. When he doesn’t reply, Ruby turns and he sees regret in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry… I realise that means I’m leaving you here all alone. To tell you the truth, I booked everything in a bit of a rage and didn’t stop to think.’

‘Well,’ Noah says, ‘it turns out I won’t be. All alone, that is.’

‘They’re taking you with them? I got the feeling that my dad⁠—’

‘I’m not going with them,’ Noah says. ‘I’m actually going on a trip myself. A trip to… to Liar’s Island.’

Ruby frowns. ‘Where?’

Noah rubs at his eyes. ‘It’s an island off the Essex coast. It belongs to Turner Wentworth. I’m going to spend Christmas with Nicole and her brothers.’

Ruby stares at him as if he’s just spoken in a foreign language. ‘I’m sorry, let me get this straight – you’re going to spend Christmas on a billionaire’s island, but not a nice sunny one, a freezing one in Essex, with his three weird children, one of whom is your ex from over a decade ago? That’s the maddest thing I’ve ever heard.’

Noah shrugs. ‘Less mad than spending Christmas in a warzone.’

Ruby tuts. ‘I’m serious, Noah. This is mad. Where did this idea come from? Are you back in touch with Nicole?’

Noah thinks about this. Then he decides he might as well start embracing his cover story. ‘I’ve been dating a woman who lives on the island, in the mansion Turner had built there. She’s a sort of family friend of theirs.’

Ruby’s frowning again. ‘This is very random. How did you meet her?’

Noah’s ready for this. ‘Online. A dating app.’

‘Right,’ Ruby says. ‘I didn’t know you used dating apps. In fact, I wondered if you were destined to join the priesthood, considering your lack of romantic interest in anyone.’

Noah doesn’t know how to reply to this, so he says nothing.

‘And you’re going to be with her and the Wentworth family?’ Ruby asks. ‘Won’t that be… I don’t know… a bit awks.’

Noah nods. ‘Yeah, but that’s life, I suppose.’

Ruby shakes her head. ‘That’s the weirdest set-up I’ve ever heard. And I didn’t think I’d be the one saying that, considering I’ll be driving out to the desert to dig up statues on Christmas morning. So if it’s all three siblings, I take it Archie Wentworth will be there?’

Noah nods. ‘I didn’t really get on with him at uni, and I haven’t seen him since. I don’t think he liked the fact I dated his sister.’

Ruby makes a ‘Hmm’ sound and looks as though she’s deep in thought.

‘What?’ Noah asks.

She seems to be considering whether to say something or not. Then she opens her mouth and says, ‘I hooked up with him. Just once. I met him in a bar, shortly after restrictions eased. I think it must have been summer 2021.’

Noah stares at her. ‘I never knew that.’

‘Well, yeah, I don’t exactly go around telling you who I sleep with. I could start quizzing you about the last time you got laid, if you like?’

‘OK, OK,’ Noah says, raising his hands. ‘It’s just… a strange coincidence. Did you stay in touch?’

Ruby scoffs. ‘Not likely. A right moody prick. Only went home with him because he was the hottest guy in the club. I remember it well because he got my name wrong – he called it out right at the moment when he… you know. Not the most flattering thing for a girl to hear. I don’t think he was even drunk, just couldn’t remember what I was called. Either that, or he was pining after someone else. And then things got really weird. He went to sleep, and in the early hours of the morning, he had a nightmare, screaming and begging. Kept saying sorry. I thought he was apologising to me at first, but he was still in his nightmare – a horrific one, if his face was anything to go by. I can still see it now. Tormented. And when I finally got him awake, he said it was time for me to go. Bloody weirdo.’

Noah listens to all this with interest. ‘Yes… that’s… curious. Very curious.’

Ruby rolls her eyes. ‘Curious? You make it sound like the plot of one of your beloved detective stories. You should grow a moustache. Or a beard you can stroke when deep in thought.’ She gathers some of the photographs together, pulls over a satchel, and begins to stuff them inside. When she turns back, her face softens. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t mocking you. And sorry for the TMI about my wild London life. Feels so long ago now. I’m much happier crawling around in a desert.’ She laughs briefly, then looks serious again. ‘Just be careful around Archie Wentworth. He’s odd. I’m not sure I’d want to spend time on a secluded island with him.’

When Noah heads to his room after bidding Ruby goodnight, he gets onto his bed and closes his eyes without getting under the sheets. He’s physically exhausted, though his mind is wide awake. Buzzing with thoughts of his strange day. His disturbing encounters with Turner Wentworth. The moment he came home to the house in disarray. And that horrible photograph he saw of the dead young man and the threat that he’ll be killed too if he doesn’t obey Turner’s every word. The thought of his wife, Marguerite, trapped in an attic all alone, gradually realising that nobody was coming to save her.

When sleep proves impossible, Noah brings his laptop over to his bed and sits atop the covers, watching any archival videos he can find of the Wentworths on YouTube. There are many featuring Turner. Sometimes he comes across as relatively normal in segments of BBC business documentaries, talking about subjects like the changing media landscape or his companies’ philanthropic endeavours. Other times he exhibits the same unnerving eccentricities he displayed during Noah’s meetings. The hunt for content featuring his children proves difficult. It seems they rarely give interviews, and most of the video available is phone-captured content at glamorous charity events or movie premieres. There’s a brief segment of Nicole on a BBC arts show about the Booker Prize where she’s a guest at the 2022 ceremony and is asked which of the titles she thinks should win. Nicole sounds just as he remembers her from university: coolly articulate, but lacking enthusiasm, and she tells the reporter that she ‘enjoyed Claire Keegan’s novella Small Things Like These’ in a bored tone that makes the word ‘enjoyed’ seem out of place. When the reporter, who Noah suspects was just trying to fill time before the winner announcement, says how great it is that the prize ceremony is allowed to go ahead as normal in all its splendour now the pandemic has eased, Noah notices something. A very small, but interesting detail. Nicole’s hand on her grey-green clutch tightens so hard, her knuckles go white. ‘I expect you had a lot of time to read during lockdown?’ she’s asked. Nicole confirms that she did with a short ‘Yes’, making clear the conversation is over.

For Marguerite, most of the videos available are news snippets about her death, both when she was discovered and when the cause of death was ruled as accidental. But a handful of other clips remain, including an interview with her in her role as patron for a charity awarding bursaries to musicians to study at conservatoires around the world. It’s the last video Noah watches before he closes the laptop. ‘Music has always been the most important thing in my life,’ Marguerite says, her well-spoken voice direct and brisk. ‘My children have never understood this. Although my daughter gave it a try for about five minutes, none of them have mastered an instrument or shown any talent worth mentioning. In that respect, they are three perennial disappointments.’

What a thing to say on camera about one’s own children, Noah thinks to himself as he settles back and falls into a fitful sleep, and Marguerite’s words stay with him, echoing through his head. Three perennial disappointments.

When Turner first suggested that one of the Wentworth siblings may have killed their mother, Noah thought he was mad. Now, he’s not so sure. And despite the stress and disorientation the day has brought, he can’t help but be intrigued to see where this task might take him next.

NINE

NOAH

23rd DECEMBER 2026

Noah watches with interest and mounting dread as the view from the car window changes from a country road to a stretch of mud and sand. The tide is mostly out, but the sea is still visible in the distance, as though waiting for an opportune moment to flood the surrounding ground. And Noah’s aware that moment will come soon, cutting off the island – and everyone on it – from the mainland.

Mark Stone glances back at him and presumably sees the direction of his gaze. ‘Don’t worry, the road won’t flood for a few hours yet.’

Noah nods. He spent a good hour reading about Liar’s Island when he woke up early that morning. The island has a long history, although it was hard to discover where its name originally came from. Conflicting theories circulate amongst Essex historians. Some suggest it was simply derived from Lyar, the surname of a man chosen by a local parish to oversee the small community that lived there during the 1600s. Before that, it was known by various names, with its history stretching back as far as the Vikings. Other theories about the name include the suggestion that a group of peasants had successfully seized control of the land by lying about a rare crop that could be cultivated there. Another website Noah found suggested a witch had fled potential execution, found sanctuary on the island and placed a spell on its inhabitants so that they told wild and increasingly outrageous lies whenever they went ashore. In more recent times, before Turner Wentworth bought the island in 2003, it had been jointly owned by an artistic collective – a mixture of actors, painters and composers. Some suggest it was a cult, with the group indulging in everything from open-air orgies to devil worship. One woman – a Romanian opera singer who went simply by the name of Tanta – had died when the main hall that once stood at the centre of the island mysteriously went up in flames. After that, the group left the island and put it up for sale. Turner Wentworth purchased it almost immediately, flattened almost every building standing on its 200 acres and built an enormous house overlooking the causeway.

‘It’s technically surrounded by a river, rather than the sea,’ Mark Stone continues as the driver carefully steers the car around the snaking, bending causeway. ‘Although it’s sea water that flows in.’

Noah knows this too, but he says nothing. He turns his gaze to the view through the windscreen in the front, watching the island steadily becoming larger. Mounds of perilous-looking rocks appear to run around the edge of the island, separating the stony shore from the higher ground. He doesn’t remember the rocks from the old photos he saw and wonders if they were brought here on Turner’s orders to add an impressive – and imposing – ambience to the place. He focuses his gaze directly ahead and spots the white frontage of a house, situated not far from the slope where the road leads up onto higher ground. Two big pine trees stand on either side of the front of the property, covered in cold-white lights. Even though the snow is only visible in patches on the rocks, the effect makes the whole place look arctic. Or perhaps even Scandinavian, Noah thinks as he looks at the trees. It’s as though the short journey across the river has transported him to rural Norway or Sweden.

‘Welcome to Liar’s Island,’ says Mark Stone, although his tone isn’t warm or welcoming. Like his face, it remains expressionless, although the blank delivery increases the ominous feeling that’s been Noah’s constant companion for the past forty-eight hours. He can hardly believe it’s only been two days since this man sat in front of him in a bookshop café and turned his world upside down.

Watching Mark Stone now, as he takes off his seatbelt and opens the front passenger door of the car, Noah can’t decide if he finds his cold, calm demeanour more unsettling than Turner Wentworth’s eccentric mood swings, or less. It’s like he’s in the presence of a machine, a robot that’s mimicking the way humans behave but has forgotten to add a personality or emotion.

The driver stays seated, and Noah only moves when Mark Stone opens his door and tells him to get out. Noah looks at him and wonders what would happen if he just remained inside, refusing to leave. Would they drive him back home? Or just abandon him out here, with the heating off, waiting for him to get so cold he’d come into the house seeking heat. Perhaps it would cause Mr Stone to alert his boss to Noah’s insubordination. After that, things might get dark very quickly. He closes his eyes as the disturbing image of that body in the photo comes into his head. He tries to push it away, tries to dismiss all thoughts of dying, but he can’t stop the thoughts coming in and the panic rising.

‘Mr Myers, please get out of the car,’ Mark Stone says in his quiet but firm voice.

Noah swallows, takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. ‘Sure,’ he says, as though he’s doing something casual, as though the request means nothing. He swivels around and pulls himself up, the cold air sharp on his face, the scent of the sea strong, though not unpleasant.

Mark Stone goes to the boot and takes out his travel bag. ‘I can take this in for you,’ he says, closing the boot and starting to walk up the steps towards the house. After a few seconds, Noah follows.

Before either of them reaches the door, it opens inwards, and a woman comes into view. Even amidst his nerves, Noah notices how good-looking she is. Tall, in her forties, with a thin frame and smooth features that manage to convey both age and the ghost of youth. She reaches a hand to brush her long, dark-brown hair out of her eyes as the breeze hits her, and she walks out just as Mark Stone reaches her. She doesn’t greet him, but instead looks past him to Noah. He feels her gaze scanning him as he comes up the steps. He tries to smile, but his face feels stiff from both the cold and nerves and expects the resulting expression may not be to her liking. She raises an eyebrow, then turns to Mark Stone and says, ‘Gosh, he looks very young.’ She talks in a slow voice, and even though she’s only said five words, her achingly posh accent is plain to hear.

‘I’m thirty-one,’ Noah says, as he comes to a stop in front of her. ‘You must be Rose.’ He holds out a hand and she looks at it for a few seconds, then shakes it.

‘Oh darling, this feels very formal,’ she says. ‘You’re as cute in real life as you were on my computer screen. I watched a YouTube video of you, you see. I watched it twice. In bed.’

If he didn’t feel so tense and cold, Noah might blush. ‘That was some years ago, now,’ he says. ‘And I was calm and relaxed. I hadn’t been threatened and blackmailed into doing something I didn’t want to do.’

The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them. He wonders if he’s overstepped, if his indiscretion will have consequences. But to his surprise, he sees a flicker of a smile on her lips. ‘Well, you certainly know how to flatter a girl.’ He notices her eyes switch to Mark Stone for the briefest of moments, then she says to Noah, ‘You’d better come inside. The weather’s only going to get worse, apparently.’

She leads the way into a cavernous hallway. The staircase is the main feature – a curved arrangement, with a set of stairs on both sides of the room. In a corner to the left of the door, before an archway through to another room, stands an enormous Christmas tree, decorated with cool-white lights similar to the ones outside, along with many silver-tinted glass ornaments.

Mark Stone sets Noah’s travel case down on the floor. Noah takes his rucksack off and puts that down too. ‘Master Archibald and Miss Nicole are en route,’ Mr Stone says to Rose. In other circumstances, the archaic way of referring to Turner’s offspring would have amused Noah, reminding him of a Jane Austen drama, but he says nothing.

‘Thank you,’ Rose says. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Clifford is already here.’ She looks back at Noah and says, ‘He’s a pretty boy, just like you. Though a little more tanned.’

There’s an awkward silence, then Mr Stone says, ‘Well, I’ll let you both get acquainted.’ He turns to Noah and says, ‘Good luck, Mr Myers. Keep your mobile turned on and charged. Mr Wentworth will be in touch, so you can keep him updated. He may message or call at any time. I advise you to answer. Is that understood?’

Noah glances at Rose to see if the strangeness of these instructions has had any effect on her, but she’s keeping her eyes on the floor. After a pause, Noah nods.

‘Good,’ Mr Stone says. Then he takes out his phone, unlocks it and tilts the screen towards Noah. The gesture suggests he’s showing Noah something, rather than offering him the device, and Noah leans forwards to make out the image. It’s of two people sitting in seats – perhaps on a train. No, not a train. It’s a plane. It’s been taken from across an aisle and has the digitally smooth quality of a picture taken with a phone. But the people in the photo are still easy to make out. It’s his mother and stepfather. His mother is looking at a magazine. His stepfather is buried in a Ken Follett paperback.

Then the screen goes blank. Mr Stone puts the phone away without saying anything further and walks out of the hallway, through the front door, and out of sight.

‘I’ve never been a fan of that man,’ Rose says, with an exaggerated shudder. ‘Or Dracula, as I like to think of him. I hope he retires one day. There’s a younger assistant, a redhead, and he’s such a sweetie.’

‘What the fuck?’ Noah says, releasing his breath, staring at the closed door, wondering if he should race after the man.

‘What’s the problem?’ asks Rose.

‘He… that photo… it was of my mother. On a plane.’

‘Oh really?’ she says, only sounding mildly interested. ‘Where is she off to?’

‘New York, but… that’s not the point, I⁠—’

‘You should follow me. Bring your bags, I’ll show you your room,’ Rose says. ‘As you’ve heard, Cliff is already here. He seemed quite excited to see you when I told him you were coming. He says he remembers you from university. You must have made quite the impression.’ She says this in a way that suggests he’s failed to do the same during this introduction, then turns away from him and heads towards the left-hand stairs. Noah grabs his rucksack and travel case and follows.

On the landing, she leads the way down a long corridor. The carpet is so thick and new-looking, Noah feels suddenly very aware of the walking boots he’s wearing, no doubt coated in a mixture of gritty slush from outside. He wonders if he should have taken them off downstairs. Rose doesn’t say anything, however, and leads him to a guest room that’s spacious and luxurious in ways his room at home could never be. His family’s house, although also large and grand in its own way, was built in the 1790s, whereas everything here feels brand new. According to his research, the building was completed two years after Turner bought the island two decades ago, but Noah thinks the place must go through regular facelifts, refreshed decorations and deep cleans in order to look this pristine over twenty years on. The cream carpet in the bedroom feels even more plush than the one in the corridor, and Noah immediately bends down to remove his shoes. He then treads over to the bed to put down his rucksack, and tucks his case to the side of a gleaming polished-wood bedside table.

‘This whole place is so clean,’ he comments, simply because he doesn’t know what else to say.

‘Yes,’ Rose says. ‘When you live alone in a large house on an island, you have to find something productive to do.’

Noah looks at her and frowns. ‘Is that all you do? Live here and clean the place?’

Rose gives a little shrug. ‘It passes the time. I find it soothing. I like things tidy. But I’m not a cleaner or housekeeper, I’ll have you know. I do occasionally have staff when Turner gives in and sends me some help. I prefer handsome young men who are good at doing what they’re told. But then that just puts temptation in my way.’

He sees her eyes scanning him. Choosing to ignore the flirtatious edge to her words and the comments about young men, Noah coughs and says, ‘Reminds me of Nicole. From what I remember, she was a neat freak. Sorry, I mean, conscientious about keeping things in order. You do know she and I used to be, um… an item?’

Rose looks like she doesn’t think much of this. ‘Briefly,’ she says, her tone cutting. She walks over to the window and reaches out to straighten one of the deep burgundy-coloured curtains so the two sides are symmetrical. ‘Just so you know, darling, I think this whole plan is preposterous.’ She turns back to look at him, a mixture of pity and defiance in her eyes. ‘I’m going along with it, because Turner asked. And what Turner wants, Turner gets.’

Noah isn’t sure what to say to this. Then she smiles, amusement back in her face. ‘But as I said, I don’t have too much to do here, so I suppose I should welcome this little diversion. It might be fun. I’ve never played that game, Cluedo, but I’ve heard people mention it. Perhaps this will be similar?’ She doesn’t wait for Noah to answer the question, which is lucky as he still has nothing to say. ‘But I don’t think you’ll get anywhere with the children. They’re way too guarded and suspicious. They’ve had to be, trying to cope with the press and gold diggers all their lives.’

Noah raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, I was kind of hoping you’d be able to help with that part. You know, try to convince them I’m trustworthy. We’re supposed to be in a relationship, after all. Surely that will count for something, even if I’m just supposed to be your new t⁠—’

Now it’s Rose’s turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘Toyboy? Is that what you were going to say?’

‘No,’ he says, quickly, but he can see the damage is done.

‘What other phrase starting with “T” were you going to use, then?’

Noah pauses, then says, somewhat doubtfully, ‘Trusted companion?’

He sees the smile at the corner of Rose’s mouth start to spread, lighting up her eyes. ‘OK, sweetie, let’s put our cards on the table. I like younger men. There’s no crime in it. Sometimes for sex, sometimes for company, sometimes a bit of both. Occasionally, I’ve brought them to social occasions. So with all that in mind, having you on my arm, so to speak, isn’t that odd. But if you’re hoping that’s going to help you get one of the trio to confess to murder…’ She trails off, shaking her head.

Noah is feeling hot and uncomfortable. He finds he isn’t sure what to do with his hands, and wishes he’d started unpacking. At least that would have given him an activity during this awkward first meeting. He takes off his coat and goes to hang it up by the door, then pulls off his fleece. His T-shirt starts to come off with it, and he hurries to pull it back down. He notices Rose’s eyes on him.

‘Keep yourself in shape, I see,’ she comments quietly.

Noah decides not to respond to this directly and instead says, ‘Do you think Marguerite was murdered?’

Rose moves her gaze to the carpet for a few seconds. Noah gets the impression she’s trying to decide how honest to be with him. ‘I don’t think it matters what I think,’ she says eventually.

‘That isn’t very helpful,’ Noah says.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but it’s all you’re getting for now. I’ll try to think up something more juicy.’ She leans back, her palms flat on the bed. Then she says. ‘Carry on.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Carry on undressing. Surely you’d like to get changed after your long journey? You could take a shower, perhaps? I could… show you how it works.’

Noah feels a leaping sensation in his chest. He isn’t sure what he’d expected from her, but near-immediate flirtation certainly wasn’t it.

‘Am I right?’ she prompts when he doesn’t say anything.

Noah nods. ‘Yeah. I’d… I’d like a shower.’

The smile is still on Rose’s face. ‘So go on.’

Noah takes a deep breath and then unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans. He steps out of them, then unbuttons his shirt. He isn’t sure if Rose is playing with him, seeing how far she can push it until he refuses, or if there is something else going on here. Maybe she does fancy him, he thinks. He isn’t sure if he should reject any advances straight away, or if that would make things awkward going forward. Would their couple status convince anyone if he stung her with rejection so soon? With his shirt now open, Rose puts her hands on him, slowly running them along his torso, pulling him closer towards her. ‘We could skip the shower part and just do it right here, right now, on the bed. Start as we mean to go on,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘After all, you are my toyboy. We should make this as convincing as possible. If you’re up for some method acting.’

Noah feels his skin prickle as her fingers continue to run down him. Then, before they get too low, she pulls her hands away. ‘I don’t think so.’ She lets out a little laugh. ‘That was a test, sweetie. And I’m sorry to say you failed. Keep your eye on the ball while you’re here. That’s lesson one.’ She wags a finger at him.

He stares at her, mouth open, as she walks towards the door. When she gets to it, she pauses and says, ‘The en suite is through that door there. The shower is easy to use. I’m sure a clever boy like you will figure it out. I’ll let Cliff know you’re here. When you’re ready, you can drop by and say hello. Last bedroom down the corridor. Maybe you’ll have more luck with him.’ She winks, then leaves the room.

His heart still pounding, though now with anger and humiliation, Noah pulls his trousers back on, marches across the room and follows her out.

‘I see Turner Wentworth isn’t the only fan of mind games around here,’ he shouts after her.

She stops walking, halfway down the corridor, then turns slowly and looks back at him. ‘Good. You’re learning. Keep going with that razor-sharp detective work and you might just survive this ordeal.’

Then she’s gone.

TEN

MARGUERITE

CHRISTMAS EVE 2020

Marguerite has been luxuriating in a bath for half an hour. She needed something soothing after the argument with her daughter downstairs – if ‘argument’ is the right word. She really is a ridiculous girl, she thinks to herself as she gets out carefully and wraps herself in a towel. She thinks of Nicole’s little attempt at an impressive speech, an awkward and embarrassing mixture of emotive words and half-finished thoughts. She suspects the girl’s mind has been warped by all those novels she reads. Mothers are often villains in books, and it probably makes her feel important to paint her own as one.

As Marguerite turns around, she sees she’s inadvertently left a trail of residual foam on the side of the bath and floor. She wipes some of it off a large bottle of L’Objet bath salts, the water distorting the words Bois Sauvage on the label so that she misreads it at first as ‘Boys Damaged’. She wonders if this is a trick of her mind. Her subconscious telling her that her sons are broken in some way.

This troubles her for just a few seconds, then she tuts and laughs. They’re not damaged. Not really. They’re just not used to hard work. They’ve had it too easy for too long. They don’t know what it is to try hard, really hard. She knew poverty as a child. She knew how hard things could be. Growing up without a mother, parented by governesses and tutors whilst her father remortgaged every part of their estate, sold off all the land he possibly could to real estate developers, slashed costs, even cut down on food to the point where she would go to bed at night feeling desperately hungry. He refused to sell Cavern Hall, their family home, and couldn’t deal with the shame of being the one who failed. Thank goodness he died, she thinks to herself now, not for the first time. That solved a lot of issues. It also left her free to go off and study music, helped along by the charity of family friends. That was a difficult time, a really difficult time. Her children’s lives have been plain sailing compared to the first twenty-five years of her life. They have nothing to complain about. Nothing.

As she dresses, she adds up the many issues with her sons in her head. They need sorting out, and soon, she thinks. Perhaps this Christmas lockdown is a blessing. If things had all gone back to normal, if the virus had relented and the world reopened, the boys would have just jetted back to Florida and continued drifting through their lives, leaving a trail of failures and incompetence in their wake.

She stares at the falling snow for a few moments, her eyes drifting to the dark outline of the annexe at the end of the garden. A question comes into her mind. Why are they all still here? If they’d pleaded with their father, she’s sure he’d have found a way of getting them back to Florida. Planes are still flying, albeit with far fewer passengers. People are travelling across borders. So they must have their reasons. She decides to park this question for later, picks up her phone and puts on some Chopin. A second later, someone knocks on the door.

‘Come in,’ she says.

Archie appears in the doorway. He looks cross, but that isn’t unusual. She isn’t sure why he always has a perpetual frown on his face, but it annoys her more than usual tonight as she looks at him, standing there in his light blue shirt and white cable-knit cardigan.

‘Mom, what’s wrong with Nicole?’

Marguerite sighs. ‘I’ve often wondered.’

Archie huffs. ‘I mean now. She’s in her room and she’s locked or blocked the door. I can hear her crying, which is practically unknown. I can’t remember the last time she cried, but I’m fairly sure she was in school uniform.’

Marguerite raises her eyebrows. ‘I’m surprised you remember a time when she wore school uniform. That would have meant you were in this country, and you’ve always treated England like it’s a dull, archaic backwater, the sort of place nobody in their right mind would spend their time. I think it’s your deepest frustration in life that you, your siblings, and both your parents are all actually English. No matter what accent you’ve tried to cultivate.’

‘That’s not true,’ says Archie. ‘And I haven’t cultivated anything.’

‘Why are you here, Archibald?’

Archie folds his arms. ‘I was concerned about Nicole.’

Marguerite stands up. ‘Well, touching though your brotherly concern is, I didn’t mean “here”, as in this room right now, interrupting Nocturne No 2 in E Flat Major. I meant “here in the UK”. Like I said, you’ve never enjoyed being here. You spend Christmas each year on Liar’s Island with your father, but I’m sure that’s just your attempt to keep him on your side. I imagine you worry that refusing to join in with his eccentric traditions might lessen your chances of being named the next CEO. But this year, when a trip to that chilly little Essex island can’t happen, you decide to stay in Hampstead. With me.’

She can see Archie is gritting his teeth. ‘You may not have noticed, Mom, but a global pandemic has caused the entire world to shut down.’

She scrutinises him with a piercing gaze that she knows he won’t be able to hold, but she’s impressed how many seconds he lasts before he looks away. ‘Hmm, nice try. But I think there’s something more to it. I reckon you think time away from the US in general might be quite convenient. Then, when things go back to normal, past errors, past misdeeds might just… be forgotten?’

She sees Archie breathing heavily. ‘I may have made some errors in the office. Errors to do with certain investments.’ He clears his throat. ‘But I don’t want to talk about that.’ He’s clamming up now. She sees annoyance in his face, knows he must be cross with himself for saying as much as he has. No matter, she thinks. They’ll circle back to it in due course.

‘While you’re here,’ she says, getting up. ‘I thought I might tap into that brotherly protective instinct you’ve been feeling and see if you can shine a light on a problem that’s arisen.’

Archie looks interested. ‘Has this got something to do with why Nicole is sobbing in her room?’

Marguerite laughs. ‘No, no. That’s nothing. The fellow she was dating before lockdown has got himself involved with some prostitute out in Spain. Well, technically not a prostitute, but you know what I mean. She’s making a bit of a song and dance about it. Probably because she was hoping to finally have a boyfriend at last. But no, what I wanted to talk to you about concerns your brother.’ She turns off the music, then takes up her iPad from the bedside table.

‘Why, what’s Cliff done?’ Archie asks, sounding wary.

‘Disgraced the family,’ Marguerite says, simply. ‘But these days, he has a lot of competition from his siblings and his father, so I’m not sure that’s saying much. But the big problem is: Cliff did it on camera. I’ll let you see for yourself.’

She taps at the iPad, then hands it to her son. He watches the video that’s playing on the screen. ‘What is this? Oh.’

Marguerite nods, twisting her lips grimly. ‘Oh just about sums it up.’

She sees her son take in the content of the video, his eyes widening, his face at first shocked, then resigned. He isn’t happy about what he’s seeing, but it’s clear he isn’t exactly surprised. ‘How long does it go on for?’ he asks, looking up.

‘Too long,’ she says.

He watches the video until it cuts out, then looks at her, apparently lost for words.

‘Did you know about this?’ she asks.

He looks outraged. ‘Of course I didn’t!’

She lets out a hollow laugh. ‘Well, I doubt you’d have told me if you did.’

Still holding the iPad in one hand, Archie rubs his eyes with the other and says, ‘God, how could he have let this happen? It’s obvious he knew he was being filmed.’

Marguerite nods. ‘It leaves little to the imagination. I’m not sure who gave him the idea that this is an acceptable way to behave. Mind you, I’m sure everything in that video would seem like a quiet weekend to your father if my sources are correct. He’s just more careful. And probably exercises the liberal use of NDAs before anything hits the internet.’

Archie looks horrified again. ‘You mean… this is online?’

‘Of course it’s online. The papers don’t have it yet, but someone might see it. First, though, Cliff needs to know what he’s done.’

This earns her an instant, vehement head shake from Archie. ‘No. He’s not strong enough.’

Marguerite waves a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, nonsense. If he’s bold enough to do that on camera, he’ll have to endure a confrontation of some sort.’ She sits down in the chair by the window and leans back, folding her arms. ‘I might put it on TV as some Christmas morning viewing. A bit different to The Muppet Christmas Carol, but it will certainly have an impact.’

‘That’s just cruel,’ Archie says.

‘Is it? And you’re always sweet and kind to your brother? Never cruel or aggressive or confrontational?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t do that, though,’ he says.

‘It would certainly make him think about his choices,’ Marguerite muses.

Archie takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, he’s been stupid. Of course he has. He’s… well, he’s Cliff. He follows joy and fun. He thinks with his heart, not his head.’

Marguerite raises a single arched eyebrow. ‘Or another part of his anatomy, perhaps.’

‘Yes, OK, I accept that. But he’s naïve. Not bad.’

Marguerite points at the iPad with a severe finger. ‘Talking of naïve, swipe to the first photo after the video.’

Frowning again, Archie does as instructed. ‘What’s this?’

‘A copy of a document.’

‘I can see that, but what…’ He trails off.

Good, she thinks. He’s figuring it out. ‘There are more,’ she says. ‘Keep going. I’ve saved six or seven of the most damning pieces, but there are around a hundred leaked emails and files. A huge mountain of evidence, actually.’

‘Mom, please… I… how did you get all this? What is this? I can’t… I don’t…’ He keeps swiping, zooming in, rereading bits, going back, his eyes darting around the screen. Marguerite can almost hear cogs turning in his brain.

‘Goodness, you are slow sometimes, Archibald. That’s part of your problem. Because you’re more intelligent than Clifford, I think you’ve mistaken that for a sign of genius. You believe you possess business acumen. You think you’re a good judge of character. Newsflash, dear: it isn’t, you don’t, and you aren’t.’

She sees Archie’s hands shaking. ‘Please, Mom, explain this.’

Marguerite stands. ‘OK. That little mistake at work – am I right in thinking it has something to do with funding your airhead girlfriend’s business projects?’

Archie coughs and swallows. ‘She’s not an airhead. But yes.’

Marguerite tilts her head. ‘That’s a fair correction. She isn’t an airhead. She just comes across as one. But I think that was all an act. Because she’s pulled the wool over your eyes, my dear boy. There’s no doubt about that. You haven’t been funding developmental projects in computer design software for her fashion start-up. You’ve been funding some very shady businesses. She and her work partner, Avery, have their fingers in many pies. Webcam businesses, data-scraping services, a site on the dark web entirely devoted to selling stolen goods, it’s all pretty sordid. There are darker sides to it all too. One of the businesses she helps fund is called Clover Shore Construction. Have you ever heard of them? Do you know what sort of services they provide?’

Archie shakes his head. ‘No. What do they… what do they do?’

Marguerite goes up close to her son and takes the iPad from him. ‘You really don’t want to know.’ She speaks in barely a whisper. She sees Archie is struggling not to cry. He manages it. No tears slip down, but he only just about holds it together.

She turns away from him, finding the sight of this proud, arrogant man trying not to sob like a child oddly repulsive. She locks the iPad and sets it down on the table. ‘She’s played you, dear. Your silly little girlfriend has been running rings around you for the past two years. But then, you’re so easily played. It seems all my children are just… well… fools.’

ELEVEN

ARCHIE

23rd DECEMBER 2026

Archie grips the armrests on his plane seat, wondering if he might go mad before the flight’s over. Ever since boarding, his girlfriend, Skylar, has been talking nonstop about all the things she wants to speak to his father about. Most of it is to do with trying to get her next film funded, describing in mind-numbing detail the various projects she wants to set up. He knows his dad won’t care about any of it. His father barely watches movies – he just owns a film studio because it makes him money. He once said to Archie that each blockbuster movie that they ‘churned out’ was designed to be a cash register: ‘You put £200 million in, you get £800 million out, boom, done, and repeat.’ Skylar’s focus on ‘storytelling’ is likely to result in an eye roll from Turner Wentworth, as is the fact that every pitch she mentions to Archie contains an abundance of words and phrases like ‘inclusivity’, ‘diversity’, ‘intersectionality’, ‘privilege’, ‘disadvantaged communities’, ‘marginalisation’, ‘deconstructing capitalism’, ‘oppression’ and ‘climate catastrophe’. She is, apparently, going to provide the world with a ‘beacon of hope’ in these ‘horrific, fascistic times’.

She’s made two films so far, and he dutifully sat through both of them – each one an independently funded social-realist drama. He nodded in all the right places without offering any explicit praise. This didn’t matter – she praised her own work to an eye-watering extent, apparently free from any self-awareness or humility. Their biggest row during the four-month relationship occurred when she rehearsed a pitch to a production company in front of him, asking for ‘sensitive and constructive feedback’. When he suggested that unironically describing herself as ‘the one honest voice of an entire generation of struggling creatives’ could come across as a little arrogant, she told him she found his language – which was, by the way, ‘enrobed in privilege’ – severely ‘triggering’ and ‘adjacent to violence’ and promptly broke up with him, storming out of the apartment because she felt ‘unsafe’. This ‘break-up’ lasted all of half an hour, after which she returned with a breezy smile, Starbucks cup in hand, informing him that he was forgiven and they’d ‘work through his negativity issues’ together.

Thinking back through all this, Archie regrets not seizing the opportunity to end things when the chance arose. If he’s honest with himself, he only kept things going because he liked the fact his love life was always, in appearance at any rate, more successful than his brother’s or sister’s. Neither Cliff nor Nicole has been in a relationship that lasted for more than six months. Nicole never shares many details with him, but he knows two of her relationships ended with the guy either missing or dead – not something that made prospective suitors flock to her. He knows no sane guy would be able to cope with her for an extended period of time, anyway. He’s never been sure if her lack of personality or emotion is genuine or if she just exercises extreme control around her family, but he doubts many guys would find her robotic, cold demeanour a turn-on. Cliff, however, is at the other end of the spectrum and eternally single, even though Archie knows he screws around. He sees Cliff quite a bit – they have dinner when they’re in the same part of the US, with Cliff talking away non-stop, not entirely dissimilar to Skylar, although Cliff’s conversations are usually about surfing rather than social justice.

‘Archie?’ Skylar’s saying, reaching across the divide in their first-class seats to shake his shoulder. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Archie says, yawning.

‘I was telling you I might file a lawsuit against the film bursary committee on grounds of discrimination.’

‘Great,’ he says.

‘No, it’s not great, it’s deeply upsetting. I totally should have got that funding.’

‘Discrimination on what grounds?’ Archie asks, wondering if he’ll be told off for not knowing the answer to this question.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Skylar says, waving a hand as though his point is barely relevant. ‘I might talk to your father about that project first, as it’s the one I’m the most keen to get off the ground. Do you think he’ll be in touch with the studio bosses and, like, development execs via email while we’re at the house? I know it’s Christmas, but I guess he could message someone and get them to approve the screenplay if I sent him a PDF?’

Archie doesn’t bother to stop his sigh from becoming a half-groan. ‘Listen, Skylar, my dad isn’t going to⁠—’

‘But it would be really good if he could get the right people interested in more than one script,’ she says, not listening to him. ‘I’ve got at least six screenplays that are more-or-less done that I could show him.’

Archie knows this; she’s told him about twice a day ever since he invited her to spend Christmas on Liar’s Island with his family. ‘You know, for someone who wants to deconstruct capitalism, you seem awfully excited to meet a billionaire,’ he says.

His blunt tone causes a scowl to appear on Skylar’s face. She narrows her eyes, takes a deep breath, then, with all the patience of an adult explaining something elementary to a small child, tells him he needs to be more supportive, respectful of her talent and mindful of others’ feelings. When she begins to list a range of books that would help him ‘educate himself’ – a selection of self-help and far-left non-fiction – he closes his eyes and allows himself to drift into a deep sleep.

They’re having their passports checked at Heathrow four hours later when Archie gets the text. He scans it, then holds his phone closer to his face, convinced he must have read it incorrectly. ‘What the…?’ he mutters, coming to a standstill.

‘What is it?’ Skylar asks. She’s barely spoken to him since he woke up, no doubt as punishment for falling asleep while she was talking, but now seems interested in whatever’s caught his attention.

‘I don’t believe this,’ Archie mutters as he reads the message through a third time.

Hey son! It’s DAD! Have to offer some tough apologies, I’m afraid. I’m not going to make Christmas. I know, it’s a shit situation, but I’ve got some business to sort out. A guy at one of the studios has fucked up some financing decisions. A bit similar to how you fucked up six years ago. But I won’t go into all that, don’t want to give you bad flashbacks, water under the bridge son and all that jazz HA! Anyway, have a great Christmas. P.S. A nerdy lad named Noah Myers is joining you all, he’s Rose’s new toyboy, no idea how she finds these guys, must dash MERRY CHRISTMAS!

While he’s reading, another message arrives. A picture of a little frog puppet. It takes him a few seconds to realise it’s a pixelated image of a Muppet, under which his father has written the caption GOD BLESS US, EVERY ONE! It’s a reference to one of their Christmas movie-watching traditions. In another world, at another time, this little detail might have been a touching nod towards a sense of family and nostalgia. But right now, it feels like his father is sticking two fingers up at him.

‘Archie, what is it? If you keep ignoring me, I’m going to… to…’ Skylar seems at a loss as to what she might do, but she gives a curt nod as though whatever it is would be final and cataclysmic.

‘My father’s not coming,’ Archie says.

He watches her compute this. ‘What? But it’s Christmas. You said he always spends Christmas with you. Never misses a year, loves going to Fibber’s Peak or whatever.’

‘Liar’s Island,’ Archie corrects. ‘And I know. I’m surprised. He generally does what he wants; he cancels and backs out of loads of shit. But never this.’ He raises the side of his iPhone to his lips, thinking, enjoying how cool the metal edge is in the overheated exclusive arrivals lounge.

Skylar doesn’t say anything further until they’re heading to the pickup area where he expects a car to be waiting for him. ‘I think I might, like, pass.’

He doesn’t register her meaning at first. The image of Tiny Tim Cratchit, as portrayed by Robin the Frog, is still at the forefront of his mind. ‘What did you say?’

Skylar is hanging back, not leaving the warmth of the building, the fan heater above making the blue and orange strands in her blonde hair flutter over her face. She holds her fringe at bay with her right hand and scrolls on her phone with the other. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry, but I’m going to pass on the whole weird island with your siblings at Christmas thing.’

Archie is taken aback by this. ‘I thought you were looking forward to – ah…’ he says, realising what’s going on. ‘It’s because my father isn’t coming, isn’t it?’

‘Father,’ Skylar repeats the word with an exaggeratedly posh English accent. ‘Do you know, that’s the only word that makes you sound even a tiny bit British.’ She sighs. ‘I used to think it was hot but now I’m not… so… sure…’ The gaps in her words coincide with her pausing the phone scrolling, suggesting she’s reading something.

Archie watches her eyes dart across the screen for a few seconds before saying, ‘Skylar, what the fuck?’

‘Sorry, I was just researching other options,’ she says. ‘How do I get to a place called Belgrave Square from here? Where is that?’

‘That’s Central London. City of Westminster,’ says Archie.

‘Can I walk it?’

Archie lets out a laugh of disbelief. ‘If you don’t mind trekking along the motorway for five hours. Why the hell do you want to go to Belgrave Square?’

‘There’s a protest planned outside one of the embassies. If I join it, I might form connections with the protesters, ask them to show me around.’

Archie stares at her. ‘You’re not serious?’

Skylar rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, you disapprove? Big surprise. I thought I could change you, but apparently not. God, you’re privileged in the worst possible way. Ideologically, philosophically, financially and… and… materialistically! Yeah, materialism, that’s your number one problem, Archie, and it’s sickening,’ she says with a shudder, snapping shut the Louis Vuitton case covering her iPhone 17 Pro Max and stuffing it into her Chanel handbag. ‘You’re the reason why the world is in crisis. And if your father can’t be bothered to come and meet me, then I’m not sure why I should bother with you.’ She folds her arms. ‘Can you give me a lift to Belgrave Square or not?’

Archie shakes his head at her. ‘Not,’ he says, simply.

As he drives away, he can still hear her dire assessment of him ringing in his ears. No doubt other members of the public and airport staff heard it all too. He’s furious with himself for taking things this far with Skylar, and equally furious that he’s heading to Liar’s Island not just without a girlfriend but without his father, too. He’s been wanting to talk about changing jobs within the company, moving up a level and working more closely with him on a day-to-day basis. He’d hoped Christmas would be the perfect time to do this.

He considers the message again. A nerdy lad named Noah Myers.

He knows that name. Unless he’s mistaken, Noah Myers was a guy on his English literature course at university. And he was, briefly, involved with Nicole. Archie changed to business studies partway through his first year, so he didn’t have much contact with him, but he remembers Noah being very enthusiastic in seminars. In a rare heart-to-heart, he tried to ask Nicole about what happened between them. Their mother was there at the time, though, so Nicole opening up about something like that was even less likely than normal.

He closes his eyes, trying not to think of his mom. This usually works – he just thinks of something else, like a complicated maths problem or a hypothetical problem about international tax dodging, and he manages to stop his brain going to a dark place. A very dark place.

A screech of horns makes him jump and swerve the car back into its lane. He’s shaken, but OK. He hasn’t crashed, nobody’s hurt, but his heart is pounding, and for the first time, he wonders if his insistence that he drive himself everywhere is foolish. He’s never been bothered by jetlag, never had much issue with tiredness, so long as he’s slept on the flight, but today he thinks he should have asked to be chauffeured. In an attempt to make himself feel more alert and focused, he instructs the car’s system to call Nicole. She doesn’t answer. He begins to dictate a message to her instead: ‘Hey, you en route? Has Dad texted you? There’s a big surprise, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’

He listens to it back, then decides it’s too literal and replaces it with: ‘There’s a Christmas surprise waiting for us on Liar’s Island. You’ll never guess who’s coming to stay.’

Then he deletes that too.

‘Would you like to compose a new message?’ the smooth female voice of the car asks him.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, play me some Nirvana instead.’

He decides he’s going to wait. Let Nicole find out in her own way. It will be interesting to see how much info his dad gives his other siblings. He’s going to bide his time. Instead, there’s someone else he needs to speak to. He navigates to his recent contacts and hits call. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I’ve just heard about Noah Myers. What the hell is going on?’

TWELVE

CLIFF

23rd DECEMBER 2026

Cliff has enjoyed his day on Liar’s Island without anyone to interrupt his favourite pursuits. He doesn’t often get annoyed, but if he had to choose his biggest frustration in life, it would be people interrupting the things he likes – generally exercise, gaming, watching fitness videos on YouTube, more exercise, sleeping and online shopping. Sometimes people need to ask him things, sometimes there’s a reason for the interruptions. He gets that. It’s one of the reasons he likes having housemates back in Florida, for a sense of comfort and community, even though his siblings often remind him he could easily afford to live alone. And yes, maybe he shouldn’t play his music so loud at 11 p.m., or slam his free weights down on his bedroom floor, but he often thinks his friends just need to chill. Whereas here on the island, he can do what he likes.

He was in the kitchen cooking some chicken nuggets the night before when Rose told him about Noah. He was sad to hear that his father wasn’t joining them, but the news about the sort-of replacement distracted him. ‘Noah? Noah Myers?’

Rose nodded. ‘Yes, your father says you may remember him from university.’

Certain memories came flooding back into Cliff’s mind, making him laugh. ‘Yeah, I remember Noah. Great guy. A lot of fun. Haven’t seen him for years!’ He cracked open a can of Fanta Zero and glugged some of it down, drips running down his chin and his bare chest. After his workout, the chilled liquid felt pleasant against his hot skin. He saw Rose frowning at him. ‘What’s wrong? Sorry, was this yours? There are a lot of cans back there. But you can have it.’ He held out the drink to her.

‘Of course it’s not mine.’ Rose tutted. ‘I don’t drink aspartame, darling. They’re there for you. I know that’s all you drink.’

Cliff shook his head. ‘No, no, I like Pepsi Max and sugar-free Mountain Dew and⁠—’

‘I was surprised,’ Rose said, talking over him, ‘that you didn’t find it strange that one of your old university acquaintances is going to spend Christmas with us. And that your father’s festive traditions have changed so radically.’

Cliff shrugged. ‘Er… I didn’t really think. Yeah, that is weird. Why’s he coming?’

He saw Rose roll her eyes. She often did this when she was talking to him. Come to think of it, many people did this when talking to him.

‘He and I have been involved for a few months,’ she said, sounding almost bored now. ‘His family are abroad for Christmas, so I invited him to stay.’

Cliff nodded. ‘Sweet. Involved, as in, you and he are, like, a thing?’

Rose tilted her head and pouted her lips a little. ‘Yes. A thing.’

Cliff thought about it. ‘Wow, that’s, like… wow, that’s funny.’ He laughed again, then stopped, because Rose’s expression suggested she was not impressed with this reaction. ‘I mean, good for you. Good for him. He’s a cool guy.’

Rose gave him an odd look, then said she was going to make herself some dinner.

‘You can have some of these nuggets,’ he said. ‘What happened to the cook, here, anyway?’

Rose looked at the nuggets as though he’d offered her a tray of roadkill and said she was going to have a salad. She didn’t respond to the question about the cook straight away. Only after she’d started to build her winter salad in a glass bowl did she say, quietly, ‘Antoni decided to move back to Poland. Things didn’t work out between us.’

Cliff shrugged. ‘Oh well, I don’t mind helping out in the kitchen.’ He let the baking tray clang into the sink and saw a nugget he had missed tumble onto the floor, along with a mass of crumbs. He scooped them up and chucked them in the direction of the bin. He noticed Rose wince, but she didn’t say anything.

Now, nearly twenty-four hours after learning of Noah’s addition to their number, he listens to him arrive from his bedroom, surprised to find he feels a flutter of excitement at the thought of meeting him again. Memories of Noah at university slipped into his dreams the night before, so he presumes this is why. After all, they had their secrets. Things he didn’t share with Rose.

Part of him was tempted to tell Rose everything, but he decided against it. It would be a bit awkward to go into details. Plus, he’s never been sure how to think of her. She isn’t quite a motherly figure, but not a friend either. Just a woman who has always been present in their lives. He figures she was involved with his father in some way, but he definitely doesn’t want to know about that. She doesn’t tell him any uncomfortable details, so he isn’t in a rush to tell her any. It’s a good unspoken agreement, and he’s not about to ruin it.

He lies on his bed, setting his headphones aside, wondering if he should let Rose settle Noah into one of the guest bedrooms, whatever that means. He doesn’t want to burst in on them having sex, if that’s what they’re doing. He isn’t sure how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other, but he knows couples like to do such things when they’re reunited. Not that he’s got much experience of being in a relationship. He’s been described by guys he’s dated as both ‘clingy’ and ‘inattentive’, along with ‘exhausting’ and ‘easily distracted’, even though he’s pretty sure not all these things can be true at once.

When he hears a commotion in the corridor, he sticks his head out. A man is shouting and he wonders if an argument is developing between the odd couple. He’s surprised to see Noah, standing there, his shirt flapping open, his fists clenched. He thinks he can even make out his hands shaking. Cliff doesn’t like conflict or high tempers, and he’s about to leave when Noah turns, presumably to go back into his room, and their eyes meet.

Cliff decides to just play it casual. He waves at Noah and grins.

Noah looks as though he’s unsure how to respond. He pauses for a bit, then begins to walk towards him. ‘Er… hi.’ He sounds awkward. ‘How are you, Cliff?’

Cliff doesn’t register the question at first. He’s too busy admiring Noah’s physique, impressed by how he’s kept his figure. He’s often surprised how many guys who were toned and ripped in their twenties let things slide the moment they turn thirty. Noah’s not done that. If anything, he’s got even more muscle on him than when they knew each other all those years ago.

Noah seems to notice him looking. ‘Cliff?’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m good, thanks.’

‘I’m pleased,’ Noah says, though he doesn’t look it. ‘I’m going to take a shower, then unpack.’ He nods at the doorway to his room.

Cliff nods. ‘I can come with you.’

Noah raises his eyebrows.

‘Not to the shower,’ Cliff clarifies, with a laugh. ‘Just… I thought we could chat while you unpack. Catch up. It’s been years.’

‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’

He takes a step forward, and for a moment, Cliff thinks he’s going to embrace him. He even opens his arms before he sees the look of surprise and confusion on Noah’s face. Deciding he’s reached the point of no return, he goes in for the full hug anyway. ‘So great to see you, man,’ he says, slapping him on the back. When he lets go, he sees Noah still looking surprised. He offers Cliff a flicker of a smile, then goes into the guest bedroom, scratching his head.

‘You go ahead and shower,’ Cliff says, sitting down on the bed. ‘Wow, you’ve brought a lot of books.’

‘There’s only three.’

‘More than I’ve read in, like, my whole life. Can I look at them?’

‘Er, sure,’ Noah says. Then he goes into the bathroom and closes the door.

Cliff picks out the books from Noah’s bag and looks at them. He can’t remember the last time he read a book cover to cover. Possibly at school, maybe not even then. There’s something about these dog-eared paperbacks with illustrated, in some cases trippy, covers that he finds cool and wonders if he should try one of them. He selects one with a giant wasp on the front and begins to read, but after half a page, his mind wanders, and he ends up scrolling on his phone, the book left open on his knees.

‘Enjoying Death in the Clouds?’ Noah asks when he comes back in, a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair looks much darker when wet. Cliff watches one of the drips from his fringe run down the side of his face, then down his neck and onto his chest.

‘Cliff?’ Noah says, raising a hand. ‘Am I going to have to repeat everything I ask you?’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Cliff says. ‘I read a bit, but I thought it was going to be about a giant killer wasp or something.’

‘It isn’t,’ Noah says, shortly, reaching into his other bag, pulling out some beige chinos and putting them on.

‘Well, that’s false advertising,’ Cliff says with a laugh. When Noah doesn’t laugh in response or say anything further, Cliff decides to fill the silence. ‘So, you and Rose, huh? How did that happen?’

He sees Noah bite his lip. He doesn’t answer at first, just focuses on choosing a shirt from the neatly folded stack he’s taking out of his bag. Then he says, ‘It just happened. We matched online when we were both in London. Then I carried on seeing her. She’s… nice.’

Cliff nods. ‘Yeah, Rose is great. So, why are you in separate rooms?’

Noah shrugs. ‘She just put me here.’

Cliff doesn’t feel this quite answers the question, but he doesn’t press it. ‘She had a thing with the chef guy who worked here, but he’s gone back to Poland, apparently,’ he says. ‘Maybe you can take over the cooking?’ He laughs. Again, Noah doesn’t, so he clears his throat and carries on. ‘Did you stay in touch with Nicole or Archie?’

Noah shakes his head. ‘No. This is the first time I’ve seen any of you since uni.’

‘Whoa, so this is a “college reunion” like in the movies? Nice. Of course, Archie’s, like, an ultra-serious businessman now. He wants to run Dad’s company. Nicole spends all her time in London doing London things. Not sure what, to be honest.’

Noah nods, slowly. ‘And you?’

Cliff shrugs. ‘I’m just in Florida. Surfing, doing gym stuff. In fact, Dad let me start up my new gym chain there. We had three branches open at one point, but there was a whole load of business shit I didn’t understand. Stuff to do with tax and premises and all that, and God, it was so boring. More trouble than it was worth. Dad got a bit mad when I forgot to tell some accountants some numbers stuff, but he let me sell the company, and I made good money from that, which I used to design surfboards. Got them into some shops, but it all takes so long, and by that point, I was considering going into the energy drink market. I tried to get Dad to invest in this juice and caffeine drink idea I came up with, but he wasn’t keen. He said I needed more of a head for business, so he put me in charge of part of his movie studio, which was cool, but seriously pissed off Archie. Especially because he likes movies, and according to him, I know “fuck all” about cinema. He got very angry about it.’

‘I bet,’ Noah says. He’s standing with his arms folded. Cliff isn’t sure if Noah wants him to go or to carry on talking. He isn’t a stranger to this dilemma and often feels the latter option is the safest, so there’s no chance of being rude. He hates the thought of upsetting or offending someone. As he watches, Noah continues to put his clothes into the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. He remembers that people like to be asked questions about themselves – something he regularly forgets to do, but enjoys once he is in the midst of it. So he asks Noah about his home set-up, what he’s been doing since university, whether he is going to write another book and various other things. Noah talks a bit about his family and work, trying to set up online businesses, but looks less pleased about the book question and just murmurs, ‘Well, I didn’t really write the first one.’

‘Oh well, not that it matters,’ Cliff says cheerfully. ‘I didn’t read it. Nicole said none of us were in it anyway.’

Noah looks up from arranging his sock drawer when he says that. ‘Nicole read it?’

Cliff nods. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Hey, won’t it be weird with her and you here, together? I mean… what does Rose think about that?’

Noah just says, ‘I don’t know. I’m too tired to think about it.’

After he says that, Cliff realises he’s right; he does look tired. And a bit on edge, like he’s having coffee withdrawal. Cliff got hooked on coffee for the whole of 2016 and part of 2017, and it was only his discovery of energy drinks that shifted his attention away from ‘The Devil’s Drink’ as his mother called it. He gives a little shake of his head when he thinks about his mother. That’s normally enough to shift his thoughts away, so long as he can focus elsewhere. But Noah’s next words make it impossible.

‘I was sorry to hear about your mum,’ he says. ‘It must have been so awful, to lose her during the pandemic like that.’

Cliff doesn’t speak. He doesn’t like going silent – silence is to be filled, in his view, by nice things, fun things, things that will distract him from thinking about the unthinkable. Things that will stop him from going back there. Back to that night…

‘Cliff?’ Noah says. ‘Are you OK?’

‘What?’ Cliff looks up and realises Noah is staring at him. ‘Oh, yeah, I’m fine, I was…’ His mind’s racing, trying to latch onto something, anything. ‘I was thinking about all the work for Rose in the kitchen now the chef guy has gone.’

Noah comes over and sits down next to him on the bed. In a quiet voice, he says, ‘You weren’t, though, were you?’

Cliff pauses. Then shakes his head.

‘Were you thinking about your mum? It’s OK to be sad about it, you know.’

Something about the words and tone bothers Cliff. It’s as though he’s a child and he’s being taught about ‘the process of grief’ by an understanding adult. But maybe, he thinks as he blinks quickly to stop any tears forming, that’s what he needs. What he’s never really had.

‘I know how difficult it can be,’ says Noah. ‘My father passed away when I was just twelve. It was just me and my mum after that, for years, and the house felt so empty.’

Cliff nods. ‘Yeah, I think I remember you telling me.’ That’s a lie; he has no memory of Noah ever speaking about his father when he briefly knew him over a decade ago, but he needs to close down the discussion. He jumps up and says, ‘Hey, I’m going to go for a swim. Want to come? There’s an indoor pool here. It’s quite big.’

Noah looks taken aback. ‘Swimming? Er, yeah, I could do.’

‘Great,’ Cliff says. ‘I’ll catch you down there in a bit. It’s nice to see you again after all this time.’

He walks out of the room, but in the hallway something makes him stop. He turns around. Watches as Noah lies down on the bed. He looks lost in thought. He takes a step into the room and sees Noah start.

‘Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump. I just came back to say, um…’

After a few seconds have gone by and he hasn’t found the words, Noah leans up on his elbows and says, ‘Say what?’

Cliff takes a deep breath. ‘I just wanted to say, I won’t tell anyone. About what you did. You know, back then. I’ll keep it a secret. I don’t want you to worry about it. I’m not going to say anything.’

THIRTEEN

NOAH

23rd DECEMBER 2026

Noah stands there, thinking about Cliff’s last words. He’d found the easy and calm way Cliff had reacted to his arrival comforting, in a way, if a little full-on. He’d been kind, welcoming, enthusiastic and non-threatening.

But that last little bit felt threatening. He just isn’t sure if Cliff intended it to be.

Deciding he can’t let it pass, he leaves the room, hoping to stop him before he heads for the pool, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Noah swears under his breath, wishing he’d reacted quicker. Perhaps if he’d faced up to their shared secret when they were chatting, treated it as something casual and unimportant, he’d have been able to get a sense of how Cliff felt about it. Now, he feels there’s a buried time bomb. And he’s unsure of what the effect would be if it exploded.

Though perhaps, he thinks, turning around to go back into the bedroom, he’s overreacting. Perhaps nobody would care if they knew. Maybe it could even help him. Give him leverage when it comes to questioning Cliff about his mother’s death. He’s surprised by both this thought and at how excited it briefly makes him feel. A feeling of being involved in something. Being able to use his brain in a way he hasn’t for a long time.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts, he jumps when he catches sight of a figure a little way along, standing very still. It’s Rose. She’s looking at him in a way he doesn’t like. As though he’s suddenly become a lot more interesting than he was earlier. Has she been eavesdropping? And if so, how much has she heard?

Before either of them gets a chance to speak, a noise downstairs signals someone else arriving. ‘That will be Archie or Nicole,’ Rose says, then walks off in the direction of the stairs.

He heads onto the landing, and within seconds his eyes connect with those of Archie Wentworth.

‘Oh shit, you’re really here,’ Archie says in a carrying voice, though Noah gets the feeling he’s more talking to himself than to him. Even so, he decides to at least make an attempt to be friendly. He remembers what Ruby told him last night, how the man before him clearly has personal demons he needs to work through. Personal demons that might lead him to the truth. And he isn’t going to discover them by hanging back.

‘Yeah, I’m really here,’ he says. He starts down the staircase nearest to him. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ He’s aware of Archie’s eyes on him. The journey to the ground floor seems to take an age, and he starts to feel like he’s performing some intricate acrobatic trick, rather than just walking down the stairs. As he reaches the bottom, he stumbles and almost falls, only just about steadying himself.

Archie looks at him as though he’s never seen anything so pathetic. Rose rolls her eyes and says, ‘I believe you two have met.’

‘Yeah,’ Archie says. ‘We’ve met. I just don’t know what the hell he’s doing here.’

There’s a beat of silence, then Rose surprises Noah by coming to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. ‘Didn’t your father say? We’re a couple.’ She kisses Noah on the cheek.

Archie looks repulsed. ‘That… can’t be true.’

‘Oh come on, Archie,’ Rose says, smiling at him as though he is a loveable rogue of a child rather than a thirty-one-year-old man. ‘It’s not that absurd, is it?’

‘Yes, it is. “Absurd” is exactly the right word.’

‘Well, we’re very much in love and we’ve been together for a number of months now. Noah’s very… attentive. Though he hasn’t visited the island before, so I’ve had to make trips to London.’ She turns to look at Noah, and he sees a glint in her eyes that suggests she’s enjoying this. He wonders why. ‘Which, of course, means we’ve stayed in a lot of hotels. That’s been fun, but this will be different. It will be like we’re all a family. Aren’t you excited, Archie?’

Archie doesn’t look excited. He’s narrowing his eyes, holding Noah’s gaze. Then shakes his head. ‘Nope, sorry, I’m not buying it. This whole relationship thing. I don’t buy anything about it. It’s fucked up. I don’t know what this is about or who’s playing games here, but I’m going to find out.’

Then he grabs his bags and begins to march up the stairs. Once he’s out of sight, Rose lets go of Noah and sighs. ‘Well, that went well.’

‘You think?’ Noah frowns.

‘No, darling, that was sarcasm.’ She clicks her fingers softly, barely making a sound, then taps his temple. ‘You need to engage in this a bit more, sweetie. If you’re going to be a good boy for Turner, you’ll need to sharpen up a little.’

Noah feels irritated, knowing that’s true. He does need to get sharper. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’

‘Don’t apologise to me, dear. I’m not the one driving this. But I’m happy to play ball if you’re keen to put in some work, too. Holmes never leaves everything up to Doctor Watson. Or perhaps he does sometimes. I’m no expert. I never read mysteries. Recently, I’ve got into this series about a group of very fit ice hockey lads from Vancouver who all screw each other⁠—’

‘I need to go away and think,’ Noah says, cutting her off. He starts climbing the stairs, but he only gets a few steps up before looking back at her. ‘Did you mean that?’

‘About the ice hockey boys? Definitely. If you want, I can loan you the first⁠—’

‘No, no, I mean about being my… well, my Watson?’

Her playful smile is back. ‘Of course. This will all be so much more bearable for you, sweetie, if you just decide to enjoy it.’ She flicks her eyebrows, then walks towards one of the archways underneath the left-hand staircase. ‘I’ll start preparing dinner soon. Have fun hunting for your murderer.’

FOURTEEN

NICOLE

23rd DECEMBER 2026

Nicole isn’t in the best state of mind when she arrives at Liar’s Island. She went on a date the night before with an up-and-coming young filmmaker named Judd. He’d previously worked as an actor, appearing in a handful of BBC dramas, including a fairly sizable role in an H.G. Wells adaptation, but he was desperate to get behind the camera. That was where his real talent lay, he told her earnestly, without a trace of humility or self-awareness. She’d agreed to go on a date with him because he regularly posted about the classic novels he was reading and how he longed to adapt them into ‘major feature films’ or ‘high-end television series’. Nicole thought the date was going rather well, until he started talking about wanting to direct a version of Wuthering Heights. ‘It would be so cool. I mean, I know there’s been a recent movie, and people love that Tom Hardy one from twenty years ago, but I think I could give it my own spin if I can get the rights to it.’

She set down her fork. ‘The rights?’

Judd chomped on his slice of breadcrumbed veal and said, ‘Yeah, I mean, it might be hard to negotiate another option for the rights straight after a new movie’s just come out, but⁠—’

‘Who will this negotiation be with?’ she asked. ‘A ghost?’

He looked thoroughly confused. ‘What? Book options are negotiated with agents, I think. Maybe publishers.’

‘But surely you’re aware Wuthering Heights was published in 1847?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m new to all this stuff.’

She shook her head. ‘Obviously.’

He chuckled, swallowed, took a sip of his wine and then said, ‘Listen, I wasn’t going to mention this straight away, but I know you’re Turner Wentworth’s daughter and, well, he owns one of the biggest movie studios and I do have a treatment and pitch I’m pretty confident in. If you were up for it, we could go back to mine after this and I could run it by you and you could tell me if your dad might go for it?’ He winked at her. ‘I mean, we don’t have to just go over my pitch. I can multitask.’

This was when Nicole decided it was time to leave. She picked up her bag and pulled on her coat while Judd looked astonished and asked, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Many, many things,’ Nicole said. ‘I can’t help you with my father, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve read Wuthering Heights or know anything about Emily Brontë, so you’d definitely have that in common with him.’ She walked out of Claridge’s dining room, feeling a stab of sadistic pleasure at leaving him with the bill.

The evening was still young, so she got a taxi across the river to the British Film Institute and bought a last-minute ticket to a screening of The Innocents. She’d seen the film many times before, loved its slow-burn, chilling atmosphere, but became annoyed with an elderly couple behind her who kept up a whispered running commentary throughout about how the film compared to The Turn of the Screw. Her mood didn’t improve when her phone rang just as she stepped out of the cinema into the falling snow.

‘Nicole, darling girl, it’s Daddy!’

She winced, wishing he’d stop referring to himself that way. She hadn’t minded when she was under twelve, but ever since, it has been a perpetual source of embarrassment.

‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, wondering why he was calling when he’d see her tomorrow on the island.

‘How are you, my princess? All going well? What you up to?’

Nicole decided to tell the truth. ‘I’m walking around the South Bank.’

‘That sounds a bit aimless. You there for any reason?’

Nicole swallowed, thinking. Choosing not to mention her date, she said, ‘I just saw a film. The Innocents.’

‘Never heard of it. Is it new?’

‘No,’ Nicole sighed. ‘1961.’

Her father let out a chuckle. ‘Go on, then. 1961. Do your trick!’

She knew what her father was referring to. Her ability to pluck out facts about any named year in history. Something he’d always found amusing, even though it made her feel like a performing seal whenever he asked her to do it. ‘New Zealand abolished the death penalty. The Ken doll was introduced as Barbie’s boyfriend in the USA. The actor Simon Russell Beale was born.’

She heard her father’s chuckle turn into a guffaw. ‘Amazing, princess, amazing. So random, so instant. Don’t know how you do it! You really are a wonder.’ He cleared his throat, then asked, ‘Any man in your life right now?’

Her mind flicked back to the dreadful date. ‘None who actually want to speak to me. They all want to pitch their film projects to my rich father.’

He laughed. ‘My spies tell me Archie is having the same trouble with the eccentric young lass he’s dating. I’m waiting for the hard sell at any moment.’

‘Hmm, she’ll probably try to pitch something to you over Christmas dinner,’ Nicole said, leaning up against the cold metal railings, her eyes following the snowflakes as they drifted into the glittering black water of the Thames.

‘Ah, yes, well, Christmas was what I was phoning about. I’m so sorry, princess, but I’m not going to make it this year.’

She’d been in the process of turning around, but his words made her freeze and grip the phone tightly. ‘Dad, what do you mean, not going to make Christmas? You always say Christmas on Liar’s Island is non-negotiable. Outside of Covid, you’ve never missed one. It’s family time. That’s what you always said.’

‘I know, my princess, I know, it’s a real headache, but I’ve got this ridiculous situation with one of my studio COOs. Apparently he’s upset this film star with his comments on social media, you know how sensitive they can get, and the actor’s started legal proceedings.’

Nothing about this rang true. ‘Dad, that kind of thing happens every week in your world. You don’t normally bother yourself with it.’

‘I know, I know, but he’s a friend of mine, I gotta take an interest, meetings, boring stuff, you know. But on the plus side, you’re getting a surprise guest in my place.’

Nicole pulled the hood of her coat up, suddenly feeling the bite of the cold. ‘What do you mean?’

‘My princess, my sweet, how would it be a surprise if I told you! I’ll phone you on Christmas Day, must dash off now, have a safe journey!’

The line went dead.

Nicole spent the whole night wondering what her father could have meant and who this surprise guest could be. She was tempted to message her brothers, but she didn’t like being the one in the dark, and if both of them knew already she would arrive feeling like an outsider. The odd one out. She inhabited that role enough as it was.

Now, travelling to Essex from London, Nicole’s restless night catches up with her. She drifts off to sleep in the back of the chauffeured Tesla, her mind continuing to torment her with possible answers, only now with a heavy dose of surrealism. In the early stages of the dream, she walks up the steps to find her brothers trying to keep a male figure standing upright. He keeps falling forward, as though lifeless. Then Archie lifts the body’s head and says, ‘Sis, look, surprise! He’s come to join us for Christmas!’ She sees that it’s the corpse of her former boyfriend Dylan, still dressed in the bright dolphin-patterned shirt he was wearing on the last day she saw him, more than thirteen years ago. But even though the body before her is evidently dead, it still manages to speak, letting out a torrent of abuse, mostly in German, causing her to run, dash through the house into the dining room, where she finds a man sitting at the table eating a large Christmas dinner, all by himself. He looks up, and she gasps. ‘Alastair… you’re alive?’ she says. He nods. ‘Of course I am. I’m the surprise guest!’ She tries to tell him that he’s dead, has been for years now, but he just laughs. She screams at him and runs away, through the doors into the living room, where the worst surprise of all waits for her. A surprise she always knew was coming, even in this terrible dream world. ‘No,’ she says when she sees the figure standing by the fireplace. ‘No, no, no.’ But she can’t stop the woman turning, as smoothly as if she is on a motorised contraption. And when her face comes into sight, Nicole sees a rictus grin that makes her go faint with fear, falling back into the sofa behind her.

‘Merry Christmas,’ her mother says. ‘It’s me. I think you knew it would be. I think you’ve always known.’ She leans in and whispers, ‘Because I’m never far away. Never truly gone.’

‘Miss, sorry, miss? Can you hear me? Are you all right?’

She opens her eyes. The daylight makes her blink, and she looks around, confused. She’s still in the car. She can hear screeching. Seagulls. Straightening, she sees the twisting, winding causeway stretching out in front of them. They’re parked on the top of the hilly verge that leads down to the road across the water. And in the distance, Liar’s Island stands there. Waiting.

‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Do drive on.’

The young man, who has twisted round in his seat to look at her, appears to need further reassurance. ‘You were shouting. You kept saying, “No, no, no” over and over.’

She nods. ‘A nightmare. They happen, occasionally. Do please carry on.’

She doesn’t know why she’s told this stranger that she sometimes has bad dreams. Perhaps she’s trying to convince herself that the nightmare was something commonplace, rather than the sign of anything too disquieting.

But ‘disquieting’ is exactly the word for it. Her mind is far from quiet, far from the serene equilibrium she strives for. As the car gets closer and closer to its destination, she experiences a feeling of detachment, as though she’s leaving her real, physical form behind on the mainland, left to wander the coast of Essex like a zombie, with her spirit carried off to a hellish afterlife.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she tells herself. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

After she’s said this aloud, she sees the young man glance at her in the rear-view mirror with worried eyes, but he doesn’t say anything further.

When she gets to the house, she instructs him to leave the bags by the doorway. ‘You’ll need to get away quickly, or you’ll get caught by the tide,’ she tells him. He nods, gratefully, carrying her bags up to the door and bids her ‘Merry Christmas’ before driving back off towards the causeway.

She puts her hand on the fingerprint touchpad, hears the beep and click of the door unlocking, and pushes her way in. She hasn’t been here since last Christmas, but can’t see any evidence of change. The Christmas tree lights and decorations seem to be of a ‘cool white’ theme rather than last year’s warm white and gold, but that’s about it. There’s no sign of Rose, her siblings, or the mystery guest, and she feels glad she’s able to settle in without a fuss. She hates fuss of any kind. Taking her two bags in her hands, she walks briskly up the left-hand staircase and down the corridor to her bedroom. She likes being on the other side of the house from her brothers. In Hampstead, she used to dread them coming to stay when growing up. They spent most of their time at school in Florida, but any visits to England meant the bedrooms on either side of hers were occupied by two teenage boys with very teenage boy pursuits, mostly involving loud music, action movies at 1 a.m., online porn, video calls with friends, and thudding fitness routines. When she was fifteen, she’d taken up the cello simply to have something to compete with the sounds coming from her brothers’ rooms. Like most things she turned her attention to, she’d mastered the instrument at a dizzying speed, leading to her tutor describing her as ‘an absolute enigma’. As time went on, however, he made the mistake of telling her that, while technically precise and perfect, her performance of the Bach Cello Suites had all the emotion and heart of a filing cabinet. She donated her £44,000 Edgar Russ cello to a charitable organisation the very next day.

Inside her bedroom, she notices several couriered parcels on the small table by the window – a selection of books and clothes that she wanted to have over the Christmas period. She changes into one of the new items of clothing – a grey cashmere cardigan – and begins to unpack the books and arrange them on the shelves. Most of them are classics she didn’t have copies of on the island, and she finds herself pausing at an Oxford University Press edition of Wuthering Heights, sad thoughts of the disastrous date the night before coming back into her mind. She finds it hard to admit to herself that she’s lonely, but it’s true – she is. Lonely and envious of her friends and acquaintances who have spent the past decade coupling up, getting engaged, even starting families of their own. And then there’s her. Eternally single, if one doesn’t count three brief romances in her twenties. Dylan, Noah and Alastair. Three chapters in her life she prefers not to think about, even if they do regularly invade her dreams.

‘Hi, Chelsea. I didn’t realise you’d arrived.’

Nicole jerks around to see Archie standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, a frown on his face. She’s used to his stern expression and knows it’s just the way his face rests, regardless of his actual mood. Whenever anyone mistakes her own blank expression for sullenness, she often wants to say, ‘Well, you should see my brother.’

She gets up and makes a show of continuing to unpack. She always finds that doing something when reuniting with her siblings makes the experience less awkward.

‘Please don’t call me that,’ she says quietly, taking out her electronic chess set and setting it on the writing desk. ‘It isn’t even accurate. I live on Ebury Street, which is outside Chelsea. Just about.’

Archie shrugs, as though the intricacies of London geography are beyond his interest. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘You still have the accent, though.’

She sighs. ‘Well, since I’ve only ever lived in England, that’s hardly surprising. I hate to break it to you, Archibald, but you’re English too, no matter how you say the word “water”.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m an American citizen, I’ll have you know.’

‘I’m sure you’re very proud,’ Nicole says, feeling her irritation with her brother rising after just thirty seconds in his company. She sits down at the desk, turns on the chessboard and begins to play as though he’s not there.

‘I take it you’ve heard about Dad not coming,’ Archie says.

‘He phoned me,’ she says.

Archie says nothing in response, and several seconds and chess moves later, Nicole realises why. She turns and looks at him. ‘He didn’t call you, did he?’ If she were the type of person who smirked, she would be doing so now. But that’s not her style. So she just keeps her needling eyes on her brother as she sees his sharp, severe jaw jut upwards and his cheeks start to blush. ‘What did he do?’ she asks, in an even voice. ‘Get Mark Stone to pass on the message? Or did he send you a text?’ When Archie continues to stay silent, she turns back and says, ‘I’m guessing a text, then.’ She moves one of the pawns on the chessboard, her brain already spinning ahead, planning out the game. She hears movement behind her and presumes at first that Archie has stomped off, but then she hears the mattress lower and can make him out in her peripheral vision, seated on the bed.

‘I’m not happy about Dad dropping out either,’ she says, hoping this brings them onto shared ground. ‘I know it’s disappointing.’

‘Hmm,’ Archie says. ‘I know you hate it when plans change. When you feel out of control.’

She snaps her head around and looks at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Archie shrugs.

She keeps staring at him. And she gets an uneasy feeling when she sees his stony expression change into an unpleasant smile. ‘What?’ she says.

‘He hasn’t told you about the surprise guest, has he? He left that bit out?’

Nicole holds his gaze. ‘He did tell me, as it happens.’

Archie lifts his eyebrows. ‘Oh, yeah? And you’re cool with it? Bit strange for you, I imagine.’

She has a cold, prickling feeling running across her skin. ‘For me?’

Archie laughs. ‘Oh my God, you don’t know, do you? He hasn’t told you. You don’t know who it is.’ He gets up and stretches. ‘Wow, this Christmas is going to be more fun than I expected.’

Nicole can feel her hands starting to tremble. ‘Just tell me, Archie. Who is it?’

Archie takes a deep breath, milking the suspense for all it’s worth. Then he says with slow relish, ‘Noah Myers.’

Nicole is stunned. She turns away from her brother and focuses again on the chessboard. She starts moving the pieces, but the game is ruined, her plan of action now lost.

‘What? Nothing to say?’ Archie says from behind her.

‘No,’ she says, pretending to play, trying to stop her trembling hands from giving her away.

‘I would have thought you’d be thrilled,’ Archie says. ‘After all, for an ex-boyfriend, he’s got a lot going for him. He’s alive, at least. That’s one up on the other two.’

Nicole drops the knight she’s holding, and it knocks over two of the remaining pawns. She speaks, but it comes out as a whisper.

‘What was that?’ Archie says.

‘I said,’ Nicole says, raising her voice, trying to keep it steady, ‘they never found Dylan’s body.’

Archie pauses, then comes up close behind her. ‘Convenient for you, right? Best not to tell the Student Sleuth about that, though. He might make it his next case.’

She fantasises for a moment about smashing the chessboard over his head. It isn’t heavy enough to do actual damage, but his shock and her satisfaction might make it worth it. But she forces herself to stay still and calm.

Archie gives her a little tap on the shoulder and says, ‘Anyway, I’ll catch you later, sis. And don’t keep Noah waiting. I’m sure he’s just gagging to see you after all this time.’

Nicole keeps facing forward, waiting for him to go. He walks away, but she can see in the window’s reflection that he’s still lingering in the doorway. Preparing to give a parting shot, she thinks. And sure enough, it follows a second later. ‘Oh, and you’ll never guess the reason he’s here. He’s screwing Rose, apparently. He’s her new boyfriend.’

She stares at him. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I am,’ he says. ‘Although I think it’s all nonsense. There’s something else going on here. I don’t know what, but I think Dad’s playing with us. And I’m going to find out why.’

FIFTEEN

NOAH

23rd DECEMBER 2026

After hearing the front door close and the sound of someone coming up the stairs, Noah guesses Nicole must be in the building. He stands, poised and conflicted. Should he talk to Nicole now? Get the awkwardness out of the way? Or stick to the plan to question Cliff while he’s relaxed and presumably off his guard in the swimming pool? He waits for a few more moments, then decides to stick with Cliff. He doesn’t know how many opportunities he’ll have to chat with him alone once the Christmas celebrations get into full swing. And he feels like the better option right now compared to a reunion with Nicole.

He hasn’t brought any trunks, but finds a pair of black briefs that might pass as acceptable swimwear and picks up one of the extremely soft towels from the en suite.

When he gets to the landing, he realises he doesn’t know the way to the pool. Wishing he’d asked Cliff to wait for him, he looks down one corridor, then turns his head to look at another. When he sees someone walking towards him, he jolts in panic, expecting it to be either Nicole or Archie. But it’s Rose. Again.

‘Darling, what are you doing?’ she asks, looking at him suspiciously. ‘You look lost.’

‘Well, I am, literally,’ Noah says. ‘What are you doing, Watson? I thought you were going to start on dinner? Or do you just drift up and down the landing all day?’ The questions sound more impertinent than he intended, and he sees the offence in Rose’s face.

‘Rudeness is very unattractive,’ she says, drawing herself up. ‘If we’re going to be a convincing couple, please make more of an effort to be polite.’ She taps his chin with a finger, as though she is ticking off a child. Noah isn’t sure how to react.

‘Right… sorry.’ He swallows and shifts awkwardly. ‘Cliff invited me for a swim. But I don’t know the way.’ He’s aware he sounds pathetic, like a lost child, and he sees irritation in her face.

‘Don’t you think we should be seen together? You could come and help me prepare the food. We are supposed to be a couple, after all. Nicole and Archie will probably come downstairs soon.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Shouldn’t you be there to talk to them? Interrogate them?’

Noah folds his arms. ‘Well, I’m not sure I want to be put through another of your little tests. And according to you, there’s nothing to find out.’

Rose looks amused. ‘Oh darling, don’t pout. I’m sorry for my little trick earlier. If you really want to, maybe we can have a bit of fun later… perhaps after dark?’

Noah feels himself blushing. ‘That wasn’t the thing I was put out about. It was the mind games. I’ve had enough of them.’

Rose actually laughs at this. ‘My gosh, darling, this is the Sistine Chapel of mind games!’ She gestures around her, then lowers her hands and sets them on Noah’s shoulders. ‘You’ll see.’

Noah doesn’t like this at all. ‘I’m not sure I want to see. I tried to tell you before, I don’t want to be here. I don’t think I’m the right person to catch a murderer. Not like this.’

Rose sighs and removes her hands from him. ‘Well, Turner clearly thinks differently, and he’s the one who matters. He’s got a bee in his bonnet, and he’s not going to be happy until he’s got an answer. Or something he perceives to be an answer.’ She looks around her, then makes a face, as though realising she should have kept her voice down. ‘Do you get what I’m saying?’

Noah thinks for a few seconds. Then he says, copying her quiet tone, ‘Do you know that he’s threatened me? That’s why I’m here.’

Rose shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure it’s very useful for me to know that.’

But Noah’s come too far now not to say anything. With a rush of nerves, he takes a step closer to Rose and says in a whisper. ‘I think he’s evil. I told you what Mark Stone showed me before he left.’

‘Yes, you said it was your mother,’ Rose says, raising her voice, as though the increase in volume will dispel anything strange or sinister in what he’s telling her. ‘Off on a trip. Very nice, darling. I hope she has a good time.’ She’s not meeting his gaze now.

‘He clearly meant it to frighten me. To do what he wants. And that’s not all. He’s⁠—’

The sound of thudding footsteps down the corridor behind him makes him stop. He turns around and sees Cliff coming down the hallway. He’s in bright blue swimming trunks adorned with green palm trees. ‘Hey, you coming?’ he says, looking eager.

‘Er… yeah,’ Noah says. ‘I’m ready.’

He looks back at Rose, who makes a fine-do-what-you-want expression and walks away.

‘I forgot my goggles,’ Cliff explains. ‘Let me grab them and I’ll show you where the pool is. It’s fucking awesome, dude. When Dad had the place built when I was a kid, I said, “Yo, Dad, make the pool AWESOME” and he did! He can be cool like that. Sometimes.’

He continues chatting away in the same vein during the trip to get the goggles and then through the house to the pool. Noah listens intently, wondering if he’ll pick up anything interesting, but Cliff has a remarkable ability to talk for a long time about nothing in particular, and Noah finds it more interesting to look at his surroundings, marvelling at how a spiral of back stairs suddenly opens out into a huge, beautifully lit pool area. He comes to a stop for a few seconds, staring up at the glass dome, with a mass of cool white Christmas lights shining through it. He thinks at first they’re indoors, but then realises they must be made up of a curtain of tiny LED bulbs covering the dome from the outside. Decorating this place for Christmas must be an extensive operation in itself, he thinks, as he starts walking again, following Cliff along the edge of the Olympic-length pool. The far end of it has a canal jutting off into a smaller circular pool, presumably a Jacuzzi. Twelve sun loungers are dotted around the spacious poolside, along with three large Christmas trees, all sparkling and twinkling in the low light.

Cliff points him to a changing area where he can get into his swimwear. Once in the pool, the temperature is pleasingly warm, and he swims some slow lengths while Cliff chats away, apparently unbothered that Noah can hear only around three words in ten as his head goes in and out of the water. At the end of his fifth lap, Noah comes to a stop, blinking water from his eyes, then jerks backwards in shock, jarring his elbow against the edge of the pool. There’s someone else in the room. Someone who hadn’t been there moments before. Nicole is perched on the edge of the sun loungers, watching them swim. She has a blank expression on her face – something Noah considers fairly typical for her, but in the shimmering low light he can’t help but find it borderline frightening.

‘Oh, hi,’ he says, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

‘Hello,’ Nicole says.

Noah pauses for a few seconds, then pulls himself out of the pool. He goes over to Nicole and opens his arms, feeling like he should give her a hug or something like that, then realises he’s wet and it wouldn’t be appropriate. So he stands there, dripping and embarrassed, while Nicole’s eyes scan him, feet first, up his body, settling at last on his face with a cold stare. ‘Nice Speedos,’ she says, quietly.

Noah lets out a short laugh, but it sounds disproportionately loud, echoing around them, like a chorus of awkward guffaws. He winces, then says, ‘They’re not actually Speedos, I didn’t⁠—’

‘Why are you here?’ Her voice is steely and cuts through his like a knife.

‘I… well, it’s a bit weird…’

‘Yes, it is.’ She gets to her feet. ‘This is very, very weird, Noah. We haven’t spoken since we were eighteen years old. And now you’re here, on my father’s island, in one of my family’s houses, doing lengths in our swimming pool.’

Noah has no idea what to say. He manages to get out the words ‘Me and Rose, we’re—’ when Cliff appears at his side and says, ‘Chelsea! You’re here!’

Nicole gets up. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Cliff says, laughing. ‘I forgot you don’t like it. Archie and I always call you Chelsea, and then when you’re here it’s like, oops, soz, sis, you have an actual name.’ He seems to think this very amusing, but Nicole’s expression suggests she finds it anything but.

‘Yes, I do have an actual name,’ she says, keeping her eyes on Noah. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’ says Cliff, sounding confused.

‘She’s talking to me,’ Noah mutters.

‘Go back to your swimming, Cliff,’ Nicole says.

He ambles away, apparently quite happy to do as he’s told. After a splash is heard, followed by the sound of enthusiastic front crawl, Nicole says, icily, ‘Archie doesn’t believe that you’re actually involved with Rose. And neither do I.’

Even though the air is warm, Noah starts to shiver. ‘Well, I can’t help that. We’re… in love.’ It sounds so unconvincing, he’s surprised Nicole doesn’t laugh. Then he remembers Nicole never laughs, or didn’t when they were together all those years ago.

‘Is that so?’ Nicole says, slowly, unblinking. ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll all be fascinated to hear about your passionate coupling later. It’s going to be an interesting dinner.’

Noah nods. ‘Yeah, sure. I’m interested to hear your news, too. I was so sorry to hear about your mum.’ As soon as he says it, he wishes he could take the words back, hearing how clumsy they sound. Especially since the sentence made it sound like her mother had passed away that very week. ‘It must have been hard, back then, during lockdown,’ he says, to make it clear he knows years have passed, but realises he’s just digging himself in deeper. ‘Anyway, you must have had things happen since… nice things. Any… um… boyfriend or partner?’ He makes a show of looking around, even though it’s obvious she’s alone.

She stares at him. ‘Are you making some kind of point?’

He swallows quickly. ‘No. No, no point.’

‘You were looking at the pool and asking me if I brought a boyfriend. I presume you’re referring to Alastair?’

Noah takes a step back at the name and almost slips. ‘No, no, I wasn’t… who’s Alastair?’

He imagines his blushing face probably gives away the fact that he knows who Alastair is, and about the sinister end he met on a hotel poolside.

Nicole doesn’t dignify his question with an answer. She continues to stare at him for a few more seconds, then shifts, as though she’s about to leave, but appears to change her mind. She takes a step closer and says, her voice even quieter, ‘If I find out you’re here for any other reason…’

She lets the sentence hang in the air. Noah feels a rush of irritation. ‘You’ll do what? Set your father on me?’

Nicole shakes her head. ‘No. I’ll set my brothers on you. Cliff might look like a loveable puppy splashing about in the pool, Archie might appear to be just a moody prick, we might seem like we hate each other, but don’t believe everything you see. We’re pack animals. If threatened, we close in and protect each other.’

She walks away from Noah, leaving him standing there, wet and cold, with a plunging sensation of dread.

SIXTEEN

NOAH

23rd DECEMBER 2026

Noah no longer feels like swimming after Nicole’s visit. Instead, he situates himself in the smaller pool, perching on an underwater ledge, even though the bubbles aren’t on. He watches the twinkling Christmas tree in the corner, wondering how they managed to make it safe in such a moisture-laden place. He gets so wrapped up in his thoughts, he barely notices Cliff swimming down the connecting canal and over to where he sits.

‘I wouldn’t worry about Nicole,’ Cliff says. ‘She’s always very intense. Like, I remember once when she almost got expelled from school because she refused to talk to anyone. Not even the teachers. And then the other kids got scared because she’d make this weird juddery hissing noise at them to deliberately freak them out. Apparently, she got it from an old movie. The Sheep Don’t Bleat or something like that.’

‘The Silence of the Lambs,’ Noah mutters.

‘Yeah, something like that. I was in the US at the time, but I remember Mom kept phoning Dad about it, and he was pissed off, saying she should “sort her out”. But nobody knew how to sort her out. It turned out a teacher had told her she had no imagination or something like that.’ He circles for a while, a smile on his face, then lies on his back and floats, one of his feet brushing against Noah’s left arm. ‘Archie says everyone’s got Nicole all wrong, they think because she’s quiet and goes all, like, monohypnotic⁠—’

‘Syllabic,’ Noah corrects.

‘Right, yeah, because of that, people think she’s a robot, but Archie thinks actually she’s got this huge, creative brain, but she keeps it hidden. He’s good with stuff like that. Reading people.’

Noah thinks about the way Archie scrutinised him when he came in. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

‘Mom always thought it would make him good at business. I know Dad hoped so. But from what I hear, he’s better than me, but not exactly brilliant.’

‘Hmm,’ Noah says, then realises Cliff has twice, now, in a short space of time, mentioned his mother openly and without any sign of caginess or distress. And Noah’s letting another chance slip through his fingers.

‘Tell me about your mum,’ he says.

Cliff stops floating and pulls himself upright in the water. ‘She lived in London while Dad spent most of his time in America. They were still married when she died, but basically separated. Between you and me, I don’t think she liked it that he, you know, had women on the side. Like, a lot. He used to stay in his villas with all these young women. I was there with him once. Him and his friends and Archie and some of our mates. He seemed to have an endless supply of girls. Mom would get a bit pissed when she found out about those holidays.’ He shrugs, as though he thinks his mother’s disapproval of large-scale adultery was an odd quirk to her character.

‘I imagine that was pretty hard on her.’

Cliff nods. ‘I suppose, yeah. I mean, she and Dad usually argued when they were in the same room.’ He wades over to the ledge and sits down next to Noah.

‘I imagine it still hit him pretty hard when she died,’ Noah says. ‘Especially as it was in lockdown and he couldn’t travel for the funeral. I imagine that was difficult for you all.’

For once, Cliff is silent. Noah wonders if he’s plunging too deep into the topic, but knows he’ll regret not taking the opportunity if he doesn’t continue.

‘Especially since you were in the house with her, weren’t you? Or nearby? Wasn’t there a separate annexe or something like that?’ He hopes playing ignorant might prompt Cliff to correct him, to fill in the gaps with his usual, chatty waffle. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, Noah feels him shift a bit closer to him, his leg brushing against his underwater.

‘Yeah, man,’ Cliff says. ‘I try not to think about it. I think it’s best to just not dwell on shit like that. I try to stay relaxed. And there are things that help me relax.’

Noah’s not imagining it. Cliff’s hand is definitely moving onto his thigh now. Noah feels his heart rate increase. He isn’t sure what he feels about this, wonders if he should tell Cliff to clear off, or let him continue. It might, after all, be the easiest way to win the guy’s trust. But is that ethical? You’re not a cop, he tells himself. There isn’t a rulebook. His presence in the house hasn’t come about through ethical means, so why should he abide by any strict moral code?

‘Do you know, I’m glad you’re here with us this Christmas,’ Cliff says, his hand moving higher up Noah’s leg. In spite of his nerves and very conflicted feelings about this whole thing, Noah feels his body responding.

‘Er, Cliff…’ he says, half laughing, half grunting.

‘Everything’s cool, man. Just relax. Like I said, relaxing is the way forward.’

A little later, Cliff and Noah head into the dining room, their hair damp, Cliff chatting away, a big grin on his face. Noah is silent, full of mental turmoil about what just happened down in the pool, about his confrontation with Nicole, about the meal he’s about to have. He seems to have gained Cliff’s trust – at least to an extent – but Nicole’s going to be a different sort of challenge.

As Rose puts a basket of bread on the table, with little bowls of dipping olive oil with sea salt and black pepper, he feels like she isn’t preparing a meal, but a gallows. This is when he’ll be outed as an impostor, he thinks, taking a seat next to Cliff.

‘Don’t you want to be near your girlfriend?’ Archie says, frowning at him from across the table, nodding to the spare seat where Rose will presumably sit.

Noah feels himself going red, knowing he’s made a mistake.

‘Oh it’s fine, Noah can sit where he likes, we’re not joined at the hip,’ Rose says, pouring wine.

‘Not joined at all, I’d say. Considering Noah’s spent the afternoon splashing about with Cliff.’

‘You should have joined us,’ Cliff says. ‘I always think the pool here is better than the one at home.’

‘I was in the gym,’ Archie replies, bluntly.

‘I haven’t seen the gym yet,’ Noah says, trying to sound calm and conversational.

‘It’s the same part of the building, right next to it,’ Archie says. ‘Two levels. The mezzanine level has a window that looks over the poolside.’

The words cause a feeling of unease to sweep across him. Archie’s eyes aren’t on him; he’s busy dipping some bread into one of the bowls. Noah can’t work out if there was a subtext to his words or if he’s just showing off about his dad’s property. Was Archie watching him and Cliff? He tries to tell himself it isn’t likely – if he had, he’d expect Archie would use such a weapon straight away, to pour more doubt on his relationship with Rose.

As the risotto is served, conversation shifts to Cliff telling everyone about an idea he had earlier about creating a surfboard with slots in the side for energy drinks. Archie raises questions about manufacturing difficulties, usability of the finished product, issues with balance; the general thrust seems to be to assert his own business knowledge and shine a light on Cliff’s lack of it. Cliff doesn’t seem bothered, though – in fact, after every one of his brother’s questions, he grows more and more enthusiastic, coming up with outlandish solutions. Noah glances at the two women at the table. Rose is looking at Archie, a pensive look on her face as she twirls a lock of her long brown hair around a heavily ringed finger. Nicole, on the other hand, has produced an enormous book which she appears to be halfway through and is reading with silent intensity, her hand moving a spoon to her mouth on occasion as though on autopilot.

‘I’m sorry Turner isn’t here, it would have been fun to spend Christmas with him,’ Noah says, trying to make the lie sound convincing. He isn’t sure he succeeds.

‘Fun?’ Archie says the word as though he’s never heard it before.

‘Yeah,’ says Noah. ‘He seems like a fun and interesting man.’

‘Dad’s a lot of fun!’ Cliff pipes up. ‘Can’t believe he’s not here. It’s the first time since…’ He stops himself. Noah sees Archie direct a sharp look towards his brother.

‘Since lockdown?’ asks Noah.

There’s silence for a few seconds, then Archie says, ‘Uh-huh.’

Keen not to let the silence continue, Noah carries on. ‘I’m so pleased we’ve been able to go back to normal life. Those couple of years when the pandemic was at its worst were very difficult for me. I was trapped in London for a lot of it, away from my family in Hampshire. But at least you all had each other.’

He leaves space for someone to comment on this or pick up the baton of conversation. When nobody does, he continues. ‘Some scientists think it could happen again. Another pandemic. I’m not sure I’d rush to spend lockdown at home again. I love my mum, but my stepfather and I don’t see eye-to-eye. Would you all do the same thing again?’

Still, nobody speaks. Noah takes a deep breath and decides to get a bit bolder. It appears they all need a bit of a push. ‘No views? Surely you have an opinion on⁠—’

‘I think you’re being rather insensitive.’

It’s Nicole who says it, cutting over him, her voice as sharp as a scalpel. But she keeps her eyes on the pages of her book.

‘Am I? Sorry, I wasn’t talking about⁠—’

‘That’s enough, Noah,’ she says, still refusing to look up from the book. Noah considers arguing, but then thinks again. Pressing too hard, especially with Nicole, might make things more difficult in the long run. So he closes his mouth and nods.

‘Have some more bread, darling,’ Rose says, a smile playing on her lips. He takes a piece, frowning at her as he does so.

Once dinner is over, neither Archie nor Nicole seem disposed to linger. Archie wanders off in the direction of the living room, saying he’s going to watch Die Hard, although it doesn’t sound like an invitation to join. Nicole gathers up her weighty tome, which turns out to be a Penguin Classics edition of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. But before she goes through the doorway, she returns to the table and picks up her phone from where she left it. Her eyes are on Noah as she does this, searching and sharp, and he finds he can’t hold her gaze. When he hears movement, he thinks she’s retreated at last. Then he feels something touch the side of his neck. Hair hanging down. He jumps, but a hand closes on his shoulder.

‘I know why you’re here, Noah. And it isn’t going to work.’

He feels himself go cold and twists around, but by the time he’s reacted, she’s walking away from him, moving quickly and purposefully out of the dining room. He looks over at Cliff, who doesn’t appear to have noticed anything, still at the table and watching videos on his phone – most of which feature bleating goats or rap music. Noah waits a few seconds, takes a few calming breaths, then goes to join Rose in the kitchen. He offers to load plates into the dishwasher, and Rose nods and points him towards the machine underneath the marble countertop.

‘Darling, forgive me, but you’re not doing a very good job of this,’ she purrs a minute later.

‘I know, I always find it hard to get the plates and bowls to fit,’ Noah says. ‘Even though the chef’s gone, I’m still surprised Turner doesn’t hire you some servants.’

‘I’m not talking about the washing up, I’m talking about your approach to questioning them,’ Rose says, giving a nod in the direction of the dining room. ‘If you ask me, you’re being too heavy-handed.’

He feels a burning sense of being caught out, as though he hasn’t tried hard enough at his homework. ‘You may be right. Nicole just…’

Rose raises her eyebrows. ‘Nicole just… what?’

Noah bites his lip. ‘She implied she might know why I’m here. Just before she left the table.’

Rose looks as if she’s thinking about this, then says, ‘Did she mention her mother’s death?’

Noah shakes his head. ‘No, she only said she knows why I’m here and that it’s not going to work. But I can’t think what else she’d be referring to.’

Rose nods slowly. ‘True. Unless she thinks you’re here to win back her heart?’

Noah considers this. ‘I don’t know. I think that’s unlikely. We weren’t exactly passionate lovers. That was part of the problem, really. She wasn’t an easy person to be with.’

Rose gives a little shrug. ‘Well, you’ll have to be careful with her. More careful than you have been so far. By the way, what was Cliff referring to earlier? That thing he said.’

Noah rinses his hands under the taps and picks up a tea towel. ‘What? What did he say?’

Rose looks at him. ‘Oh, sweetie, you can be honest with me. I heard him. When he went to say hello to you in your room. You have a secret.’ She makes a sweeping motion through the air with her finger on the word ‘secret’ and points at him, as though it’s a magic spell. ‘He made a clear reference to it. I don’t think he was trying to threaten you, that’s not Cliff’s style. But he was reminding you of something, and I think you very much know what that thing is.’

Noah is still rubbing his hands with the towel even though they’re well and truly dry now. ‘Yeah… yeah, I do.’

Rose is staring at him. ‘And?’ she says, a touch of frustration in her voice.

Noah decides to be honest. ‘OK, Cliff and I have a bit of history. A very brief history.’

Rose looks fascinated and hungry for more details. ‘You mean, you and he were once… involved? Like you and Nicole?’

Noah shakes his head, ‘No, no, not like Nicole. Nicole and I were actually an item. Though like I said, not the most romantic or passionate of lovers, and it was only a matter of months. But I gave it a go. And I think she gave us a go, too, in her own quiet, detached way.’ Noah’s momentarily drawn back into a memory of he and Nicole going around a Christmas market in Winchester, barely speaking, Noah pretending to be having a jolly good time, pointing out nice things at stalls or in shop windows and her either ignoring him or responding with a bored ‘Yes’. The row that followed was rather one-sided, Noah complaining she never had any enthusiasm for anything and it was like trying to have a nice day out with a mannequin. He regretted that bitterly afterwards. He never made any attempt to work out why Nicole would go sullen and silent for days on end, how one minute she would speak relatively normally, the next disappear into herself. He just insulted her and bailed. And they never spoke again after that. Not until today.

‘Hello? Anyone home?’ Rose is waving a hand in front of him.

‘Sorry, yes. Where was I?’ Noah says, finding it an effort to refocus on the topic at hand. ‘Ah yeah, Cliff. That was nothing.’

‘Well, it was evidently something.’ Rose says. ‘Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered to mention it. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone what you did. So I’m asking, what did you do?’

Noah lets out a long breath, puts the tea towel down and shoves his hands in his pockets. Feeling a wave of embarrassment sweeping over him, he coughs and then says, ‘He gave me a blowjob on the first night of uni.’ He shifts his eyes to the floor. Then he hears Rose chuckle.

‘Oh, sweetie, you’re more of a naughty boy than I’d given you credit for. My gosh, you’re actually blushing. That’s really cute.’

Noah clears his throat. ‘Like I said, it was nothing. I didn’t really know anyone, and everyone in my halls was spending that big first night out at the club on campus. I wasn’t a party animal, either, but I felt I should make the effort to meet new people. I went back with a bunch of other freshers to their halls, and they all paired off, leaving me and Cliff alone. I was jealous of everyone having a good time. And when he offered, it felt… impolite to refuse.’

Rose still looks amused, though she’s no longer laughing. ‘Gosh, you’ve got more history with the Wentworths than I thought. Especially considering Cliff was your girlfriend’s brother, after all.’

‘I hadn’t even met Nicole at that point!’ Noah says, his voice rising in indignation. ‘And even when I did, I didn’t realise they were related, not at first. I thought he was some American student. You know, with the different accent… I felt a bit awkward when she introduced him as her brother. He said he’d never mention it to anyone, and as far as I know, he never has. But then he… well, alluded to it today. That’s what he was referring to.’

Rose sighs. ‘I do wonder if you’re up to all this. You seem quite sensitive, my dear. I fear Turner’s picked the wrong guy for the job.’

Noah has to stop himself from shouting at her. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ he hisses. ‘None of this is down to me! I love reading detective stories, I could probably write one, but I don’t want to be in one.’

Instead of being persuaded by this, Rose just looks at him pityingly. ‘I suppose you could take that up with him,’ she says, then adds, in a low voice, ‘Though I wouldn’t advise it.’ She walks around the kitchen island over to the shelves of glasses.

‘He threatened me and my family,’ Noah says. ‘Don’t you care about that? Or don’t you want to interrogate any detail that impacts your easy life?’

Rose is reaching for a clean wine glass, but suddenly pauses. Bringing her hand back away from the shelf, she folds her arms and stares at Noah, a cold expression on her face. ‘You think my life has been easy?’ she says. ‘You have no idea. No idea what I’ve seen in my life, what I’ve experienced. What the Wentworths rescued me from. I—’ she stops, looking cross with herself. It’s clear she didn’t mean to say so much. Let her guard down. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ she says. Noah wonders if he should try to apologise. But before he can speak, she looks him in the eye and says, ‘You’re right, this is unfair on you. Turner shouldn’t put you under such immense pressure. But you’re here now, and the simplest thing to do is give him what he wants.’

Noah grits his teeth. ‘Fine.’ He has to admit she has got a point. Then something occurs to him. ‘Tell me about the first Christmas here. After lockdown, I mean. Christmas 2021. The first time, I presume, they were all reunited after their mother’s death?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Rose shrugs. ‘They don’t cut contact the second each Christmas is over. They see each other throughout the year at various family gatherings or society functions. Some glitzy things their father likes them to attend. Just don’t socialise loads.’

‘OK, I get it. But 2021? Surely you must have noticed something. Did one of them mention it was the year anniversary since their mother’s death?’

Rose looks as though she’s searching through her memories. ‘Actually… I don’t think anyone mentioned it. At least none of the siblings. I can’t be a hundred per cent, but I think the only person who alluded to it was Turner. He was going through a gratitude phase at the time – you know, where people count their blessings. Worthwhile, I’m sure, but with him it was a phase rather than a new mindset. He’d met a spiritual teacher on holiday in Thailand and started to keep lists of all the things he was grateful for in life. It didn’t last long, like most preoccupations of his. But he did this speech about gratitude before Christmas dinner that year and I’m fairly sure he mentioned he was grateful for the time he had with Marguerite. But that was it.’

‘And none of the others reacted to this?’

Rose shakes her head. ‘No. Not a word. It was as if… As if there was some prior agreement not to. I’ve got no proof of that, though.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Noah says. ‘And their father didn’t push them on it or comment to you at all?’

‘No,’ Rose says. ‘But Cliff became emotional at one point. I saw him trying not to cry, looking out of the window while everyone else was watching TV. Then he went upstairs early. I heard him sobbing in his room. But that isn’t that weird when you think about it. He wears his heart on his sleeve, bless him.’

‘That’s true,’ Noah says. ‘But it’s curious he’s the only one to show any reaction. Guilty conscience, perhaps.’

Rose still looks like she’s thinking, then says, ‘This thing, this history you have with both Cliff and Nicole, have either of them tried to… well, reconjure the old times? Reignite any sparks that might remain?’

Noah shakes his head. ‘The likelihood of Nicole trying to get back with me is about as remote as her confessing to murder. But Cliff…’ he trails off.

‘Yes?’ Rose prompts, adding a weighted emphasis to the word as though she knows what might be coming.

‘He got a bit, er, friendly. Down at the pool. In the little pool, you know, the one with the bubbles.’

‘I know about the bubbles.’

‘Well, yes, we were in there and things got a bit… intimate. Nothing major. I suppose. Just heavy petting, I think people call it.’ He tries to find a glimmer of understanding in Rose’s eyes, as though to confirm he hasn’t done anything completely outrageous or appalling. She doesn’t offer him any such reassurance, so he continues. ‘But that was just Cliff, being a people pleaser.’

Rose is silent for a few seconds, then says, pointedly, ‘Or trying to distract you.’

Noah feels himself blushing again. Not with shame but for being so naïve as not to spot this.

‘Perhaps I was a little harsh earlier when I tried to teach you a lesson about being led astray, but my gosh, you need to keep your mind focused,’ Rose says. ‘I’m not saying don’t have fun with Cliff if you want, who knows, perhaps you might be able to get some interesting details out of him when he’s not expecting it. But just remember, they are all their father’s children. And their mother’s. Whether they like it or not. Believe me, darling, that’s a dangerous mixture. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking the versions of themselves that they show you are real.’

Noah nods. ‘OK. Lesson learned.’

‘Good,’ Rose says. ‘Now, speaking of seductions, I think you should visit my room early tomorrow morning. It would be good to be seen coming out of it at some point. I’m an early riser, you won’t wake me. We’ll get away with sleeping in separate beds, but if we seem entirely celibate, it’s going to create even more suspicion. Also, I’ve put the key to your door in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet.’

Noah’s mind was miles away, thinking about the distrust the siblings have about his relationship with Rose and how they could try to fix this. ‘Sorry, what? The key?’

‘If you want to lock your door,’ Rose says. ‘After all, if Turner’s right, you are trapped on an island with a killer.’

SEVENTEEN

CLIFF

CHRISTMAS EVE 2020

Cliff has never seen the television comedy Gavin & Stacey before. Although he’s enjoyed some parts of it, he’s come to the conclusion that a repeat of the Christmas special from the previous year probably wasn’t the wisest point of introduction. The characters all seem to know each other, and he can’t quite work out how, although he figures the ones with strong Welsh accents are likely related. Indeed, the accents at times proves so challenging that he’s switched on the subtitles.

He is just about to see if he can find a handy summary of past series online to aid his viewing when a notification appears in the top right-hand corner of the screen. ‘Bluetooth Device iOS New 28473B: Status – Connected’. He frowns, puzzled, and picks up his own phone from the plump red cushion to his left. There is no indication it’s connected to the TV. He turns back to the screen and sees with increasing confusion that the programme has vanished, replaced with… what is that? It isn’t a TV show, that’s obvious. It’s in a portrait ratio, like content shot on a phone, a strip of grey pixelated movement in the middle of an ocean of black space on either side. The video image becomes brighter. He can make out a floor – a carpeted floor, then a chest of drawers, visible only briefly, but long enough to see that its surface is laden with cans of alcohol and beer bottles.

No, he thinks to himself. No, it can’t be.

There is a sound, too. A steady rhythmic banging noise, and voices, some whooping and laughing.

‘What the fuck?’ he breathes aloud, although he can barely get the words out.

Because he knows this video.

He has revisited it many times over the past year, alone in his room during the long nights of lockdown. He’d have recognised it sooner, were it not for the sudden disorientation of seeing it displayed on a 75-inch TV screen as opposed to a device in the palm of his hand.

But how is it playing here, now? For all he knows, this video is only in two places in all the world – his phone, and the one of the person who filmed it, his surfer friend Eddy in Florida. And Eddy is a great guy, he’s always got on well with him. He’d never share this video around. Would he?

He continues to stare at the screen, frozen to the spot, as the contents get clearer. He can see himself now. Laughing at the camera.

‘It’s rather sickening, isn’t it?’ The voice comes from his right, out of sight. He jerks his head and sees his mother standing there, her iPad in her hands. Her eyes aren’t on him. They are fixed on the TV screen, watching the version of him that’s naked on a bed while the pounding beat of retro-club music fills the speakers. It’s not quite loud enough to drown out Cliff’s grunts and moans. To make matters worse, the TV’s auto-subtitles are still on, working overtime to translate the muffled noises and gasped expletives into coherent text, resulting in words and phrases like ‘OH FUCK’ and ‘YEAH LIKE THAT’ being emblazoned in bright blue sans-serif capitals across the bottom third of the screen.

‘Mom… What’s going on?’

He should be trying to turn off the TV. Should be scrabbling around for the control. But he can’t make himself move.

‘What’s going on?’ His mother repeats the question back, walking closer so that she is almost next to him, revulsion clear on her face. ‘We’re watching a nice little film, that’s what’s going on. You’ve always liked to watch a movie on Christmas Eve, ever since you were small. Well, this is tonight’s main feature.’ Her voice is sweetly smooth. He knows the tone well. She saves it for when she is delivering her hardest, harshest lessons. Archie always said the voice made it obvious she was getting pleasure out of a scolding or altercation, but Cliff has never been that good at reading into things. He just works with what he has in front of him. And at this moment in time, what is in front of him makes him want to vomit in distress and shame.

‘Mom, please… please turn it off,’ he says, his voice quavering.

‘Turn it off? Why? We’re quite a long way off the best bit, Cliff. There are lots of memorable highlights. Don’t you at least want to see the moment when you slow down so you can smoke some illegal drugs? Look, here it comes!’ Her voice has taken on an exaggerated, sing-song quality, as though she is reading from a children’s story book. With rising nausea, he sees a tattooed male arm entering the frame from the left and holding out a spliff for Cliff to take a drag on, which he does with evident enjoyment, blowing smoke at the camera, then laughing and coughing. The volume of the music decreases a little, so the awful sounds he is making and the glee of the spectators near the bed become even more audible.

‘There’s an element of mystery here,’ his mother says. ‘Mystery is always the key to good storytelling. The mystery in this instance is the fact that the viewer doesn’t know whether that was cannabis you just inhaled, or something even worse. Crack cocaine, for instance.’

‘Mom, I’m begging you,’ he says, his voice almost breaking. He drags his eyes from the screen and looks around wildly, but can’t see the remote control anywhere. Then he realises it’s in his mother’s hand. She must have picked it up without him noticing.

‘Darling, there’s no need to beg. I know I said it was sickening, but perhaps I shouldn’t have rushed to judge. Because there’s nothing wrong with this, is there? You wouldn’t have done it all on camera, would you, if there was anything wrong with it? You wouldn’t have allowed it to be filmed for posterity if you were embarrassed by your actions. Because what mother doesn’t want to see a video of her sweet baby boy fornicating at a party and taking narcotics, accompanied by a dance club remix of Barber’s “Adagio for Strings”?’

‘I’m not a baby! I’m twenty-five!’ Cliff says, aware his voice sounds screechy and robbed of any authority, but he can’t help it.

His mother does a mock-gasp. ‘Oh, how silly of me. You’re right. You’re twenty-five. Well, then it’s all fine, isn’t it?!’

‘Mom, please!’ Cliff shouts. He manages to propel himself off the sofa and takes a step towards her. He holds out a hand for the remote, but she walks smoothly away from him, her unhurried steps taking her to the space on the sofa he’s just vacated. She settles down, as though making herself comfortable, her iPad perched on her knees.

‘What’s going on?’ says a voice from the doorway. With a mixture of relief and mortification, Cliff sees his brother walking into the room. He’ll know what to do, he tells himself. Archie is always good at standing up to their mom, much better than he is at least.

‘We’re having a movie night,’ his mother says, without hesitation.

Cliff watches his brother take in what is on the screen. Sees something like recognition in his eyes. Then fury. He looks at Cliff, then at their mother. ‘How could you do this?’ he asks.

‘Do what?’ she says, with a little shrug. ‘Cliff and I are having a mother-son bonding moment. Watching a film together is a shared experience. You get to connect and discuss.’ She turns back to the screen. ‘Which bit shall we discuss next? How about the eclectic mixture of drug paraphernalia visible on that tatty bedside unit?’

In a swift series of movements, Archie steps forward, grabs the iPad off his mother’s knees, raises it high in the air, then hurls it onto the floor. It smashes on impact, sending a spectacular explosion of glass across the wooden floor, splinters landing with a tinkle around the fireplace and amidst the perfectly wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree.

There follows a pause that would have been filled with silence, were it not for the last, excruciating seconds of the video, still playing, the noises from Cliff and his companion rising in pitch and speed, leaving them in no doubt what peak he was about to reach. Mercifully for Cliff, the lag in the TV’s connection with the iPad finally reaches its own crisis point, cutting off before anything too climactic can play out onscreen.

The sudden lack of noise feels louder than anything Cliff has ever heard in his life. His mother is, of course, the first of them to speak.

‘It seems Archie didn’t like our choice of film,’ she says with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Perhaps it was too soon for a rewatch.’

Cliff gasps. ‘What? You’d… you’d seen it before?’ He looks at his brother, hoping it isn’t true, hoping this is just part of his mother’s game.

‘Many people have seen it,’ his mother says, her voice still quiet, although now with a jagged edge that sends a chill through him. ‘The fact that I was alerted to its existence proves that, surely? It has, I regret to inform you, been added to various websites. I’d list them for you, if Archibald hadn’t wastefully destroyed my iPad. They have quite crude names. Although, if I recall correctly, some of them do feature rather creative uses of alliteration⁠—’

‘That wasn’t how I first saw it,’ Archie says, taking a step closer to Cliff. ‘I promise. She showed it to me. Earlier this evening. When she threatened to do this very thing. I didn’t think she’d go through with it. I guess I should have known better.’

Cliff blinks at Archie for a few seconds, then stares at his mother. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. It was all he could think of saying. Then something else pops into his head. ‘And it wasn’t crack that I smoked. It was weed. I mean, I know that’s not great but… well… it’s not crack.’

‘I’m overjoyed,’ his mother says.

‘And also,’ Cliff says, swallowing, ‘I… I’m not that into girls anyway. I… it was just a laugh. I’m more into guys, actually.’ He stops talking, realising this detail isn’t likely to be helpful. His mother’s reaction a second later confirms this.

‘Is that supposed to be some kind of defence?’ she says. ‘You think people will care about the sex of your companion? God, I know you’re not my brightest child, but I didn’t realise you were this dense.’

‘That’s enough,’ says Archie, but she ignores him.

‘No, it’s not enough,’ she continues, rising to her feet now, her voice getting louder. ‘Because he still doesn’t get it. I was sent that video by a professional to alert me to its presence, but leaving that aside, the fact that your face is recognisable, Cliff, means that the more people see it, the more chance there is of somebody tipping off the press. You’re a Wentworth. This is a news story. That video will go viral.’

‘No!’ Cliff shouts.

‘Stop this!’ yells Archie.

‘I’ve already told your father,’ his mother adds. ‘I’ve forwarded him the link. To say he’s displeased would be an understatement.’

This is the final straw for Cliff. He bursts into tears – heaving, uncontrolled sobs – all the emotion reaching a peak with nowhere left to go. His shock stopped him from crying before, but now the full force of the whole horrible situation hits him. And not just the embarrassment and shame, but the stinging cruelty with which the information has been delivered.

‘Has something happened?’

Through his tears, Cliff can’t see his sister, but he registers her words and hears footsteps coming closer.

‘Cliff has chosen to disgrace himself on the World Wide Web,’ his mother says, each word dripping with judgement and disdain.

‘Oh,’ replies Nicole. ‘I see.’ She says this simply, as if her mother has updated her on dinner plans. But then she does something Cliff would never expect. She comes up next to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. Not quite a hug, but a moment of tactile communication that is so unlike her that, for a few seconds, it causes a pause in Cliff’s sobs. He looks at his sister, and she looks at him, then she turns back to their mother.

‘Have you been needlessly cruel to him, like you were to me earlier?’

‘That’s exactly what she’s been,’ Archie says, no longer shouting, but his voice still loud and booming. ‘Vicious, cruel, twisted⁠—’

‘Your vocabulary never was that extensive, Archibald,’ Marguerite says, brushing past them with a sigh. ‘You can continue your dramatics for as long as you like. I’m going to get myself a warm drink.’

Through his tears, Cliff sees his brother’s face contorted with outrage. ‘No wonder Dad doesn’t want anything to do with you. The only reason he hasn’t divorced you is because he can never admit mistakes. And you were the biggest one he ever made.’

His mother freezes, then turns very slowly towards Archie.

‘If living with me is so awful,’ she says, her voice low and dangerous, ‘I think it’s better that the three of you leave.’

Archie looks like he is going to snap back in response, but Nicole speaks first.

‘Leave?’ she says. ‘We’re not supposed to leave. London’s in lockdown.’

‘Well, it’s lucky we have an annexe on the property,’ their mother says. She is holding something, and it takes Cliff a few seconds to realise she still has the television remote control. Her hands are wrapped tightly around it, as though it is a tiny little creature she’s intent on strangling. ‘I want you to go to the annexe right now and spend Christmas there. Alone. I don’t want to see you. Any of you. Not for at least a week.’ Her lip curls as her eyes swoop from Nicole, then to Archie, then at last to Cliff. He finds he can’t hold her gaze and drops his eyes to the floor. ‘Do you know, I always thought marrying your father would be my one true regret in life,’ she says. ‘But I was wrong. My main regret is having children.’

Then she leaves the room.

EIGHTEEN

NOAH

23rd DECEMBER 2026

You are trapped on an island with a killer. Rose’s words echo through Noah’s head as he climbs the stairs. They stir in him various emotions. Fear, certainly, but also something else. Excitement. Determination. The feeling of being plunged headfirst into an adventure. A situation he never imagined he’d end up in. He’s so caught up in his thoughts when he walks into his bedroom, he’s already hung up his blazer and unlaced his brogues by the time he realises he’s not alone.

‘Oh, Jesus!’ he says, clasping his chest, staring at the person on his bed. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Don’t do what?’ Cliff says, putting down the book he’s holding.

‘Sneak up on people like that,’ Noah says, dropping himself into the occasional chair by the window and leaning back. ‘You almost killed me. What are you doing in here?’

‘Came to find you. You are, hands down, the most fun person in this entire building by far. I was thinking, if Rose was cool with it, you could, like, spend the night in my room. I sleep much better when I’ve got someone else to hug or hold onto and, like, you know, snuggle. So we could snuggle?’

Noah raises his eyebrows at this suggestion. ‘While I’m flattered I’m being offered the role of your human comfort blanket, I’m not sure it would work.’

Cliff looks as disappointed as a child who’s been told Christmas has been cancelled. ‘Oh no, really? Is it Rose? I thought, because of what happened in the pool, you guys are like, open, right? Maybe she wouldn’t mind?’

Noah feels uneasy. He was tempted to throw Cliff firmly out of his room, but now remembers his conversation with Rose about trying to get information out of the siblings and his lack of suitability for this role. Well, here is a prime chance to prove his suitability. He’s still conflicted about leading Cliff on, but he can’t ignore the fact that there’s an opportunity here. ‘How about a deal?’ he says. ‘I let you stay the night in my bed. We’ll talk and sleep – just sleep. And you can use me as your human comfort blanket. And we don’t tell Rose or anyone else anything about it. And that includes anything that’s occurred between us in the past, OK? Earlier today and… before that.’

Cliff’s grin widens. ‘Ah, yeah, you mean at college?’

‘Well, I’d say “university”, but yes, that is what I’m referring to.’

Cliff lets out a short laugh and shuffles over to the other side of the mattress. ‘I already told you, man, I’m not going to tell anyone. But I don’t think you should get so het up about it. You’re probably one of those people who thinks too much. As in, like, deep stuff. I think it’s best just to avoid the deep stuff. Just go with the flow. I normally do.’

‘Sometimes the deep stuff is unavoidable,’ Noah says. ‘Sometimes people get things in their head and they can’t shake them out.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ Cliff says, his voice now quieter. He runs a finger absent-mindedly across his upper lip and starts to trace the outline of his mouth. His eyes lower to the bed covers in front of him, his expression becoming glazed. ‘I find Christmas a bit difficult. We all do. Because of what… what happened. But I try not to think about that; it’s better that way.’ He jerks his head back up. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, Archie would be pissed if he knew I’d brought it up.’

Noah stares at him, his mouth open. For first time, one of the siblings has raised the subject of their mother’s death. He can’t let it slip away. ‘I think it’s good you’ve brought it up,’ Noah says. ‘I think you should talk about it. It’s only natural to want to.’

Cliff looks unconvinced. He bites his lip, his expression far from his usual easy, unbothered demeanour. Then he says, in a very quiet voice, ‘I sometimes have thoughts. Like, bad thoughts. About that night.’

Noah watches him. Sees him sway a little, curled on the right-hand side of the bed, back resting against the pillow, legs pulled up close to him. Noah’s surprised to find it does something to him, seeing him like this. It’s like a bouncy Labrador puppy has a thorn in its paw and doesn’t know how to fix it.

‘How about I get into bed? We can carry on talking. It will be warmer under the covers… the two of us together.’

Cliff looks like nobody’s ever said anything so nice to him in all his life. ‘Yes. Yes, can we do that.’ He nods eagerly, and Noah can’t help but smile.

Noah switches on the lamp by the bed and turns off the main light. After stripping down to his underwear, he goes over to the bed and climbs in. Cliff takes off his top but keeps his pyjama bottoms on and gets under the covers. Within seconds, he’s cuddling up close to Noah. ‘This is so nice,’ he says.

‘Yeah, it is,’ says Noah, his mind lining up his next move, trying to choose the right words to lead with. He waits a few seconds, so he doesn’t sound like he’s rushing into the subject, then says, ‘So… you were saying about Christmas being hard for all of you?’ He finishes the sentence with an inflexion that suggests a question, and Cliff immediately becomes tense. Noah moves his right hand so it’s resting atop Cliff’s. He feels him relax again.

‘It’s all to do with Mom,’ Cliff says. ‘I never know what I’m allowed to say.’

Noah feels a prickle at the back of his neck. ‘Allowed?’

Cliff moves his head up and down. ‘Yeah. I’m never sure. I know there’s stuff we’re not supposed to say. It’s better that way.’

‘Is it, though?’ Noah asks. ‘Is it better for you? Or is that what Archie or Nicole have told you?’

He hears Cliff breathe in and breathe out, deeply and slowly, perhaps giving himself time to think. ‘It’s complicated. Well, Archie says it’s complicated. He’s right, it is. They think I’m the stupid one. Think I can’t be trusted with… things.’

Noah hopes Cliff can’t sense his pulse racing. He feels he’s actually getting somewhere, that he might have a breakthrough on his hands, if he can just play this conversation right. ‘What don’t they think you can be trusted about?’

‘Things,’ Cliff says, somewhat unhelpfully, but Noah doesn’t feel like he can push too hard.

‘I can get that,’ Noah says. ‘There are things in my past I find hard to talk about.’ He isn’t sure this is true, but as he says it, his consciousness grazes against memories of his father’s death when he was ten. He wouldn’t say he has buried trauma, but his memory of when his mother told him his father had died in a train derailment and wouldn’t be coming home from his business trip still hurts to think about. His eyes settle on the paperback copy of Agatha Christie’s After the Funeral that Cliff was flicking through when he walked in, and Noah realises that his compulsive consumption of detective fiction coincided with his dad’s death. Perhaps each time he followed a tragedy through to its satisfying conclusion on the page, he had been embarking on a more therapeutic and healing journey than he’d realised.

‘Do you blame yourself for your mother’s death?’ Noah asks. It’s a risky question, and he holds his breath waiting for an answer. When it comes, it surprises him.

‘She wasn’t very nice to me. I sometimes think… I don’t know… that I might be glad she is dead. Then I worry that’s a bad thought, and it makes me bad just thinking it. So I stop and think about something else.’

For the umpteenth time that day, Noah feels like he’s swimming out of his depth. He wonders if Cliff has ever thought of going to a therapist. But perhaps he has things he doesn’t feel he could tell a therapist without being in danger of telling them too much. Something, perhaps, incriminating?

‘Did anything happen between you that week she died? Is that why you feel bad?’

Cliff’s silence after this question goes on so long, Noah wonders if he’s going to ignore it entirely. Then he says, in little more than a whisper, ‘It’s tricky.’

Noah tries not to let his body give him away. Keeping his breath steady, trying to slow his heart rate, he says, ‘Did you get on with your mum, Cliff? Was she nice to you?’

Another long silence. Then Cliff says, ‘She was… our mom. Everyone’s family is… I mean…’ He sniffs and swallows.

‘What was that lockdown like, with your mum?’ Noah asks. ‘It was a tense time. As you say, everyone’s family has their difficulties. And I think, when you’re all stuck with each other in the same house, those difficulties can be magnified. Did you find this?’

Cliff rises himself up, looking at Noah in the darkness. ‘Talk to Archie. He’s the boss.’ Then he turns over, laying his head flat against the pillow, his face turned away.

Noah gets a sinking feeling, wondering if he’s blown it. But then Cliff’s words hit home.

Talk to Archie. He’s the boss.

The boss.

That word strikes him as both strange and natural. Archie is obviously the most commanding of the three. Cliff might talk for England – or America – but Archie’s words have more impact. He exudes power. He’d be an obvious choice for a leader, if a leader were necessary among them.

But would Nicole fall so easily into line? It would make sense for Cliff to defer to Archie, but from his experience of Nicole, she isn’t a person who happily nods along to someone else’s plan. A memory comes to mind of a time he took her to dinner at a country pub not far from their university and he made the mistake of ordering for her. He hadn’t chosen her food for her – he’d never have been that presumptuous – but because they’d been having the same thing, he thought it would be just quicker. But he’d seen her eyes flash with indignation, then she switched from the lamb shank to the steak.

As Noah gets dragged back deeper into his memories, he doesn’t notice the time passing or his eyes closing. When he wakes up, it’s still night, and Cliff is still next to him, apparently sleeping peacefully. He taps his phone and sees it’s 1 a.m. He rubs his eyes and gets out of bed. He didn’t draw the curtains before getting into bed, and he can see flurries of snow hitting the window.

Then he freezes. And his heart starts thudding hard.

Because although he didn’t close the curtains, he definitely closed the door.

But now it’s part-way open.

In the darkness, he watches it as though it’s a dangerous animal crouched in the grassland, waiting to spring. Nothing moves, though, and after a couple of minutes, Noah slips quietly out of bed. He looks out into the corridor but can’t see anyone there. There is, however, a light under one of the doors at the far end. Rose’s room.

Treading as lightly as he can across the soft carpeted hallway, he heads to Rose’s bedroom and tries the handle. It opens. He sees her immediately, sitting in front of the vanity mirror, removing her makeup. She pauses for a few seconds when she sees him, then carries on rubbing a small sponge across her face, frowning. ‘What?’ she says, not turning around.

‘Was it you who left my door open? I think someone came into my room.’

She doesn’t answer straight away. Just continues to wipe at her face, then takes out a little tub of cream and starts applying it to her cheeks. ‘Cliff, I imagine.’

Noah shakes his head. ‘No, Cliff was already there.’

Rose rolls her eyes. ‘Oh darling, that was a barbed dig. Cliff doesn’t often pick up on them, either, so I guess you have that in common.’

Deciding to assume she did indeed enter his room, Noah steps into hers properly and closes the door. ‘Can I debrief with you?’

Rose turns around. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Noah walks over to the bed and sits down. ‘In detective novels, the detective usually gets to talk through the puzzle with an assistant.’

‘An assistant,’ says Rose, eyes wide. ‘Is that what I am? Gosh, as I said before, you really know how to flatter a woman.’

‘Well, you’re the one who used the word “Watson” earlier.’

‘This gets worse and worse,’ Rose says, turning back to the mirror and rubbing in face cream again. ‘But I guess you’re right. Debrief away, Sherlock.’

With a sigh, Noah lies back on the bed. Even though the room is warm, the sheets are cool against his skin, and he feels himself relax a little.

When he doesn’t talk right away, Rose clicks her fingers twice. ‘I want to go to bed, so can we make this quick?’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I left your door open, I thought I closed it. I just wanted to check on you.’

Noah ignores this, his mind whirring. ‘So, in terms of most likely candidate, I’m currently thinking Archie,’ he muses aloud. He vaguely registers a long sigh from Rose, but carries on. ‘My instincts point towards him. In a very big way. He’s just… moody and awful.’

‘That’s some deep psychological insight right there,’ Rose says. ‘Moody and awful. Based on that, you’d better snap the handcuffs onto the wrists of practically all the world’s rich kids. What actual evidence is there that he has it in him to kill his own mother?’

Noah leans up on his elbows. ‘Two things.’

He sees Rose look surprised at this. ‘Go on.’

‘First, something my stepsister said before I came here. She and Archie had a one-night stand in London, just after Covid restrictions eased in 2021. They met at a bar and ended up sleeping together, and apparently he got strange.’ He lowers his voice and glances nervously at the closed door, as though Archie might burst through it at any moment. ‘He called out another woman’s name, right at the moment when he… you know.’ He gestures vaguely towards his crotch. ‘And that’s not all, he shouted in his sleep. Screaming or begging or something.’

Rose seems to consider this, then says, ‘He could have just been having a nightmare.’

Noah tilts his head. ‘You’ve got to admit that’s interesting.’

‘Everyone has nightmares, darling,’ Rose says. ‘When their mother died, the siblings suffered grief, public scrutiny, intrusive paparazzi, and police interviews. Of course, that was unavoidable, since they were the only people on the property when it all happened. The attention was awful, and they survived it. But stuff like that doesn’t go away without leaving scars.’ She folds her arms, the material of her light-pink kimono shimmering in the warm light from the table lamp. ‘What if Marguerite died in a tragic accident, and they’re all just trying to deal with that guilt in their own way. Guilt without a crime does exist, you know.’

Noah chews on his lip as he digests this. Then he raises a finger. ‘You haven’t heard the second point.’

Rose yawns, barely trying to hide it. ‘I can hardly wait.’

‘Cliff started to talk about what happened back in 2020, but he said Archie doesn’t like him talking about it. He makes it sound like Archie polices his speech about it. And he refers to Archie as the boss.’

‘Well, he is the oldest. By about nineteen minutes,’ Rose says.

‘This isn’t funny,’ Noah says.

‘And I’m not laughing,’ Rose says. ‘Look, sweetie, I’m trying my best to be patient here, but I only sleep alone, and you’re taking up space. If you need company, go back and screw Cliff again. Just do it quietly.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. And I didn’t just screw Cliff, for your information. He was being honest and open and I didn’t think kicking him out would encourage that, so I agreed he could sleep there.’

Rose’s eyes are on him now, dark and focused. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be too quick to turn him down.’

‘What? You think I should… give in to his seduction attempts?’

She does a palms-up gesture with her hands. ‘Why not? What have you got to lose? If he’s trying to get into your bed, it’s obvious what he’s after. So give him what he wants. It might get him to talk.’

Noah takes a deep breath, scratching at his temple, thinking. ‘Hmm, I suppose. But I’m not sure how ethical that is.’ He thinks back to Cliff’s hand on his thigh back in the pool earlier. He worried at the time it would be wrong to let him continue, worried he’d feel bad about it after. Not that he’s had the time or mental space to feel bad yet, or even process what happened.

‘Ethical? My goodness, sweetie, you need to stop being so oversensitive, or these siblings will eat you alive. You know the old phrase “All’s fair in love and war”? I think it’s best for you to start thinking about this as war. A war between you and the Wentworths. If you’re going to win, you’re going to have to play as dirty as they do. If Cliff’s keen to get into your pants, just let him, and see if he talks afterwards.’

Noah feels a prickle of frustration at this. ‘For your information, I did let Cliff into my pants, quite literally, earlier this afternoon, and it didn’t get me anywhere. Well, nowhere useful. Perhaps he just isn’t the likely candidate for anything criminal. Perhaps he’s just… nice. An uncomplicated good guy. Unlike Archie.’

‘Nowhere useful yet,’ Rose says. ‘Archie may seem like an obvious choice because he can be prickly, but don’t be fooled by Cliff’s innocent-nice-boy demeanour. Or Nicole’s oddness, for that matter.’ She gets up and opens the door of the bedside cabinet. Noah sees she has four Voss water bottles inside. She takes one out, pours a large amount into a frosted glass and takes a long sip. ‘Don’t believe anything any of them tell you,’ she says. ‘I’ve known this family for decades. You’re not going to understand them by spending one Christmas with them.’

‘I don’t need to understand them, I just need to work out who the most likely killer is.’

Rose pours out some more water, replaces the top of the bottle and puts it back inside the cabinet. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

Noah thinks about this for a moment, then something she said earlier comes to his mind. ‘What did you mean when you said you’d had a hard life? How do the Wentworths fit into that?’

He sees her look longingly at her bed and wonders if she’s going to refuse to answer and kick him out. But then she sits down next to him and says, ‘My parents were very dangerous people. I don’t want to go into the sort of work they did, but let’s just say it was a difficult thing to process when growing up. But I liked music. I liked playing the piano. Marguerite Wentworth used to run residential music courses over the summer holidays in a country house in Oxfordshire. I attended one of those, and she sort of took me under her wing. I stayed with the family many times in the years that followed. I was in need of a family. Marguerite and Turner had a difficult relationship. I was a comforting presence. Comforting for Turner too, in a different way.’ She looks at him, pointedly.

‘Ah. Yes, I did wonder about that… so, you and Turner⁠—’

‘I think I’ve said all I want to right now, Noah,’ Rose says. The fact she’s used his actual name, rather than ‘darling’ or ‘sweetie’, makes him sit up. ‘Now get back to your room, I want to sleep. You can come back in the morning, like we discussed, but for now I want to be alone.’

Noah nods. ‘OK. I’ll get back to Cliff. As long as you think I’m safe to do so?’

Rose gets into bed. ‘That’s your call. Do whatever you think is ethical.’ She rolls her eyes at the last word. ‘I still think all of this is nonsense. I know I don’t exactly sing their praises, but the siblings aren’t so bad.’

Noah looks back at her one last time before he leaves. ‘Yeah, when they’re not killing people.’

NINETEEN

MARGUERITE

CHRISTMAS EVE 2020

Marguerite hears the door slam, the sound echoing through the house. Then there’s silence. Almost complete silence, only broken by the ticking of the large grandfather clock in the hallway.

‘Peace at last,’ she says to herself. She walks into the living room. Her eyes fall to the TV, which is still on from earlier, now displaying an unpleasantly bright blue screen with the message ‘Source Not Found’ in a black box in the centre. She picks up the remote and switches it back to normal television. The news is in the midst of a report about how the UK and the EU have reached a historic post-Brexit trade deal. As she listens to the contributor dissecting the ‘landmark moment’, she goes over to the window and watches her children walking through the snow towards the annexe at the bottom of the garden. All of them have bags with them, as though they are going on holiday. ‘The hope is that this deal will put an end to a climate of toxicity, uncertainty and tension,’ the contributor on the TV is saying. This almost makes Marguerite laugh. Things like toxicity, uncertainty and tension are never far away. Not when human beings are involved. Those three things are the true lifeblood of our species, she thinks, as the three figures disappear out of sight into the darkness.

She settles back onto the sofa, watches a report about intensive care units filling up with Covid patients, then presses the home button on the screen and heads to her film library. She selects the 1944 film Laura and sits back to enjoy it as the lights on the tree twinkle in the corner.

She’s only three minutes into the film when her phone rings.

She looks at the screen, wondering if it will be one of her children – Cliff, perhaps, begging her to let him back in or to say sorry. But it isn’t Cliff, or any of them. It’s her husband. And he’s FaceTiming her. Tutting, she accepts the call.

‘You know I prefer either email or, if you absolutely have to, an audio-only phone call.’

‘An audio-only phone call?’ he says, amusement in his very tanned face.

‘A normal phone call,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘You know what I mean.’ She jabs the remote at the television. ‘You’ve caught me at a bad moment. Anyway, go ahead. Which one of them was it?’

‘Sorry?’ Turner says, frowning. She can hear pounding music in the background and sees the shimmer of a swimming pool behind him. He seems to be drifting in and out of the frame. Is he on a float, perhaps?

‘Which one of the children contacted you?’ she asks. ‘It’s barely been ten minutes since I threw them out. I would have thought it would take them a bit longer to go running to Daddy, but I guess I overestimated them.’

She hears Turner groan. ‘Yeah, well, now you mention it, I’ve heard from Archie and Nicole.’

Marguerite gets up and walks over to the Christmas tree. From underneath it she pulls out a rectangular box wrapped in white paper with silver snowflakes, tied up with a matching silver bow, and begins to unwrap it. ‘Not Cliff? That’s a surprise, I thought he’d be sobbing down the phone, begging you to do all you can to remove that shameful video from the web.’

‘Hmm, yeah, that’s a fuckup, but not the end of the world,’ he says. ‘The whole throwing them out of the house shit… I’m not sure that’s going to help anything.’

Marguerite slips the bow and paper off the box of chocolates, runs her hand over the DeLafée of Switzerland logo. Her friend Meryl has been sending these chocolates to her for years, and they’ve become one of her favourite parts of Christmas. ‘It’s not my fault there’s a pandemic,’ she says. ‘Usually I’m grateful to wave them off to that ridiculous island of yours.’

‘You’ve never waved them off,’ Turner says. ‘Hang on a sec.’ He lights an outrageously large cigar, puffs on it and says, ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking – our kids need ironing out. Being a bit nicer might be worth a try. I wondered about perhaps not being so tight on the money.’

Marguerite laughs. ‘That’s ridiculous. They have more money than sense.’

‘Yeah, well, part of the deal could be upping their responsibilities, but also giving them some autonomy, on the condition they shape up,’ he says. ‘I’m thinking of giving them more senior roles if they want them. I’m buying Matthews House Publishers, so Nicole could head that up. Archie’s not good with being bossed about, so I might make him a “boss boss” in the movie studio, and Cliff – fuck, well, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I think I might just give him fifty million, and he can piss it up the wall on energy drink start-ups or surfboards or whatever. If he’s happy, why not?’

Marguerite bites into one of the chocolates and eats it slowly, allowing the gold coating to mingle with the premium cocoa.

‘Are you still there?’ Turner says, raising the cigar to his lips.

‘You know I’m still here,’ she says. ‘You can see me. I was just thinking.’

‘And what are you thinking?’ Turner asks.

‘I think it is complete lunacy,’ she says. ‘Give those idiotic weaklings more money and responsibility? That would be like handing a flamethrower to a convicted arsonist.’

‘I just think they’ve got their issues and we’ve been a bit harsh on them,’ Turner says.

‘You’ve been spending too much time with your LA therapist.’ Marguerite selects another chocolate and bites into it with a satisfyingly loud crack.

‘I don’t need your permission. I just wanted to talk it over. Like a normal married couple.’

She laughs bitterly. ‘We’ve never been a normal married couple, Turner. And if you think I’m going to approve your preposterous plans for the children, I won’t. Absolutely not. They don’t deserve it, full stop.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Turner says. ‘Give them a break.’

Marguerite pops one more chocolate into her mouth, then closes the box. ‘Over my dead body,’ she says. Then ends the call.

TWENTY

NOAH

CHRISTMAS EVE 2026

Noah’s phone wakes him. As he opens his eyes, he forgets for a few seconds where he is. Then he feels the arm around his torso and remembers. Cliff’s holding onto him tight, and he has to wrestle out of his grip. He blinks at his phone, confused. He’s had a sporadic signal ever since he arrived, but now an unknown number is calling him, the phone’s persistent ring cutting through the silence like a siren.

‘What’s that?’ Cliff mumbles.

Noah has a sinking feeling. He thinks he might know who it is. And he definitely doesn’t want to take this call in Cliff’s hearing. ‘It’s just my mum, go back to sleep,’ he whispers.

Cliff murmurs sleepily into the pillow, and Noah answers the phone.

‘Yo, Noah, my boy,’ says Turner’s unmistakable voice, awake and cheery, despite it being 6 a.m. Noah wonders where in the world he’s calling from. ‘It’s CHRISTMAS EVE! Are you enjoying the snow?’

Noah walks towards the window, stumbling a little. The snow is falling thick and fast – so thick, the water is barely visible in the darkness, the edge of the island just a faint line in the distance.

‘Er, yeah,’ he says. ‘The snow is certainly heavy. What do you want?’

‘To talk to you.’

‘Obviously,’ Noah says.

‘Don’t get terse with me, son. I’m the one who brightened your Christmas with this fiendishly intriguing, wonderfully compelling little murder mystery.’

Noah sighs. ‘Uh-huh. By the way, I’m not your son.’

‘No, you’re not, but I hear you’re fairly close to one of mine. How about you waking up sleeping surfer-boy and telling him to shuffle back to his own bedroom?’

Noah gasps. He swings around and looks at the comatose frame of Cliff, now sprawled out over the entire mattress, one of his legs hanging off the end.

‘How did you…?’ he says, trailing off.

‘Noah, Noah, there’s a key takeaway from this chat, and we’ve only just begun: I. Know. Everything. You got that?’

‘Except who murdered your wife,’ Noah snaps, a little too loudly.

Cliff sits up. He rubs his eyes, blinks, then says, ‘Did you ask me something?’

‘No, no,’ Noah says. ‘Sorry, I just need to talk to my mum. Maybe you could go back to sleep in your own room? I need to chat for a bit.’

‘Sleep, yeah,’ Cliff mutters, thudding back down and pulling the duvet over him.

‘In your own bed, Cliff,’ Noah says. ‘Please.’

Cliff sits up again. ‘Sorry, sorry. Yeah, sure.’ He gets up with a groan and pads out of the room.

Noah goes over and closes the door. ‘I’m alone,’ he says into the phone.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want to blow your cover. Not yet.’

Noah doesn’t like the ‘yet’. ‘How did you know that Cliff⁠—’

‘To business,’ Turner cuts in briskly. ‘I wanted to hear your current working hypothesis, current theories, current suspicions.’

Noah feels both very alert and half asleep, as though he might still be dreaming. ‘I… don’t know,’ he says.

‘Spoiler alert, Noah Myers: the phrase “I don’t know” won’t cut it,’ Turner says, a low, dangerous note creeping into his voice now.

Noah swallows, takes a breath, then says, ‘I’m making progress with Cliff. He’s been the most talkative. Hence why he was in my room, just now. My plan is to continue seeing where he might lead me. If he did it… well, he might end up confessing. But I have doubts about that. If he didn’t, I’d bet he probably knows which of his siblings did. And right now, I think Archie is the most likely candidate.’

There’s a silence. Then Turner says, quietly, ‘Interesting. Very interesting. Why?’

Noah considers for a moment mentioning what Ruby told him before his departure, then decides to keep that to himself. ‘He seems more likely to be able to control Cliff. I think Cliff’s scared of him in a way he wouldn’t be of Nicole. So I’m going to add some pressure to Archie today. That, and continue seeing what I can get out of Cliff. Like I said, he definitely knows something.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’ Turner asks.

‘I really think he does. He seems… haunted. There’s this weird, strained tension amongst the three of them. You can practically taste it. And I think he’s the weak thread to unravel it all.’

‘Hmm. Perhaps you’re right,’ Turner says. ‘Human nature is your superpower, after all?’

‘Er… what?’ Noah says, confused.

He then hears a rustling sound at the end of the line, then Turner starts speaking in a monotonous, almost-bored voice. ‘Because I have always read a lot of books, I know how the human mind works. When I talk to people, I have a sense that sounds in my head, like an alarm, when I suspect they are lying. I suppose one could call it my magic trick. Or a superpower.’

Noah closes his eyes and lets himself drop back onto the bed. ‘Turner, I told you, that book was ghostwritten.’

‘Ghost. Written,’ Turner says, enunciating each part of the word. ‘Similar to what publishers do when an author dies tragically.’

Noah feels himself getting cold and pulls the covers over him. ‘I think I’d be in a better state of mind if you stopped threatening me.’

He hears Turner laugh, then the sound of an inhale. He wonders if he might be smoking something while he talks. ‘Noah, Noah, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t threaten people. I don’t need to. I’ve already said there might be a financial reward at the end of all this. I don’t want to intimidate you, scare you, or make you afraid of what I might do. That’s all in your head, Noah. All in your head. A sign of a suspicious mind. AND THAT’S WHAT WE WANT!’ He shouts the last bit and laughs again. Not for the first time, Noah suspects he’s on drugs.

‘I’ll let you get on with it. By the way, go easy on the bedroom fun. I know my offspring aren’t virgins, but even so, you’re not there to get laid.’

‘I haven’t⁠—’

‘Oh, and there’s a major storm heading your way, according to one of my assistants,’ he says. ‘A blizzard. The house regularly loses Wi-Fi, phone signal, even power, during storms. Merry Christmas.’

TWENTY-ONE

NICOLE

CHRISTMAS DAY 2020

Nicole wakes on Christmas morning in the single bed in the smallest room in the annexe. Her brothers both automatically took the two larger rooms with the double beds without even thinking to ask who wanted what. She isn’t sentimental about Christmas traditions, but it feels strange not to be waking up on Liar’s Island, with the sound of the waves, the rush of the wind hitting the house, the screech of the seagulls. Hampstead in lockdown is as silent as a grave in comparison.

Since it’s early, Nicole goes over to the row of twelve books she brought with her, running her hand along the spines as she chooses. They’re mostly all classic fiction, with just one modern novel, a recent release she’d spotted in Waterstones called The Poison Stream, which promised exorcisms in a sinister forest – a proposition that sounded infinitely more fun than Christmas in lockdown with her mother. Deciding she is in need of an old favourite, she selects Middlemarch and returns to her bed. She’s only one chapter in when she hears the sound. It comes again a few more times, and Nicole realises it’s someone coughing. She pulls on her dressing gown and goes out onto the landing. Archie’s bedroom is upstairs like hers, while Cliff’s downstairs. And the sound is definitely coming from downstairs. With each step, the temperature gets colder, and she can feel a breeze on her bare feet.

When she reaches the hallway, Cliff’s door is ajar. She pushes it open and sees him, lying on top of the covers in his pyjama bottoms and no top, the window next to his bed wide open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. He’s coughing and groaning, his hands clenching the duvet each time, his breath coming in between the coughs in wheezing rushes that are painful to hear. Although Nicole doesn’t often feel strong sisterly concern for her brothers, she feels it now.

‘Cliff?’ Nicole says. She’s about to go into the room, but then she stops. She shouldn’t – not if she doesn’t want to risk catching whatever he’s got. Two family friends have had elderly parents die of Covid. A girl Nicole knew at school has just lost her sister to the virus. She knows it’s unlikely she or her brothers would die of the disease, but it isn’t impossible. And Cliff seems to be in a bad way – too unwell to ignore and go back to her room.

‘Cliff, can you hear me?’ she calls.

She sees Cliff nod. He opens his eyes, looks blearily back at her, then closes them again. ‘Merry… Christmas,’ he says, with two coughs between each word. ‘I don’t think I’m very well, Chelsea.’

She’s too concerned to get irritated about the nickname. ‘Stay where you are,’ she says, and goes into the living room where she left one of her bags. From it, she pulls out a face mask and a bottle of antibacterial hand gel. She then goes upstairs to the bathroom and gets a small digital thermometer from her toiletries bag. With these things in hand, she goes to her bedroom and finds the flat cardboard box she brought from the house. She pulls on the mask, balances the thermometer and hand gel on top of the box, then heads back downstairs.

‘Cliff, can you sit up?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, why?’ he says, his voice gravelly. ‘God, it’s so hot. Why’s it so hot?’

She doesn’t answer, just holds out the thermometer and points it at his mouth. He opens up, meekly, and she pops it in. ‘Under the tongue,’ she instructs. ‘Keep it there.’ The high temperature alarm bleeps after just five seconds. She takes it out of his mouth and sees that it’s 38.7.

‘It’s high?’ he asks.

‘It’s high,’ she confirms.

‘Is it the virus?’

‘I think it’s likely a virus of some sort. It could just be flu,’ she says. ‘Unpleasant as that is. But we need to check.’

She starts to undo the cardboard box.

‘What’s that?’ Cliff asks.

‘It’s a new kind of Covid test called a lateral flow. You might have heard about them on the news.’ Even as she says this, she knows this probably isn’t the case. Cliff doesn’t watch the news. He barely knew there was a pandemic about to hit when she messaged him about his plans for lockdown if it happened.

‘What do I have to do?’ Cliff asks.

She lays out the instructions and starts sorting out all the testing apparatus.

Ten minutes later, she stares at the two lines on the testing cassette. Cliff must have seen her eyes widen, because he says, ‘And? What does it say?’

She takes a deep breath and says, ‘It’s positive. You have Covid.’ She’s already cleaned her hands after helping him do the test, but she squeezes a fresh dollop of antibacterial gel into her palm and rubs it over her fingers. ‘It was going to happen to one of us eventually. It seems like you’re the unlucky one.’

Cliff nods and lowers his head. He looks like he’s about to cry. ‘I feel so awful.’

‘We’re supposed to send off for a PCR,’ Nicole says. ‘I can sort that. You just rest. I’ll get you some water, then I’ll go and talk to Archie.’

Cliff nods again, and she leaves the room. Upstairs, she goes into Archie’s room and turns on the light. He’s still in bed, face buried in the pillow.

‘Archie, wake up,’ Nicole says.

He rolls over onto his front, then raises his hands to his face. ‘Turn off the fucking light!’

‘Archie, this is serious.’

‘Fuck off! I’m sleeping.’

She marches towards him and begins to pull the duvet away, but he snatches it back. ‘Hey, stop, I’m not wearing pyjamas!’

‘Well, put some on, we need to talk. Cliff’s got Covid.’

This makes him sit up. ‘What?’

Nicole nods.

‘How do you know? It could be a cold, right?’

‘It’s not a cold. He’s tested positive. He’s in a bad way, and he showed up two lines on the results strip. That means he’s got it.’ She sits down on the edge of the bed, bites her lip, then says, ‘And we’ve likely got it too. We’ve both been exposed. And even if we haven’t yet, we’ll probably have it soon.’

Archie nods slowly and rubs his eyes. ‘OK. I need to wake up properly. Fuck, it’s Christmas Day, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Nicole says. She looks at her brother and gives a little shrug. ‘Merry Christmas.’

He laughs mirthlessly. ‘Yeah, merry Christmas. Now get out, so I can get dressed, then I’ll go and see Cliff.’

Nicole gets up. ‘Dress warmly. He’s got the window wide open down there, and it’s freezing. He’s burning up. If possible, I think we should keep you at least two metres away from him. I’ll be the one who does any close-quarters stuff if necessary, as I’ve already been exposed. I think we should monitor him closely. Especially his breathing. We may get to a point where he needs to go to hospital.’

Later that afternoon, after eating a lot of food from the freezer, Nicole and Archie sit in the living room watching their fifth film of the day. All the while, Cliff’s coughs cut through the sound of the TV, each one sounding worse than the last. Nicole has brought down her copy of Middlemarch and has been half-reading, trying to focus as much as she can amidst all the distractions. Normally, she’d prefer to read alone in her room, but the combination of it being Christmas Day plus the presence of the much-feared virus has made her stay put. Even if Archie isn’t good company, she can’t just leave him to sit here, listening to Cliff’s coughing on his own.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Archie says, as the credits for Home Alone 2 scroll. He turns down the volume and leans forward, looking at Nicole. She feels the intensity of his gaze and lowers her book, waiting for him to say more. ‘We could send Cliff back up to the main house. To be with Mom?’

Nicole shakes her head. ‘No, we can’t do that. Not after what she did to him, shaming him with that video – do you think he’d recover faster with her for company?’

Archie doesn’t say anything. Nicole closes her book and puts it down on the coffee table. ‘And besides,’ she carries on, ‘it would expose her to the virus, which could be dangerous for her, if she hasn’t already been infected. We can’t risk her coming into contact with him. It’s better that she remains in a different building altogether. She has asthma. She could die.’

Archie still says nothing for almost a minute. Then he says, very quietly, ‘Perhaps that’s my point.’

Nicole frowns at him, a prickling sensation beginning at the back of her neck. ‘What are you saying?’

Archie looks at her straight in the eyes, then says, ‘I’m saying, perhaps a world without Mom wouldn’t be such a bad thing.’

TWENTY-TWO

NOAH

CHRISTMAS EVE 2026

Noah didn’t mean to go back to sleep after Turner’s call, but the combination of exasperation, stress and fear made his mind want to shut down. And so it did. When he eventually wakes, the sun is high in the sky, and the clock is telling him it’s 10.45 a.m. Not used to sleeping this late and unsure how to explain his absence – if at all – he quickly dresses and then heads downstairs. He had hoped to enact his plan to put some pressure on Archie early in the day – try to catch him off-guard over breakfast – but worries he’s now squandered this by sleeping in.

Rose is clearing away things from the table when Noah enters. Nicole and Cliff are nowhere to be seen, but to his surprise Archie is still there, dressed in exercise gear and sipping at a tumbler filled with some green-blue liquid.

‘That looks like an interesting breakfast,’ Noah remarks.

‘Apples, guava, spirulina, lime, mint and cucumber,’ he says, frowning, as if all those ingredients have upset him.

‘Is that what everyone’s having?’ Noah asks, sitting down.

‘No, it is not,’ says Rose, picking up a bowl that evidently contained Coco Pops, some still clinging to the edge of the bowl. Noah guesses it was probably Cliff’s. ‘It’s Archie’s post-exercise snack.’

Archie nods. ‘I have a pre-workout breakfast and a post-workout breakfast. This is the post.’

‘Well, that’s interesting,’ Noah says, then worries the words sound sarcastic. ‘Do you work out every morning?’ he adds, trying to appear friendlier.

Archie’s eyes narrow, as though he’s suspicious of the motives for such a question. ‘I exercise alone.’

Noah holds up his hands. ‘I wasn’t asking for an invite.’

A slice of toast lands on his plate without ceremony. ‘I’ve cleared away the jams, but there’s butter there,’ Rose says as she carries the now-empty toast rack away.

‘Just butter is fine,’ mumbles Noah. He scrapes some onto his toast and looks back at Archie, who is still scowling. ‘Did you manage to exercise much during lockdown?’

‘What?’ Archie’s voice is brusque.

‘I presume the annexe you were in didn’t have a home gym? That would have been up in the main house, wouldn’t it?’

Archie stays so still, it’s as though he’s been immobilised. He doesn’t blink. He seemingly doesn’t breathe. Then he says, very quietly, ‘Annexe?’

‘Yeah, the annexe,’ Noah says, keeping his tone light but firm. ‘Cliff mentioned it. Did you all stay there, or were you able to go back into the house for the gym? Or maybe you went for a run around the neighbourhood? After all, even though London was in lockdown, there was nothing to stop you leaving the annexe. I mean, for exercise?’

Archie doesn’t reply. He just gets up, gives Noah a look filled with suspicion and dislike, then leaves. He can be heard walking into the hallway and stomping up the stairs.

‘Well, that was painful to witness,’ Rose says, coming back out into the dining room.

Noah makes a noise of indignation. ‘I’ve been trying to seize opportunities where I see them – I thought that was one of them. I don’t believe for a moment Archie stayed put in that annexe the entire⁠—’

‘Shh,’ Rose says, and adds in a quiet voice, looking around, ‘Use some common sense, darling. We could be overheard here. We wouldn’t know if anyone came down the back stairs. Let’s go outside.’

‘In the snow?’ Noah says, looking out of the window.

‘It’s not heavy at the moment. But there’s a storm coming. It might be nice to get some fresh air while we still can.’

No sooner are they outside, however, dressed in thick winter coats and gloves, than the chance of privacy is dashed. Cliff is doing press-ups, followed by star jumps, just a short distance from the edge of the house, his actions disrupting the fresh carpet of snow.

‘Great, it’s your boyfriend,’ Rose says.

‘He’s not my boyfriend. I made it clear that you and I are a couple.’

‘How do you think that deception’s going so far?’

‘It’s not my fault you refuse to sleep in the same bed as me.’

‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ Rose snaps. ‘I told you to be seen sneaking out of my room.’

Noah lifts his arm to put it around her shoulders. ‘Fine, let’s look like a couple going on a romantic walk in the snow,’ he says. Rose makes a quick movement to her left, presumably to avoid him, but she stumbles and falls.

‘Ah, help,’ she says, trying to grab hold of him, but falling to the ground. There’s a thud, then Rose clasps her head. ‘Gosh, that hurt.’

‘Are you OK?’ Noah bends down to help her up.

‘I hit my head on something. A stone or a rock, perhaps,’ Rose mutters. ‘Careful, the ground’s uneven here.’

‘What’s going on?’ Cliff shouts. He runs over. ‘Rose, what happened?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, Cliff,’ she says, brushing snow away. ‘Just a little trip.’

‘Do you need a bandage or Band-Aid or something?’ he asks.

‘No, no, I’ve just…’ She brings her right hand up to her temple. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

‘Would you like some ibuprofen? I think I’ve got some in my coat.’

‘No,’ Rose says, shaking her head, then wincing.

‘Actually, maybe they’re not in this coat,’ Cliff says, hands rummaging in his pockets. ‘I might have some in my other one, though, it’s just in the hallway, I could run⁠—’

‘No, don’t, Cliff. Besides, I can’t take ibuprofen.’

‘Why?’ Cliff asks.

‘I can’t take any NSAIDs. I’m allergic.’

‘What’s an Ennis Ay-Eyedee?’ asks Cliff, sounding it out as though trying to comprehend a new foreign word.

‘A non-steroidal anti— Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Rose says, sounding annoyed now, turning on her heel and walking away from them both.

Noah isn’t sure if he should go after her or try to explain.

‘What happened?’ asks Cliff. He’s looking at Noah as though he’s confused about something.

‘She slipped.’

Cliff nods, slowly. ‘Yeah, it happens. I slipped earlier when I was doing star jumps. I try to exercise each day, but not as intensely as Archie. But I like to if I’m… not feeling great.’

Noah watches his face closely. ‘Why are you not feeling great?’

Cliff lets out a breath, the air misting around his mouth. ‘Oh, you know. Things.’ He takes a step towards Noah. ‘I enjoyed last night. Not that we… I just mean, I liked sleeping. With you.’

Despite Cliff’s multiple attempts at seduction, Noah is still surprised when the conversation takes a flirtatious turn. He coughs, awkwardly, and says, ‘Ah… well, that’s good.’

Cliff smiles, and there’s now a glint in his eyes. Not quite mischief, but Noah suspects he can see excitement, perhaps an idea forming within them.

‘Have you been to the outhouses? Come on, let me show you.’

He takes Noah by the arm and pulls. Bewildered but guessing what Cliff’s motive is, he follows.

The outhouses only become visible as they turn around the side of the property. Noah notices the French windows of the living room and, further on, the domed shape of the roof of the swimming pool area. Beyond them, down a steep slope, is a collection of buildings, two of them made of wood that Noah guesses must be sheds or storage rooms. The other is a redbrick property bigger than most people’s actual homes.

‘This place is cool,’ Cliff says as they reach the building’s entrance. He types in a code on a keypad. ‘I like to come here sometimes and hang out.’

Inside is a perfectly furnished homely interior, complete with sofas, a large TV, a kitchen with a fridge-freezer, kettle, coffee machine and a microwave. ‘I’ll put the heating on, warm the place up a bit.’ He reaches for a wall-mounted tablet and taps at it.

‘Who lives here?’ Noah asks.

Cliff shrugs. ‘Nobody, at the moment. Staff, back when there were some.’

Although Noah is well aware he lives in a property many would envy, he can’t help but feel appalled that a place like this should remain empty. ‘Surely your dad could rent out an annexe like this?’

Cliff’s head snaps around. ‘It’s not an annexe!’ He barks the words in a way that sounds more similar to Archie than Cliff’s usual casual tone, his face suddenly sharp, full of anger. A second later, he looks embarrassed at his reaction, and his expression softens. ‘I’m sorry, I meant… it’s an outhouse.’

‘OK,’ Noah says slowly. ‘It’s an outhouse.’

Cliff nods, but doesn’t say any more. He just thuds down on one of the sofas and looks at Noah. And Noah looks back at him.

Eventually, Cliff breaks the silence. ‘Sorry, man, I just want to chill. You could come and sit,’ he says, tapping the space next to him.

Noah hesitates. What does Cliff think is going to happen? That they are going to chat? Have sex? Or is there something else going on here? Why has Cliff brought him here, away from everyone else, into this empty building?

‘What’s wrong?’ Cliff asks. ‘Hey, I’ll turn the Christmas lights on. Make it cosy.’

He jumps up and switches on a plug at the wall. Noah hasn’t even realised there was a tree, fully decorated, with ornaments matching the ones up in the main house. ‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’ Cliff asks, though he doesn’t seem to expect a reply. ‘Come on, let’s get comfy.’ He begins to take off his coat. ‘Getting warm already, right?’

Noah hesitates for a few more seconds, then nods and removes his coat too. He thinks back to his conversation with Rose the night before, her criticisms of his investigation. He takes a deep breath, trying to get his brain in gear. He needs to stop allowing things to happen to him, he thinks. Needs to stop giving the Wentworth siblings the power to control every moment he spends with them. Casting aside – or at least parking – his previous doubts about the ethics of what he’s doing, he drops his coat onto the floor, then removes his jumper too. When that falls to the floor, he sees Cliff’s eyes widen.

‘What?’ Noah says. ‘It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

Cliff’s grin spreads wide across his face.

Twenty minutes later, Noah turns to look at Cliff next to him. They’re both on the floor, out of breath. Cliff’s still smiling, as though he’s just had the time of his life. Noah, on the other hand, is wondering if he’s becoming a terrible person. What the hell am I doing? he thinks as he gets up. You’re playing the game, another little voice replies in his head. And he’s not sure he likes the voice.

‘Hey, where you going?’ Cliff murmurs. ‘Can’t we… maybe do it again?’

‘Won’t the others wonder where we are?’ Noah says, feeling a little light-headed. He stares out of the window, but the snow is becoming so thick that he can only just about make out the main house at the top of the slope.

‘Nah, they don’t care what I get up to,’ Cliff says. ‘Unless you’re worried about Rose?’

Noah glances at him.

Cliff pulls himself up onto his elbows. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that, like, badly,’ he says.

Noah forces himself to smile. ‘I know you didn’t. There’s not a bad bone in your body, is there?’

Cliff smiles back. Then something changes in his expression, the corners of his mouth receding. ‘I… What do you mean?’

Noah shrugs. ‘I just mean that you’re a good guy. I couldn’t imagine you ever being mean to anyone. Or doing anything bad.’

Cliff looks away. Then, in an abrupt movement, he gets to his feet, turning his back on Noah. He snatches up his underpants from the floor and pulls them on. ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep…’ He closes his mouth and doesn’t finish the sentence.

‘Keep what?’ Noah asks. ‘What do you wish I wouldn’t do, Cliff?’

Cliff picks up his jeans and continues to dress in silence, eyes determinedly on the floor.

‘Come on, Cliff. Talk.’ Noah gives the instruction bluntly, hoping it will spur Cliff on. And it does.

‘You keep fucking mentioning stuff,’ Cliff says, spinning around to face him. ‘Like… like what we were talking about last night. About my mom. Lockdown in the annexe. And you called this place an annexe, earlier.’

Noah shrugs. ‘Well, it sort of is, to be fair.’

‘But you don’t need to say it!’ Cliff’s voice is unnaturally high, now, and his tanned skin is paling by the second. ‘It’s not something I like to think about, and your questions sort of, like, made it the main thing I thought about when I woke up this morning. And when a day starts badly, it can be hard to… you know. I couldn’t stop it, the thoughts going round and round when I was in the shower. It was bad.’ He pauses for breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, then says, ‘I have things I try, like I said, that usually work. But for some reason, they weren’t working.’

Noah’s surprised by this outpouring of detail, but he recovers quickly. ‘Well, I’m sorry I caused that. It wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to show some interest. A lot has happened since we hooked up at uni, so I wanted to catch up. In one way or another.’ He tries again to make light of the situation, gesturing at the scattered cushions and his clothes still on the floor. ‘I’m glad we did. I’ve had fun since I got here.’ The weight of the lie is so strong, Noah feels almost dizzy as he says it.

‘Sure,’ Cliff says. ‘But, like… why? Why were you asking all that stuff? This isn’t a book thing, is it? Nicole said at breakfast that you’d written a book, and she wondered if this was you doing research and shit, so you can write another one. “True crime”, I think she called it. You know, podcasts and Netflix and shit, but, like, as a book?’

Noah shakes his head. ‘I’m not writing a book. You can be certain of that.’

Cliff nods, slowly. He is more pensive than Noah’s seen him before, and he isn’t sure if this is encouraging or worrying. He walks away from the window and begins to get dressed.

‘I had Covid, you see,’ Cliff says after nearly a minute of silence. ‘Back then. When Mom died… I didn’t want to infect her, so I didn’t go back to the house. I didn’t want to infect her.’

Noah raises his eyebrows at the repeated phrase. ‘Right. Well, that’s very honourable.’

‘Yeah,’ Cliff says, nodding faster now. ‘It was best to just stay in the annexe. She said she wanted us to stay there. She sent us there… I didn’t want to infect her, so I stayed.’

Hearing him say the same words – I didn’t want to infect her – for a third time makes the back of Noah’s neck prickle. Is Cliff saying what he thinks Noah wants to hear, or what he himself needs to hear?

Or, perhaps, what he’s been told to say.

Noah decides to aim for a pleasant, conversational response to this. ‘When I had Covid, I think it was the September of 2021, my mum would put food on the landing and I came out and got it only when she’d gone back downstairs. We found ways to cope without her or my stepfather catching it. It was a bit of a hassle, but I guess a little bit of inconvenience isn’t a large price to pay to protect someone we love.’

Even though Noah keeps his voice fairly light, Cliff’s brow creases again. Perhaps it’s the reference to love. His interest piqued, Noah’s about to ask about this when Cliff picks up his coat and says, ‘Come on. Let’s head back.’ He nods at Noah’s jacket on the floor. ‘Don’t forget yours. It’s getting colder out there.’

Cliff’s right. After only a few seconds outside, Noah’s face is stinging and he begins to fantasise about a warm shower, or perhaps even a hot bath, the moment they’re inside. But after initiating their departure from the warm comfort of the outhouse, Cliff seems in no hurry to get back. He walks a little to the right of Noah, further down the slope and towards the sea, where the snow-covered grass turns into rocks leading down to the water. The tide is going out, the snaking causeway just about visible behind the curtain of falling snow. Noah watches Cliff looking out at the receding waves, the silence filled by the strengthening wind. Then Cliff says, ‘Maybe if I hadn’t gotten sick, Mom wouldn’t have died… but I didn’t want to infect her.’

Noah walks up closer to him and says, gently, ‘Yes. You said that already. Four times, now. Why is that detail important to you?’ When Cliff doesn’t answer, he presses further. ‘It feels like you’re telling me an “official version” rather than your version. Why don’t you tell me your version of what happened, Cliff? The true version. You might feel better if you shared it with someone. Someone who wasn’t there that week in 2020, someone who doesn’t have skin in the game, if that makes sense.’

Cliff’s expression suggests it doesn’t make sense. And not only that, he seems to find Noah’s words disturbing. ‘I told you what happened. I don’t think I want to speak about it anymore. Mom died of dehydration, not Covid.’

Noah nods. ‘And that means it wasn’t your fault?’

‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Cliff shouts. His voice carries, echoing around them as though it’s been picked up by the wind, and instead of getting lost amidst the ambient sound, has been magnified by it.

Noah puts a hand on Cliff’s arm. ‘I’m not saying it was.’

Cliff opens his mouth, as though he’s about to say something, something huge, something he really wants to say but has been holding back all this time. Then he closes his mouth and mutters, ‘I need to go back inside.’

Noah watches him crunch away through the deepening snow, frustrated, disappointed, but feeling that he might, at last, be getting somewhere.

TWENTY-THREE

NOAH

CHRISTMAS EVE 2026

Noah keeps to himself for the remaining daylight hours of Christmas Eve. He goes for a swim, the pool area deserted, although at one point he sees Nicole look in briefly, notice him treading water in the deep end, and then promptly withdraw. He tries calling after her, wondering if she’d be more open to talking if it was just the two of them, but she doesn’t stop.

After his swim, he returns to his room, opens a Word doc and creates three sections, one for each sibling, then notes down everything he can remember them saying that might be relevant to his task. Everything Cliff might have let slip, every evasion or aggressive retort Archie may have said, even Nicole’s unsettling comment: I know why you’re here, Noah. And it isn’t going to work.

Does she really know why he’s here? Has she put two and two together? Or does she suspect him of something else? Like trying to win her back. He’s so caught up in his deliberations, it’s 6 p.m. when he next looks at the clock and the scent of cooking begins floating upstairs.

He heads down towards the kitchens and finds Rose taking out a very large dish of macaroni cheese. ‘Smells amazing,’ he says. ‘I could smell it from my room.’

‘It’s the air vents,’ Rose explains, setting the dish down on the side. ‘You’re directly above. I could have done with some help earlier, in fact.’

Noah shifts awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, I keep forgetting you’re down here alone. I’ve been thinking about things.’

Rose either isn’t interested or doesn’t feel this is the time to examine whatever ‘things’ these might be. Instead, she instructs him to take a basket of garlic bread and a large sun-dried tomato flatbread on a wooden board out to the dining room.

‘Interesting meal for Christmas Eve,’ he comments.

‘Macaroni cheese is tradition,’ says a female voice behind him. Nicole has appeared in the doorway. She’s still clutching her enormous copy of Clarissa and sets it down, splayed open, on the table as she takes her seat.

Cliff and Archie amble through the archway from the living room area. ‘Yeah, mac and cheese!’ Cliff says, sounding a lot happier and relaxed compared to earlier. ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without mac and cheese! Although Chelsea says it wrong. She misses out the “and” because she’s so English.’ He mimics her accent on the last two words. Nicole ignores this completely.

The men settle on either side of the table. Rose takes her seat at the head, at the opposite end to Nicole, and Noah sits next to Cliff, who acknowledges him with a smile but avoids eye contact.

‘It’s weird Dad not being here,’ Cliff says, just before he pops a mouthful of pasta into his mouth.

‘Quieter,’ says Archie.

‘Yeah!’ agrees Cliff. ‘But still feels like Christmas, though. I worried it wouldn’t, at first, but it still does.’

Archie clearly doesn’t deem this sort of sentimental comment worthy of a response. Silence falls amongst them, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the occasional page-turn from Nicole’s book.

They’re halfway through the meal when things become heated. Archie looks at Noah directly and says, in a stern voice, ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

If there was any sense of festive enjoyment around the table before that point, his words dissolve it within seconds.

Noah’s fork slips from his hand and falls on his plate with a clatter. It’s as if everyone else at the table is holding their breath, waiting to see how he’ll respond.

‘Sorry?’ Noah says. ‘I don’t understand.’ The lie doesn’t sound convincing, and he knows it.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Archie says. When Noah opens his mouth and starts repeating that he doesn’t understand, Archie cuts him off, his previously quiet tone getting louder. ‘No, cut the bullshit, Myers, what are you doing? And you know exactly what I mean, so don’t try any pathetic excuses to dodge the question.’

Silence follows for a few tense seconds. To buy some time and appear more relaxed than he feels, Noah pops a chunk of garlic bread into his mouth, then regrets it when he starts to choke. After a bout of coughing, Cliff starts to slap him on the back.

‘Leave him,’ Archie snaps at his brother.

‘What? Leave me to die?’ Noah says hoarsely, raising his eyebrows. ‘Is that what you mean, Archie?’

Archie points at Noah with his knife. ‘This. This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. That was a barely veiled reference to our mom’s death, wasn’t it?’

Noah holds up his hands. ‘I didn’t say anything about your mother, I was talking about me choking.’

‘Not working, Myers. Not fucking working!’ Archie waves the knife in a circular motion. ‘I’ve caught you in the act.’

Noah coughs again, his throat still feeling scratched and sore. ‘Can you please stop calling me by my surname and swearing while pointing a knife at me? It’s rather aggressive.’

Archie lets the knife fall. Noah sees fragments of cheese-covered macaroni smear across the red tablecloth. ‘Why do you keep bringing up Mom, and lockdown, and Christmas 2020?’ Archie says. ‘It’s so embarrassingly obvious what you’re doing. You’ve tried to get me to talk about it, you’ve been giving Cliff the third degree, apparently.’ He nods at his brother, as though expecting him to pipe up to corroborate this. Cliff doesn’t talk. He just lowers his chin and squints his eyes, looking confused, as though he’s trying to follow a foreign language film without subtitles. ‘Cliff!’ Archie shouts. ‘Talk!’

‘Archie, darling, please,’ Rose says softly. ‘Stop shouting at everyone. Let us eat our meal in peace. I know you’re upset that your father isn’t here⁠—’

‘This hasn’t got anything to do with Dad, this is all about him!’ Archie says, now pointing with his finger.

The irony of these words does something to Noah, his anger and frustration rising. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ he snaps.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ says Archie.

‘I’m saying, your dad invited me here. I’m here because of your father.’

‘Because he’s so happy about our little relationship,’ chips in Rose in a happy tone that sounds so fake, Noah presumes it must be intentional.

‘Be quiet,’ Archie barks at her, his face becoming strained. Noah notices Rose flush and bite her lip. She obviously doesn’t like being yelled at by Archie any more than he does, but she doesn’t respond. Archie seems oblivious, his attention still on Noah. ‘He’s been asking weird questions, trying to find things out. He’s been questioning me, questioning Cliff, he’ll probably start on Nicole next, if he hasn’t already.’ Archie thuds the table with a clenched fist. ‘Tell me, Noah Myers, why are you obsessed with our mother’s death? Why are you dredging up our memories of the past, memories we’d rather forget? And don’t give me any nonsense about Dad wanting you to be here. I want to know the truth. Why are you really with us here on Liar’s Island?’

Noah doesn’t attempt to answer any of these questions. Instead, he glances at Nicole at the other end of the table. She has Clarissa open, one hand on the book, the other holding a fork, although its journey to her mouth appears to have been paused. She’s watching the drama unfold, her expression typically unreadable.

‘How about you, Nicole?’ Archie says, also staring at her. ‘Has he asked you about Mom?’

‘You’re being very loud, Archie,’ Nicole says, her voice calm and quiet. ‘You’re distracting me from my book.’

‘I want to know what’s happening!’ Archie says, now sounding almost hysterical.

‘Well,’ Nicole says, putting down her fork. ‘Lovelace has taken Clarissa to a brothel, defiled her, and as a result, she’s steadily going mad and is currently begging to be admitted to an asylum. She hopes to die in peace there.’

She says all this in a calm, almost bored voice that seems to enrage her brother even further. ‘I don’t mean what’s happening in your bloody book, Nicole! What’s happening here?’ He jabs a finger again at Noah, then makes a sweeping motion over to Rose. ‘They are not a couple. It just can’t be true.’

‘Why can’t it be true, darling?’ Rose says.

‘How can you…? Why are you…?’ Archie seems to be struggling with his emotions, and for the first time since his loud diatribe began, Noah wonders if there’s another level to this outburst he isn’t quite understanding.

Then, still keeping her voice quiet and calm, Nicole says, ‘Isn’t it obvious, Archie? I think it’s plain to see why Noah’s on this island. He’s here to catch a murderer.’

Archie moves his gaze from Rose to his sister. He looks back at Noah, unbridled fury visible in his eyes, then storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

‘I think I touched a nerve,’ says Nicole. Then, with a quick glance over at Noah, she picks up her book and returns to her reading.

Nobody says anything about Archie’s accusation for the remainder of the meal. In fact, nobody says anything at all, although Noah spends each second of silence wondering if the mantle will be picked up by one of the other siblings. But neither speaks. Rose, meanwhile, seems content to sip at her glass of red wine and clear away the food once everyone has finished eating.

‘We need to watch Home Alone!’ Cliff says when he rises from the table, breaking the silence at last. ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’

‘I’m not sure I feel like it,’ Nicole says, not looking up from her reading.

‘It’s tradition!’ Cliff says with a little bounce. ‘Come on, we watch it every year. Except… oh come on, Chelsea. We’ll have some popcorn or mince pies and it will be fun. It will.’ Those last two words aren’t said with much confidence, but Noah can’t help but admire Cliff’s attempts to resurrect the spirit of Christmas Eve amidst the awkwardness and anguish. Anguish that Noah’s presence has caused.

‘Fine,’ Nicole says, picking up her enormous book with a sigh. As she passes Noah, she taps him on the shoulder. ‘You should come too. Don’t go back upstairs, not unless you want to become Archie’s next murder victim.’

This makes Noah get to his feet very quickly, his head snapping round to look at Nicole. ‘What did you say?’

She looks almost amused. ‘That was a joke. Don’t get carried away.’

‘Not a very funny one,’ mumbles Cliff. He then busies himself trying to find Home Alone on a streaming service. Once located, they sit and watch it without speaking, Rose coming in once and offering everyone mince pies. Noah declines, feeling too on edge to eat anything more. Nicole also shakes her head, barely looking up from her book. Cliff, on the other hand, eats three, unbothered by the pastry crumbs that fleck his hoodie as he chuckles at the film.

About halfway through, the internet cuts out, and despite Rose and Cliff’s efforts, can’t seem to be brought back to life. ‘It might come back on,’ Rose says. ‘It’s probably the storm. I’m tempted to have a soak in the bath with a copy of Vogue and nice gin.’

‘No, don’t go, we still have power, we can watch the rest of the movie!’ Cliff says. ‘We can’t just see half of Home Alone!’ He then spends a good fifteen minutes searching for a Blu-ray copy that he’s certain must be around somewhere. When his search in the white cabinets and shelves that line the living room proves futile, he heads upstairs, against Nicole’s advice, to ask his brother if he’s seen it anywhere. To Noah’s dismay, he returns with Archie in tow, who pulls out the same drawers and examines the same shelves that Cliff searched moments before to equally fruitless results. Home Alone is then abandoned in favour of a terrestrial TV showing of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Cliff seems to find the film hilarious, practically crying with laughter. Everyone else watches in humourless silence, interspersed with occasional cheery and festive comments from Archie, like ‘This movie is made for lonely losers’ and, during one of the numerous ad breaks, ‘Why do all the people in commercials in this country look like fucking weirdos?’ When Rose suggests he go back upstairs if he isn’t enjoying the experience, he takes out his phone and begins reading something intently.

‘Well, I’m going to have that bath,’ Rose says eventually. ‘Or perhaps just head to bed. I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m not finding this very Christmassy. Don’t wake me when you come up, Noah. Stay in your room.’

Noah, who was lost in thought, looks up at her in confusion, then says, awkwardly, ‘Oh, er, yeah, sure.’

When the credits roll half an hour later, Noah is about to get up and say he feels like having another early night too. But Archie has other ideas.

‘I had read hundreds of detective mysteries,’ he says, getting to his feet, holding his phone close, reading from its screen. ‘I knew deep down I was the right person to catch this murderer. When I became suspicious, I started to keep notes about motives. I began to compile lists of lies, things my fellow students told me that I knew absolutely could not be true. I began to think like a detective, not a student – a bloodhound picking up the scent. The scent of deception. The scent of crime.’

Noah feels himself growing cold as he realises he recognises the words.

‘The scent of murder. I knew the police had overlooked vital evidence and felt strongly that someone should take up the mantle. Someone should make sure justice was done. And eventually I came to the conclusion that that person would have to be me. Nobody else was going to do it. Nobody else believed me when I aired my concerns. The weight of justice is a heavy one to bear. It’s a huge responsibility. But I was up to the task. I was going to find the guilty party. The murderer, or murderers, who perpetrated this dreadful act.’

‘What is this?’ Cliff asks, frowning at his brother.

‘Archie, please stop,’ Noah says, standing up.

‘This is from his fucking book,’ Archie says. ‘I downloaded it when I was upstairs. And it’s goddam enlightening.’

Cliff has gone pale. He looks at Noah as though he’s done him a terrible wrong. ‘But… but you said you weren’t writing a book.’

‘I’m not!’ Noah says, his voice tight and screechy with stress. ‘I wrote that years ago, that’s my first – my only book – and as I keep telling anyone who will listen, I didn’t even write it myself! They got a ghostwriter who did all these interviews and then wrote them up in a highly sensational way.’

‘Spare us the false modesty,’ Archie sneers. ‘You’re just embarrassed I’ve put two and two together. Or rather, Nicole did. She was on to you from the start, worked out exactly why you’re here and my God, she was right.’

Noah looks over at Nicole, who is watching the exchange with a blank expression.

‘This is proof,’ Archie continues triumphantly. ‘This book is the fucking proof. And, by the way, the writing’s crap.’

‘Oh, you’re now a literary critic, are you?’ Noah says, feeling anger rising within him.

‘I don’t need to be. You’re not the only fucking bloodhound here, Myers. I know exactly what you are. You’re here to rake over our tragedy and try to make money off it. You’re a fucking failure. A poor, snivelling little failure and a parasite. And do you know what, I’ve had enough. Get out.’

Noah blinks at him. ‘What?’

‘You heard. Get the fuck out of my house.’

‘It isn’t your house,’ Noah says.

‘My father’s not here, I’m the eldest, therefore it’s my house and my island, so I say who stays and who goes.’

Nicole stands. ‘Slow down, Archie. This isn’t going to help matters.’

Archie ignores her. ‘Get the fuck out!’ he screams in Noah’s face. Then, when he doesn’t move, he grabs Noah by the lapels of his shirt and begins to drag him towards the French windows.

‘Hey, get off me!’ Noah shouts at him.

‘Archie, I don’t think—’ Cliff says, looking panicked.

‘You’re fucking gone, Myers. Fucking gone. Get out.’ He opens one of the doors and cold air billows into the room, rippling the curtains.

Before he’s even properly registered what’s happening, Noah feels himself falling, his body weightless and then thudding onto the frozen ground, snow filling his eyes, nostrils and mouth.

‘Hey!’ he shouts. He tries to get to his feet, but he tips to his side and begins to roll down the slope, away from the house. He shoots out his hand, trying to find something to hold onto, but there’s only powdery snow. For a few seconds, he wonders if he’s going to roll all the way down to the edge of the island and into the sea. Or even worse, be impaled on the sharp rocks that line the edge of the land. But before either of these things happens he comes to a stop as the ground levels out.

‘Hey!’ he shouts again, stumbling and sliding. He’s almost brought himself up to standing when his foot fails to make purchase on an uneven part of ground and he falls backwards.

A sharp pain seems to crack through his entire being.

He’s killed me, he thinks as the pain reaches its peak. They’ve done it. They’ve killed me.

Then there’s blackness.

TWENTY-FOUR

NOAH

CHRISTMAS EVE 2026

The siblings haven’t killed him. Noah realises this when he blinks open his snow-encrusted eyelids – not that he can see anything. He sits up, feeling the crunch of snow but also something else. Something wooden. In the darkness, he makes out a crate. And something large. A vehicle, perhaps. No, a lawnmower. One of the big ones that someone would ride around while it mows the grass.

Where is he?

How did he get here?

He hit his head, he remembers that. He fell over in the snow, then there was a sharp pain and then… nothing.

But the more he blinks in the darkness, the more he remembers a sensation. A sensation amidst the nothing, crawling, hands frozen, arms stinging, dragging himself through the snow. Perhaps he crawled here himself? The more he thinks, the more he remembers. He thinks he may have intended to shelter in one of the outbuildings he and Cliff visited earlier. But he didn’t know the code. So he tried the door to this place. The shed. Let himself in and collapsed onto the floor.

What happened to him?

His head hurts, his jumper is covered in snow, frozen flakes still sticking to the wool, his body heat not yet melting them.

Crunch. Crunch. Thud.

He feels dizzy. But he can certainly hear the noises. Like someone walking through the snow. And perhaps the thud is someone going back inside the house. He can’t be sure.

But he knows now it isn’t the first time he’s heard the crunch of footsteps nearby. He heard those sounds shortly after the pain in his head.

Did he really fall? Or was he pushed? Or, even worse, hit? Did someone follow him outside and hit him over the head? Perhaps Archie followed him, and not content with throwing him out to potentially let him die of exposure, he decided to finish the job in a more definite way.

But Noah’s still here, trapped in this gardener’s storage shed.

He has a sudden image of a man in wellington boots and an anorak opening the doors come spring to get out the lawnmower and finding a corpse perched atop the little vehicle like some weird display at an exhibition. Killed by the cold. Or dead from dehydration.

Just like Marguerite.

‘No,’ Noah says out loud. No, he isn’t going to end up like Marguerite. That isn’t going to be his fate. He’s going to press on. He’s going to find out what’s going on here. And he’s going to get free.

But first, he needs to sleep. If he doesn’t sit back down, he’s going to fall, and the thought of more pain makes him feel nauseous. He curls up on the gritty, dusty floor and closes his eyes.

He isn’t sure how long he sleeps for. It could be three minutes or three hours. He does have time to dream, though. He dreams of his mother, spending Christmas Day in a New York hotel, wondering why he hasn’t messaged or phoned her to say merry Christmas. He then imagines a waiter bringing the wine to her table in the restaurant where she’s having dinner with his stepfather, but it isn’t a waiter – it’s Mark Stone. And he’s holding a gun. ‘Your son didn’t fulfil his task,’ he says in his calm, quiet voice before he aims the gun at her head. But before the scene can escalate, the picture swims and reforms into a desert landscape. An archaeological site in Baghdad, where his stepsister is examining fragments of pottery that she’s unearthed from the ground. She’s ushered away to show her find to one of the dig’s sponsors, who is sitting in a nearby cave atop a large lawnmower. ‘What’s about to happen is all Noah’s fault,’ Turner Wentworth says to Ruby. ‘You were right when you told him he would amount to nothing.’ Then there’s the sound of a gunshot.

‘No!’ Noah yells. He starts flailing on the floor, uncoiling himself, hitting out. For a few moments, he wonders if he, too, is in that desert cave, and he is about to see Turner Wentworth staring down from his seat on the lawnmower next to him. But he’s alone.

One thing catches his attention, though, dragging him back to the here and now. When he kicked out during waking, his frozen foot collided with the door. And the door opened. He isn’t trapped as he first suspected. If he hadn’t collapsed into a fitful sleep, he would have found out very quickly his escape was easy, and he’s furious with himself for not trying the handle sooner.

Cautiously, swaying slightly, he walks to the doorway and looks outside. The snow is so thick, the wind so strong, he has to resist closing the door again. But he can’t stay here. He doesn’t know how long he’s been away from the house, and much longer in the cold could be life-threatening.

But returning to the house could be too, says a little voice in his head.

If he’s right in his suspicions, someone attacked him earlier and, presumably, left him for dead. Is it foolish to return to the building where that very person, whoever he or she may be, is residing at this very moment?

Feeling at a loss and close to hopeless, he takes a step out of the shed. His feet are already like heavy blocks of ice, and as they make contact with the snow, he realises he just has his socks on. Archie, of course, didn’t pause Noah’s expulsion so he could nip off and get his shoes. No wonder his feet are in such agony, he thinks, as he treads towards the house. Its outline looks bleak and ominous against the deep-red night sky. Noah has always found it strange that the sky goes red sometimes when it snows, though he has never thought to find out why. He hopes, though, that it’s a sign the storm might abate soon and he’ll be able to leave this island. Run away, perhaps. Call the police. Go into hiding. In truth, he doesn’t know what he’ll do or if he’ll be allowed to do it.

Before he reaches the house, he turns to look out at the sea, but there isn’t anything to see. Through the snow and the darkness, there’s just a dark-red abyss of nothingness. Whether the causeway is covered or just invisible, he has no idea. Not that he’d be able to walk all the way to the mainland in his socks. There’s a searing pain in his ankles, and he returns to his steady trudge towards the French windows of the living room.

‘Hey!’ he shouts, or tries to shout, but it comes out like a formless, strangled cry. The sound disturbs him, but he carries on. ‘Hey! Please, let me in! Let me in!’ He hammers on the door. Then again. And again. He’s about to try and find a way to break the glass without injuring himself when he sees movement. Someone coming towards the French windows.

Noah can’t make out who it is at first, but he can tell that the figure is male. For one terrible moment, he thinks it’s Archie, but with relief realises it’s Cliff. He doesn’t turn on the main light, but opts for a table lamp. He’s wearing a white Nike vest and lime-green briefs – and a very worried expression.

‘Come in quickly,’ he says as soon as he opens the door.

Noah doesn’t need any encouragement. He collapses onto the sofa in the same spot where he was sitting watching the film – an experience that now feels like a lifetime ago.

‘God, Cliff, I thought I was going to die,’ Noah says, bending down to rub at his feet.

‘No, no, don’t sit down,’ Cliff says hurriedly. ‘Archie might see.’

‘So what? He might try to kill me again? At least I’ll be more comfortable this time!’ Noah hisses at him as he takes off one of his socks. He half expects his foot to be dark purple. But he struggles to see anything very worrying – perhaps the skin looks a bit red, but that’s it.

‘I don’t think you should joke about that. We should go upstairs,’ Cliff says, making a beckoning motion. ‘Please, come on.’

Noah is starting to shake, a rushing pins-and-needles feeling enveloping his whole body. ‘You look scared, Cliff,’ he says through chattering teeth. ‘Is that because you know Archie just tried to kill me?’ He reaches for one of the throws lying over the sofa arm and pulls it around himself. ‘Or is it because you think he might do it again?’

Cliff keeps looking around him, then leaps forward and grabs Noah’s shoulder. ‘Come on, please.’ He pulls him up.

Noah doesn’t have the energy to argue further. ‘We’ll go up the back stairs,’ Cliff says.

Noah feels lightheaded as they walk. He thinks about the words ‘back stairs’ and how the phrase reminds him of the servants’ quarters in Downton Abbey. When Cliff says, ‘I’ve never seen it,’ he realises he’s said this out loud without meaning to.

The stairs come out onto a corridor, and at first Noah isn’t sure where he is, then he realises it’s the one on the first floor where his room is. Cliff doesn’t walk in that direction, though – he leads Noah into his own bedroom, whispering, ‘Come in here.’ Inside, Cliff pulls the duvet off his bed and starts to wrap it around Noah’s shoulders. Noah almost laughs at this clumsy attempt at kindness.

‘I think I should lose the sodden clothes first,’ Noah says, aware the central heating has melted all the snow into his jumper and jeans. He begins to take off his jumper, but when its neck goes over his head, he gasps with pain. ‘Ah, God,’ he says, lowering it back down.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I…’ Noah’s about to say, ‘Someone hit me,’ but something stops him. ‘I fell.’ This is true, at least. It is what came after it that worries him.

‘Here, I’ll help,’ Cliff says, stepping forward. He pushes the duvet back onto the bed and helps Noah out of his jumper without it pressing on whatever wound there is at the back of his head. He asks Cliff if he can see a cut or a bruise, and Cliff confirms there is one, but small. ‘Want me to get the first aid box?’ he asks. ‘Although I think it will probably be in the bathroom next to Archie’s room… and that might not be the best place to go…’

‘It’s fine, so long as I’m not leaking gallons of blood or anything.’ Noah isn’t sure if it’s fine or if he’s being wildly irresponsible not insisting on medical treatment. But really, he thinks as he sits on the bed and Cliff helps him out of his jeans, what sort of help could he hope for? He doesn’t know if the causeway is blocked off by the water, and even if it isn’t, it would be perilous for a vehicle to try and make its way across that unlit, winding track at night in the middle of a blizzard. The same with an air ambulance. And on top of all that, how would he manage to access emergency help without alerting everyone else in the house that he has found his way back inside?

But they’ll find out eventually, he thinks. Whether tonight or tomorrow, everyone will know he’s here. And their reactions will be interesting to witness.

‘You can get under the covers,’ Cliff says.

If he weren’t still shaking, Noah would have raised an eyebrow at Cliff at this. Anything to get him into bed, he thinks, as he does as Cliff suggests. Cliff gets in next to him and, as Noah predicts, cuddles up close. He doesn’t object. He’s grateful for the body heat, his skin now oddly fizzy on the surface, his legs no longer both painfully heavy and weightless at the same time, the feeling coming back into them as the seconds tick on.

‘Tell me about Archie,’ Noah says, trying to slow his breaths. ‘What happened after he threw me out?’

Cliff pauses, then says quietly, ‘He got angry. Like, really, really angry. More angry than I’ve seen him before. He said… he said you were going to ruin everything.’ He winces after he says this – a sound as though he’s touched a wound, and Noah sits up.

‘What do you mean, ruin everything?’

Again, Cliff doesn’t reply straight away. Then he says, ‘Archie made it sound important that you stayed outside. I told him that we should let you in, but he turned the lights off and said we needed to go to bed. He got, like, really nasty and started saying shit… things about…’

‘About what happened to your mother?’ Noah asks.

Cliff doesn’t confirm this. Instead, he says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come down sooner. I was going to go out looking for you once Archie fell asleep. But it wasn’t long after he turned his light off that you came knocking. I didn’t want to make him angry again. But I knew you shouldn’t be out there in this storm.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Noah says. ‘I can’t believe you just went upstairs and left me there. Left me out there to die, Cliff. Could you really have done that?’

Have you done that before? is the unspoken question that hangs in the air.

‘But I didn’t, did I?’ Cliff says. ‘You’re here now.’

‘Well,’ Noah says, letting out a breath. ‘I can’t argue with that. But I could have died of a concussion or exposure after my fall. That would have been on you all. You and Nicole didn’t throw me out, but you didn’t help.’ He feels anger rise inside him. The more his body recalibrates, the more human he feels. And the more human he feels, the less he wants to rest, to just lie here and let things happen to him. He needs to do something. He starts to swing his legs out of the bed.

‘Where are you going?’ Cliff says, pulling himself up quickly. Noah glances at him, and even in the darkness, he can see the panic on his face.

‘Something’s going on here. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’

‘No, no, please,’ Cliff says, crawling across the bed to Noah’s side and putting his hands on his shoulder, trying to pull him back. ‘Just go to sleep, leave everything as it is. This is Christmas Eve, everyone’s supposed to be happy.’ He says this last sentence in a strange, muttered sort of way that makes Noah wonder if he’s talking more to himself than to him.

Noah doesn’t get up, but instead reaches out and hits the switch that illuminates the mini chandelier on the ceiling. He turns around so he can survey Cliff properly. ‘Sometimes I think you know all about it, Cliff. Sometimes I think the whole sibling animosity thing isn’t as simple as it looks. And that I’m falling right into some kind of trap.’

Cliff shakes his head vehemently. ‘Don’t think that. Please, please, don’t think that. Just stop talking, stop asking questions, just… just stop, Noah.’ He moves close, his hands adding more pressure to Noah’s shoulder. ‘Can’t you be more like you used to be?’

‘What? You mean over ten years ago?’

‘Yeah, you were cool, man.’ His hand runs down Noah’s torso. He knows where this is heading, and he’s not having any of it. He purposefully takes Cliff’s hand away.

‘Yes, I’ve been a little bit too cool, recently. And you’re not going to distract me, not this time.’ When Cliff tries to put his hands on him again, he pulls himself roughly away. ‘Fuck’s sake, this is weird. Can’t you see that? This is weird behaviour.’

‘You seemed to enjoy it earlier when we⁠—’

‘But that was a way of distracting me again, wasn’t it? Distracting me from something you almost let me get near, but then the shutters come up. Which makes me think I’m getting close to something terrible, Cliff.’

‘Please, don’t, please, don’t,’ Cliff says. ‘Keep your voice down. If Archie or Nicole hear…’

‘What will happen? Will they hurt you? Hurt me? Kill me?’ He leans forward, trying to look into Cliff’s eyes. ‘Which one of you did the killing, Cliff? Which one of you knew your mother was in that attic and pulled that ladder away? Which one of you killed her? Which one of you snuck outside tonight and tried to kill me?’

Cliff’s eyes are wide, staring at Noah in a pleading, desperate way that’s almost painful to witness. He opens his mouth, and for a second, Noah thinks he’s about to say something. Something incendiary.

But before he can say it, a scream cuts through the night.

TWENTY-FIVE

NICOLE

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

Nicole lies awake in her room, unable to quiet her mind. It’s gone midnight. Technically Christmas Day, but Nicole doesn’t feel the least bit festive. Archie’s behaviour with Noah was unpleasant to witness, as was Cliff’s borderline meltdown as a result. Cliff was openly sobbing as he went up to bed, as though Archie had murdered Noah in some brutal and perverse way in front of him, rather than just chucked him out of the house. She doesn’t worry too much about Noah being outside. He’ll seek shelter in one of the sheds and outbuildings, of which there are many, and then come back in the next morning feeling sorry for himself. Or he’ll try and break in and set off the security system. That would probably enrage Archie again. After that, goodness knows what he’d do.

It would be inconvenient if Archie should turn violent, but in all honesty, it wouldn’t change her life that much. Unless…

Unless he talks too much, she thinks to herself as she closes her eyes and tries to will sleep to come. Because when Archie’s angry, he talks.

She turns over onto her side and feels the sharp corner of her copy of Clarissa jab into her chin. With a sigh, she turns on her bedside lamp and tries to read, but the words swim in front of her eyes, and she gives up after fifteen minutes. Restless and uncomfortable, Nicole pulls on her dressing gown and opens the door, considering going downstairs and making herself a hot drink. She sees a light underneath the master bedroom door – Rose’s room. She wonders about talking to Rose, perhaps getting her view on Archie’s outburst. Considering Rose is allegedly Noah’s girlfriend, perhaps she should know that her toyboy is currently outside braving a blizzard alone. Then she decides to leave things be and returns to her bed.

Even though she knows Noah is outside, thoughts of him and Rose linger. Rogue images of them together float into her mind, Noah doing his best to pleasure Rose in the oh-so-attentive way he used to make love to her, all those years ago. Not that she believes they’re a couple. Archie’s right about that. It doesn’t make any sense. And she’s not going to be tricked into swallowing whatever strange lies the two of them have cooked up. Although she has to admit, she isn’t exactly an expert when it comes to spotting love or affection. Her parents saw to that. She remembers, growing up, observing the cruel games her mother and father would play, the digs, the worsening hatred and bitterness, the savage criticism of each other. A feeling that she was witnessing two clever and determined people turning on each other in a way that was different to the divorces of some of her schoolfriends’ parents. The main difference, of course, was that her parents never actually divorced. And she never really understood why, though suspected it had something to do with neither of them wanting to admit that they’d failed. That the union was a mistake from the start.

Deciding that rumination on her difficult upbringing isn’t going to solve anything, she steers her mind back to the problems of the present. She isn’t entirely sure what’s going on, but she’s fairly certain it’s got something to do with her father, especially after Noah’s little hint at dinner earlier. I’m here because of your father. Nicole’s irritated with herself for not scrutinising this statement more at the time, but Archie was very much holding court, and she didn’t want to enter the fray when he was so worked up. But regardless, despite his shouting and stomping and regrettable resorting to violence, she can’t escape the fact that Archie does rather have a point. The whole situation is bizarre, disquieting, and very suspicious.

Rose has always done her dad’s bidding, and if he asked her to pretend to be involved with Noah, she’s pretty sure Rose would go along with it. She’s always found the situation with Rose odd and somewhat unpalatable. It’s an open secret that her father and Rose had some kind of affair when Rose was in her twenties. Considering Rose was one of her mother’s students when she used to do private piano lessons, Nicole can’t help but feel the whole thing has an unsavoury edge to it. Back when she was fifteen, Nicole became briefly obsessed with researching Rose and how she’d managed to install herself amongst them. Rose got wind of this and invited her to a painful afternoon tea at Claridge’s. She said, ‘I understand you’ve been asking people questions about my past, and I’m here to tell you anything you’d like to know.’ Nicole was so embarrassed, as though she’d been caught red-handed doing something dreadful. She went completely silent. This didn’t stop Rose, who gave her an in-depth biographical monologue, explaining about how she’d been born into a family of criminals and the Wentworths had ‘saved’ her from them. She alluded to becoming ‘close’ to Nicole’s father over the years, though mercifully left out any graphic details, and referred to his allowing her to live on Liar’s Island as ‘a nice gesture’, as though giving former mistresses enormous mansions on private islands was a perfectly normal thing to do. Since that moment, she and Rose have never really overcome the awkwardness between them.

As the evening slips into night, Nicole thinks she manages to sleep for a bit, but it’s a half-sleep infused with dreams, and eventually she gets back up and heads over to Archie’s room. He’s in bed, but Nicole sees that his eyes are open. ‘Archie, I think we should talk.’

‘I’m not letting him in,’ he says, straight away. ‘I presume that’s why you’re here? Feeling sorry for your first love?’

‘He wasn’t and isn’t my first love,’ Nicole says.

‘Oh yeah, that’s right – your first love went missing, didn’t he?’ Archie says, his tone becoming belligerent and borderline aggressive. ‘Maybe the same fate should befall the Myers boy.’

‘He’s not a boy, and neither are you,’ Nicole says. ‘This isn’t a childish game, Archie, this is very serious. I mean what I said at dinner. I think he’s here because of us. Because he’s watching us. Because he suspects something. About Mum.’

Archie splutters with apparent indignation. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to fucking tell everyone! Jesus! Did you not hear the bit of his pathetic little book I read out? That prick thinks he’s the British answer to Sherlock Holmes.’

Deciding this isn’t the best time to highlight her brother’s literary ignorance, Nicole opts not to point out all the things wrong with that statement and instead says, quietly, ‘I know, but I think you’ve got it wrong.’

‘How?’ he snaps.

‘You accused him of doing this for self-interest, but I don’t think it’s that. I think he’s here because of Dad. I think⁠—’

A noise makes her turn her head. Cliff is standing there looking worried. ‘What’s going on?’ he says. ‘Is Noah still outside? Where is he?’

‘I don’t know and I care even less,’ Archie says. ‘Hopefully he’s fallen off the edge of the island and broken his neck. Drowned, maybe.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Cliff says. ‘You don’t, do you?’

Archie leaps out of bed and strides towards Cliff. He takes hold of him, gripping his neck hard, and says, ‘Listen to me, little bro, because part of this is all your fault. If I find out you’ve been talking to that infiltrator, if I find out you’ve told him anything, I’m going to personally make sure that little video that Dad managed to bury six years ago goes so fucking viral there won’t be a smartphone on the planet that hasn’t played it.’

Cliff is choking and struggling, his eyes watering.

‘Let him go, Archie,’ Nicole says, standing up.

‘He’s got to promise,’ Archie hisses in Cliff’s face.

‘Please, stop, Arch,’ Cliff says, trying to push his brother away.

‘This isn’t helping,’ Nicole says.

Archie lets go of Cliff and pushes him out the door. ‘Fuck off,’ he snaps at him. ‘You too, Chelsea. I’ve had enough.’

Nicole frowns at him, but doesn’t object. She walks out into the dark corridor. As Cliff passes her, heading in the direction of his room, she sees tears running down his face. She wonders if she should go after him, but she’s never very good at comforting people, even in more normal circumstances. She never knows what to say. And nothing about this situation is normal.

Nicole doesn’t attempt to go back to sleep after their less-than-peaceful little meeting. She ends up listening to music while standing, still and calm, staring out of her window. She’s surprised how relieved she feels when she sees Noah trudging through the snow and hammering on the French windows. She’s even about to let him in when she hears someone else going downstairs and presumes Cliff has taken mercy on him. Or at least, she hopes it’s Cliff, for Noah’s sake.

This is going to get complicated, she thinks to herself.

Not long after, she hears another noise to suggest Noah and presumably Cliff are now upstairs. She sits down in the window seat and thinks about her time with Noah, brief and inconsequential in some ways, then the hurt when he said that thing at the Christmas market. That it was like going on a date with a shop mannequin. The implication being that she was lifeless. Dead inside. Dull.

If only he knew.

In some ways, though, it’s probably lucky for him that it didn’t work out between them. Lucky he escaped when he did. She wonders if he knows that he’s the only one of her ex-boyfriends still breathing.

When she jolts awake, she realises she didn’t notice herself falling asleep. A feeling of panic and nausea is gripping her, and she isn’t sure why, though suspects she may have been having a dream that she now can’t recall. She pulls her face away from the window, her cheek feeling cold, but the rest of her too hot. Shedding her dressing gown, she heads out into the corridor in her pyjamas, deciding to make some tea. Her phone tells her it’s 3 a.m., and she considers ditching any hope of a proper rest tonight and just seeing in the morning downstairs next to the Christmas tree.

Before she can reach the kitchen or living room, however, her eyes fall on something that shocks her to her core. A thudding, sickening sensation makes her sway where she stands on the landing, at the top of the stairs, looking down to the hallway floor below.

Her mother is there.

‘No,’ she breathes, closing her eyes, blinking, trying to make the image go away.

But it’s there. Her mother’s body, dead from dehydration, just as it would have been in the attic in the Hampstead house six years ago.

She’s there.

This isn’t a nightmare.

It’s real.

Nicole can’t help it. For the first time in her life, she opens her mouth and screams.

TWENTY-SIX

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

When Noah hears the scream, he and Cliff share a frightened glance, then they both head to the door.

‘Is that Nicole?’ Noah asks.

‘I’ve never heard her scream like that,’ Cliff says, his walk breaking into a run as they move down the corridor towards the landing. Noah sees a figure standing at the top of the stairs, as motionless as a statue.

‘Chelsea, what’s wrong?’ Cliff calls out.

Nicole doesn’t move.

‘What’s the matter?’ Cliff asks as he comes up close to her, Noah just behind him.

She doesn’t answer. But she does raise her arm and point. Noah follows her hand and sees immediately what made her scream.

A body. A woman’s body lying at the bottom of the staircase to their left.

‘It’s… Mum…’ Nicole says, her hand trembling.

‘What?’ Cliff says. He stares down the hallway, then starts to race down the steps.

‘It’s not your mum,’ Noah says. Even in the darkness, he recognises the robe and the hair. He doesn’t need Cliff to confirm it. There’s only one person this can be.

‘It’s Rose,’ Cliff says. ‘Fuck… I think she’s dead.’

Noah feels a chill as he hears that, but forces himself to move. He walks down the steps, his bare feet making a slapping sound on the smooth marble that echoes around the cavernous space. Before he gets to the bottom, though, a louder sound cuts in, making him jump.

‘It is her! She’s back! She’s back!’ Nicole shouts. She hasn’t moved from her position, still pointing, the trembling in her hand worsening.

‘What the hell is this?’ comes another voice. Noah watches as Archie comes into view, dressed only in tartan boxer shorts, looking furious. He begins to shake Nicole. ‘Hey, Chelsea, stop shouting.’ When he looks down in the direction of her pointing, swaying arm, he goes very still.

‘What’s… that?’ he says.

‘It’s Rose,’ Noah says.

‘I think she’s dead,’ Cliff calls up. ‘I’m not sure… can you come and help me check?’

Archie doesn’t move at first. He looks over at Noah, then back at the floor. Then he lets go of Nicole and begins to walk down the steps.

Noah, who was standing poised on the last two steps, gets to her before Archie can catch up and reaches forward, laying two fingers on Rose’s neck.

‘Get away from her!’ Archie shouts at him.

‘I’m trying to⁠—’

Archie pushes him with such force, he knocks Cliff over.

‘Hey!’ Cliff shouts, but Archie ignores him. He puts his fingers to her neck, just as Noah did. His expression changes from anger to something else – a mixture of panic, horror and, possibly, grief.

‘Archie, I think you should let go of her,’ Noah says. ‘You shouldn’t touch her.’

Archie’s head snaps to him. ‘Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do. This is your fault. All your fault. If only you’d just…’ He stops and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he stands up to his full height, which is a good couple of inches above Noah’s. In this moment, it feels like several metres.

Noah looks up at him and says, as confidently as he can, ‘This isn’t my fault, Archie. But we need to alert someone about her death. Because someone might be responsible. If it wasn’t an accident, that is.’

Archie’s eyes narrow. ‘You’re not fooling anyone, you know.’

Noah opens his mouth, but words fail him. There’s something in Archie’s face that frightens him. More than he ever has before. Then someone else speaks. To Noah’s surprise, it’s Nicole. She’s made her way down the opposite staircase without him noticing and is now standing over the body.

‘It’s not Mum.’

Archie visibly flinches. ‘Of course it’s not Mom! What the hell are you talking about?’

Nicole rubs her face. ‘I was having a dream about Mum, and I thought it was her. God, it was like I was going mad. I think I did go mad for a bit. I just kept seeing her, over and over. I’m sorry I shouted.’ She sits down on the bottom step, looking dazed. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. And I’m not sure what to do.’

‘It’s obvious what needs to be done!’ Noah almost shouts.

There’s a click from the other side of the room. Cliff’s trying the light switch. ‘There’s no power. You know how the lights went out upstairs. They’re not working down here either.’

‘There’s been a power cut, that’s not the big news here, Cliff,’ Archie says.

‘Oh, I think it is the big news,’ Nicole says weakly. ‘If there’s no power, there’s no internet. Or landline. I haven’t got a phone signal, or at least I didn’t when I checked earlier. I think the storm is getting worse. The causeway will be flooded at the moment. We’re trapped.’

Noah feels like the horrific cold from outside is flooding back into him, freezing every vein, every limb, his entire body. Even though he’s surrounded by people, he suddenly feels more alone than he ever has in his whole life. A loneliness fused with a frightening feeling of falling through space. Of everything hurtling out of control. Not that he was ever in control here. And now he has to face up to the fact that Nicole is right. They’re all trapped, on an island, in the middle of a blizzard, with a dead body.

TWENTY-SEVEN

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

‘We need to tell the police,’ Noah says, shaking his head. ‘There must be a way.’

‘There isn’t, you prick,’ Archie says. ‘Didn’t you just hear Nicole? No internet, no phone signal. Christ, I thought you were supposed to be the Student Sleuth? Well, newsflash, Myers, there’s nothing we can do.’

‘Is there a drink?’ Cliff says, swaying awkwardly from one bare foot to the other. He’s retreated, standing over by the Christmas tree.

‘What? You want a drink?’

‘No, no, I mean, is there water or tea or something? Like, if she slipped, there might be water on the floor. She could have gone to get a drink and dropped it, and slipped, and then fallen down the stairs.’

There’s a silence, broken only by the rush of the storm outside. Noah is surprised. ‘That’s not actually a bad suggestion,’ he says, eventually, when nobody else comments. He starts to walk up the staircase, brushing his feet along each step as he goes. ‘There’s nothing. No liquid, no broken glass or mug.’ He reaches the landing and looks around. ‘No, nothing up here, either.’

He starts his journey back down the stairs when Archie begins to clap slowly. ‘Oh, bravo, Myers. Excellent performance. Give the boy an Emmy.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Noah snaps back. ‘Your brother made a good suggestion, better than anything you’ve come up with.’

‘I mean, you’re acting, bro. And badly. It’s obvious that you killed her.’

Noah takes in a breath, but it catches in his throat, causing him to cough and splutter. ‘What?’

‘It’s clear she was pushed,’ Archie says, looking down at Rose’s body, then back up at Noah. ‘And if she was, I think I know who did it.’

Noah tries to keep calm, but his heart is pounding in his chest, his legs weak, as though he’s in danger of collapsing. ‘I… I didn’t…’

‘Oh yeah? I saw you outside earlier. I saw what you did, Myers. You pushed her. I was looking out of the window and I saw you push her over. She hurt her head when she fell. Cliff said he had to offer her painkillers. And if you did that, how do we know you didn’t get a bit angry again during the night? Perhaps a lovers’ tiff? Maybe you pushed her too hard this time. Maybe you sent her tumbling to her death and now you’re putting on this little performance to make us all think you want to catch her killer.’

Noah swallows, trying to force his brain to put his thoughts into words. ‘No, Archie,’ he says, slowly. ‘I didn’t push her. I’m not the murderer among us.’ He looks over at Cliff, then Nicole, then back at Archie. Everyone’s eyes are on him. He knows this is dangerous; he knows he’s playing with fire by saying this out loud, but the time has come for him to drop the pretence. There’s no chance of keeping the lie going now. ‘One of you killed your mother six years ago. And now you’ve killed someone else.’ He points at Rose’s lifeless form on the floor. ‘Because she knew it was one of you. I think she found out something or spotted something or worked something out, and one of you killed her before she could tell me.’

Cliff makes a little whimpering sound, like a child who’s trying not to cry. Noah thinks he might say something, perhaps the word ‘Please’, but he can’t make it out.

‘I wish you hadn’t said that,’ Nicole says, looking regretful. ‘You’ve just made everything so much worse, Noah.’

‘I’ve made it worse?’ Noah says, gaping at her. ‘I’m not the one with all these weird secrets. I haven’t worked that much out because I’m an amazing detective or have some special intuition. Anyone who spent five minutes in your company would be able to work out there’s something odd going on between the three of you. Some terrible thing that you’re either trying desperately not to talk about or, in Cliff’s case, eternally on the brink of confessing if only he had his thuggish brother’s permission.’

‘Noah, please, please stop,’ Cliff begs, openly sobbing now. ‘Just stop talking, stop with all⁠—’

He breaks off, staring at the floor. In the few steps it’s taken for him to walk away from the Christmas tree towards Noah, his feet have come into contact with something, sending it skittering across the floor.

‘What’s that?’ Nicole says.

‘I don’t know,’ says Cliff.

‘It’s a box of paracetamol,’ Noah says, picking it up.

‘Is that Tylenol?’ Cliff asks.

‘Well, it’s the same drug,’ says Nicole. ‘What’s it doing here?’

Something is nudging at Noah’s subconscious as he looks down at the small cardboard box. He can see how it was camouflaged against the white marble floor in the darkened hallway – almost the whole box is white, except for the lettering on the front. It carries the ‘Essential Waitrose & Partners’ branding, and underneath that it says ‘Paracetamol 500mg Tablets – Pain Relief’. There’s a foil sheet poking out of it. Noah runs his thumb over the edge of it, and it’s surprisingly sharp. ‘Ahh,’ he says. There’s a slight wound, like a paper cut, and he raises his thumb to his mouth.

‘She said she had a headache,’ Cliff says. ‘Maybe she took them for that.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Archie says, looking at his brother as though he’s a nuisance.

‘Let’s go into the living room, if we’re going to talk about this,’ Nicole says, getting up. ‘It’s starting to get cold, now the heating’s gone off, but it should be warmer in there than in here.’

Noah rubs at his bare arms. ‘I could do with getting some warm clothes.’

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Archie says.

‘Well, aren’t you cold, too, standing there in just your pants? Why don’t we all go and find some jumpers and blankets?’ Even as he says it, he realises the flaw in this suggestion. The thought of wandering the dark corridors alone, even if just to his room, makes him stop and think again. Without even realising, he raises his hand to the back of his head. What’s to stop someone from trying to kill him? Follow him into his room, wait for him to put his head through some nice warm knitwear and smash something heavy down onto him, finishing the job for good this time?

‘I think I know what you’re afraid of, Noah,’ Nicole says. ‘And if it makes you feel any better, I have a suggestion. How about we all go together, that way nobody needs to fear someone sneaking up behind them. Agreed?’

Archie looks furious. ‘I can’t believe you’re taking his side!’

‘I’m not taking his side, Archie, I’m just cold and tired and want to sit on the sofa and wait for dawn. We could try to get the fire going. That sounds like a better plan than all of us just standing around and accusing each other while we steadily get colder and colder. I think Noah’s concern is valid and the best way to get around it is for all of us to go everywhere together.’

Archie glares at her, still angry. Then he looks back at Noah. ‘Fine!’ he shouts. ‘Fine! Come on then. Let’s… let’s go.’ During the small pause in his words, Noah sees his eyes flick to the body on the floor. Then he turns away and starts marching up the stairs.

They do as Nicole suggests. Archie leads the way to his room first, where he pulls on tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt. Then Cliff next, who just grabs a hoodie. In Noah’s room, he goes to the chest of drawers and pulls on some chinos, a thick flannel shirt and a large, bulky cardigan. Cliff stands near him, helpfully holding out the torch on his phone so Noah can see what he’s doing.

Archie mooches around the room. ‘Bit weird, isn’t it? You being in this guest room while your alleged girlfriend was down the corridor in the master bedroom. It says a lot that she didn’t want to be left alone with you.’

‘She told me she doesn’t like to share a room. I don’t think she ever does.’

‘Is that so?’ says Archie, raising his eyebrows. ‘You sure there wasn’t something more to it? Maybe she was scared of you.’

Noah doesn’t rise to this. He doesn’t tell him his reasoning is ridiculous – he had lots of time alone with Rose and obviously he didn’t kill her on those occasions. He hopes the others will be able to work this out for themselves.

‘Ready?’ Nicole asks once Noah’s dressed.

‘Yes, ready,’ Noah says. He looks at her, tries to find some reassurance, something in her face that says this strange, unsettling situation is going to all turn out OK. But then he remembers: this is Nicole Wentworth. The girl who doesn’t show her emotions. And even when she does – even when she screams at a corpse – she keeps the meltdown so contained, she manages to be completely serene a matter of minutes later. And there’s no reassurance waiting for him in those eyes.

In silence, they walk down to the living room. Although Noah is with three people, he has never felt so alone. He thinks of his mother. She may not have even gone to bed yet, with her time zone still on Christmas Eve, while her son is experiencing the most hellish Christmas morning of his life.

In the living room, Cliff slumps down onto the largest central sofa. Nicole begins to see if she can light the fire, though she seems to be getting through a lot of matches without any lasting success. Archie, meanwhile, just stands in front of the expansive black mass of the TV screen, glaring at Noah.

‘You’re trying to intimidate me,’ Noah says, staring back at Archie. ‘It’s not going to work.’ He doesn’t believe these words, and it doesn’t look as if Archie does either. Noah pauses for a moment, then adds, ‘I know it was you.’

‘Know what was me?’

‘Who attacked me outside. I hurt my head, and I don’t think I injured it in the fall. I think someone hit me, and I think that someone was you. And if you did that, it might suggest you’ve done other things.’

Archie cracks his knuckles but still says nothing. Noah reaches a point where he can’t hold his gaze any longer. He looks down at the box of tablets in his hand.

‘I think it’s working,’ Nicole says, setting down the matches.

Noah smells smoke and sees the flickering light in the grate.

‘Great,’ Archie says, though he doesn’t sound that impressed.

‘Oh my God, yes,’ Cliff says, crawling off the sofa to go and warm his hands by the nascent flames.

Noah’s tempted to do the same, but Archie’s standing very close to him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he blocked his way. So he stays put and looks down again at the box in his hand.

Then something catches his eye.

Taking care not to cut his finger again, he pulls out the silver sheet of pills, one of the open blisters crinkling as he does so.

‘Oh my God,’ he says quietly to himself as he looks at it. A small, dark oval. The oval of the Boots logo conflicting with ‘Waitrose & Partners’ on the outside of the box. And that isn’t all. Not only does the sheet of tablets in his hand carry different branding, but it also has a different name.

Ibuprofen.

TWENTY-EIGHT

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

‘What is it?’ says Archie from above him. ‘What are you muttering about?’

‘I think you should put that pack of pills back where you found it,’ Nicole says.

‘What are you looking at?’ asks Cliff.

‘Ibuprofen,’ Noah says, frowning. ‘It’s ibuprofen.’

‘I thought you said it was paracetamol?’ says Nicole.

‘I did… it is. Or at least the box is.’ He takes out another foil sheet, but it’s empty and doesn’t have the Boots logo on it. The room is too dark and the writing too small to make out, but he’s sure the empty pack probably contained paracetamol.

‘I think this might be what killed her,’ Noah says. He looks back over at the doorway they came through. The body isn’t visible, but he almost feels as though he can see Rose, writhing on the floor. Trying to breathe.

‘What are you talking about?’ says Archie. ‘This is just a silly attempt to make this into a cheap little murder mystery, isn’t it. Something to dine out on in your next book. I’ve had enough of⁠—’

‘No, no, listen: she was allergic to NSAIDs,’ Noah says. ‘She told me. She told me and—’ He looks over at Cliff. Sees him watching him. A worried look in his eyes. ‘She told me and Cliff,’ he finishes. ‘She told us both, yesterday, when we were outside.’

He sees Nicole look over at her brother. ‘Is this true?’

Cliff opens his mouth, but no words come out. Then he shakes his head.

He can’t be denying it, Noah thinks.

But that seems to be exactly what Cliff is doing. He shakes his head again.

‘Cliff, don’t pretend you can’t remember, it wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago. Outside, when you were doing your exercises, you came over to us – Archie, you must have seen, because you said you saw Rose fall.’

‘I said I saw you push her over,’ Archie says.

‘That’s not what happened. Cliff knows that too, don’t you?’

‘I’m… I’m not sure what I…’ Cliff stammers.

‘Yes, you do,’ Noah says, standing up, pushing past Archie and going over to him. ‘You know I didn’t push Rose. And you also know that she told you she had a headache. You offered to get her painkillers. You said you had some ibuprofen in one of your coat pockets.’

‘No… no…’ Cliff says, shaking his head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Yes, you do!’ Noah shouts. ‘You can’t do this, Cliff. You were there, she said it, and you even asked what she meant when she said she couldn’t take NSAIDs. You didn’t know the acronym.’

Cliff is still shaking his head. Noah turns to look at the other two. ‘Come on, you have to believe that sounds probable, doesn’t it? That’s the kind of thing Cliff wouldn’t know.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Archie says. ‘Are you calling my brother dumb?’

‘Well, you do,’ Nicole says quietly. ‘Practically every day.’

‘That’s different. He’s my brother. I think you’re getting carried away, Myers. We don’t even know how Rose died, and if you ask me, it seems more likely that you got angry with her again and gave her a shove, except this one was a bit harder, a bit more fucking calamitous than the last one.’

Noah ignores all this; he’s desperate not to allow this discovery to be lost amidst Archie’s (not entirely unwarranted) paranoia and their general sibling bickering. ‘Cliff, just tell me you remember the conversation. The ibuprofen. You remember?

Cliff continues to shake his head.

‘1961,’ says Nicole, quietly. ‘That’s when ibuprofen was discovered. By two men working for Boots.’

Noah looks around at her. ‘Well, it’s apt you mention Boots,’ he says, taking out the blister pack and holding it up. ‘That’s how I spotted it. Someone has taken a sheet of Boots ibuprofen and placed it, very deliberately, inside this box of paracetamol.’

Cliff puts his hands over his eyes.

‘Sorry to ruin your ego-driven Poirot moment,’ Archie says, ‘but neither me nor Cliff shop in Boots. You don’t get them in the US. I know you think this is some awesome eureka moment, but you haven’t got a leg to stand on.’

‘But he offered them to Rose. And I imagine they have a fair few Boots at international airports. Was that where you got them from, Cliff?’

A few seconds of silence pass. Then Nicole leans forward, half of her face lit by the flickering fire, the other half in darkness. ‘Cliff. I think you need to tell us the truth. What did you do?’

The pregnant silence that follows is almost unbearably tense. And the sight of Cliff’s pale, tearstained face when he lowers his hands triggers a pang of sympathy within Noah. But despite this, he still has the strength to go in for the kill. ‘Was it because of what Rose knew? Were you worried about what she was going to tell me?’ Noah puts a hand on Cliff’s shoulder. ‘Ever since I arrived here, I’ve felt you’ve had this need to confess. Did you confess to her? Or has she always known? Known what you did to your mum?’

The pain in Noah’s neck is instant. At first, he isn’t sure what’s happened, how he’s suddenly being pulled back. Then he realises Archie’s got hold of his shirt and has dragged him away by the collar. Noah flails, trying to hold onto something, dragging the coffee table with him. There’s an unpleasant scraping noise and the sound of breaking glass.

‘Archie, not again. You can’t keep attacking Noah like this,’ he hears Nicole say.

‘Did you hear what he said? Did you? How can you sit there so fucking calmly while he’s literally trying to destroy our lives by digging up… by making us remember…’

Noah lands against the edge of the sofa, his injured head colliding with its very hard, very solid base, and the pain he feels makes him shout out loud.

Archie isn’t done. He pulls Noah up and lifts his fist, aiming a punch at his face. Before he follows through with this, however, Noah shouts, ‘Your dad sent me!’

The fist remains paused in mid-air. ‘What did you say?’

Noah pants, trying to catch his breath, the pain in his head causing a ringing in his ears. ‘I told you at dinner, and if you hadn’t been so sidetracked by your own ridiculous theories, you’d have put two and two together. So, for the avoidance of any doubt, Archie: your precious father is the reason I’m here. And not because he thought it’d be a real treat to spend Christmas with his fucked-up offspring. Your sister was right when she said that I’m here to catch a killer. But it’s nothing to do with writing a book, or because I want any glory or attention. I’m here because your dad thinks one of you killed your mother.’

Archie stares at him, astonishment on his face. Then he drops Noah. He falls half onto the sofa, half off, adding a sickening jolt to his coccyx to his already pain-filled body. He pulls himself backwards so that he’s lying down, taking in deep breaths. None of the siblings are speaking. ‘So,’ Noah says, trying to sit up. ‘Does anyone want to confess?’

TWENTY-NINE

CLIFF

CHRISTMAS DAY 2020

Cliff has never felt so unwell in his life. He remembers once, when he was around ten or eleven, having to be led out of a Florida restaurant by one of his father’s assistants because he was feeling faint. His dad said, ‘Go take the boy to get some fresh air,’ though since it was the height of summer in Miami and 1 p.m., fresh air was an uncomfortable mixture of traffic fumes and baking heat. He begged the assistant – an awkward young woman named Alisha – to take him back into the restaurant. His father got annoyed, Cliff fainted and was rushed to a nearby hospital, where he was diagnosed with influenza. He remembers being confused by the word – didn’t realise that’s what flu was short for – and for a good few years after that thought he’d had some rare, exotic disease rather than one of the most common on the planet.

But that was nothing compared to this.

This is hell, he thinks to himself as he draws in a rattling, ragged breath, the air as sharp as knives as it journeys into his body. At times, he feels so incredibly hot that he wonders if his bed is on fire, which leads him to strip off all his clothes and ditch the sheets and comforter, and just lie naked atop the bed. Then half an hour later, he feels freezing – so terribly, terribly cold – and he’s reaching for not just his pyjamas but for hoodies, blankets, anything he can find to fight the chills.

Nicole comes to see him more often than Archie. She sometimes puts on a face mask, puts one of the chairs from the kitchen in the hallway outside his room, and reads her book. Her presence is comforting, even though he hasn’t got the energy to talk, or at least not to have full-on conversations. Sometimes they play their old game from childhood, when he says a random year and she tells him things that happened.

‘1999’ he’ll say, and she’ll come back with ‘The film The World Is Not Enough was released, the third to star Pierce Brosnan as James Bond. J.K. Rowling’s third novel, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, was published. Pete Sampras won the men’s singles finals at Wimbledon.’

‘Love it! Do 2004.’

‘Britney Spears married Jason Allen Alexander, a union that was annulled soon after. The film Thunderbirds, based on the television series of the same name, was released in cinemas. The Nintendo DS portable gaming console made its debut in America.’

He is aware she must tailor these responses to things he’s likely to understand or recognise. When she reels off these things unprompted, muttering to herself in a way that annoys their mom, her chosen facts are often things that he’s never heard of. So he likes that she keeps things to his level. It makes it feel like they’re just a regular brother and sister who know each other well. Friendly. Normal. Rather than two of ‘the Wentworths’.

Archie, on the other hand, acts like catching Covid was a stupid, selfish thing to do, as though Cliff timed it in order to wreck their little Christmas here in the annexe. Cliff usually just ignores his brother’s bad moods and jibes. He reckons he doesn’t even spot half of them, but he feels it would have been nice for Archie to give him a break, considering how poorly he is.

Then he remembers how angry Archie got with their mom when she did that terrible thing with the video up at the house yesterday. Or the day before. He isn’t sure of the day. But at least, then, Archie defended him. Both he and Nicole did.

‘See, we do love each other,’ Cliff says to the empty room, unsure why he’s speaking the words out loud.

Hours drift by. Cliff’s temperature rises again, and he opens the bedroom window. Because he’s on the ground floor, and the window is next to the bed, it kind of feels like he’s outdoors, on a bed in the middle of a snowy wonderland.

He can hear clattering in the kitchen and presumes Nicole and Archie are cooking. Whether it’s dinner or breakfast, he’s not sure. He tries to reach for his phone, but it’s on charge, and as his finger catches the cable, he knocks it onto a pile of clothes on the floor. He lies back and tries to sleep. He thinks someone – Archie, possibly – says ‘Food?’ from the doorway, but he shakes his head. He doesn’t want to eat. Doesn’t want to do anything. He wants to sleep, but he can’t, not properly. In and out of dreams, he goes, some of them wild, some disturbing. When he hears a sound – a thud and a slight vibration – he isn’t sure if it’s real or something in his half-asleep visions. No, he thinks it’s real. Someone is going outside. Maybe Nicole’s gone for an evening walk. Or Archie is off on a late-night run on the heath.

He looks out of the window, still wide open. He should close it, he thinks. He’s starting to feel cold again, and it’s snowing thick and fast now. He reaches out, all his limbs aching as he does so, straining to take hold of the handle. Then he sees something. Someone’s there. A figure is walking through the darkness up towards the house.

Cliff reaches forward and pulls himself up so both arms are leaning on the window frame. There are flakes of snow landing on his bare shoulders, but he stays where he is, watching. From this distance, he can’t make out who it is. Can’t see if it’s a man or a woman. But why would either of his siblings go up to the house when Mom said she didn’t want them there?

‘I don’t understand,’ he mutters to himself, letting his muscles relax, thudding back away from the window and down onto the bed.

They’re being punished… they’re bad… stupid and bad…

He hears his mother’s voice now. The words she used to describe him. How ashamed she was of him. How disappointed…

He’s let her down. He’s awful. Pathetic.

He looks back at the window again, but he can’t see anything. Just the snow and the night sky and a branch of a tree.

‘Hey guys… are you there?’ he tries to call out, but his throat hurts so much, it makes his eyes stream.

He tries to talk again, but gives up when he can’t get the words out.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, but he isn’t sure what for.

Then he settles back down and goes to sleep.

A little later, Cliff hears the front door. Without making any sound, he treads his way to the door, the room swaying as he does so. Then he pushes the door open and looks out into the hallway. There’s nothing to see. Not in the hallway, at least. Taking shaky step after shaky step, Cliff moves into the hall and then to the small living room.

Nicole and Archie are both inside, on a sofa each, apparently asleep. Perhaps he imagined the sound of the door, he thinks to himself as he wanders unsteadily back to his room. Or maybe it came earlier in the evening, and in his dazed, feverish state, he hasn’t been able to keep track of time.

But he’s sure he saw that figure outside in the snow.

That was real. He knows it was.

He’s about to collapse back down onto his bed when something catches his eye from the window once again. It’s not a hooded figure this time. It’s a car. Through the gap in the trees that surround the annexe, across the lawn, he can make out the headlights of a vehicle making its way down the drive away from the house.

Even in his feverish, confused state, he knows what this must mean. While they’re all banished in the annexe, his mother has had a visitor.

THIRTY

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

‘Someone left the annexe,’ Cliff says.

Four words. That’s all it takes to chill the room beyond the dropping temperature.

‘What did you say, Cliff?’ Noah says, even though he heard him clearly enough. But he hopes it’ll prompt him to say more.

‘Someone left. The night Mom died.’

Noah glances at Nicole. Even though it’s hard to tell in the darkness, he can see she’s staring at Cliff intently. Noah then looks up at Archie, though quickly realises this is a mistake. Barely a second after seeing his look of consternation and horror at what Cliff’s just said, Archie’s attention snaps back to Noah. He looks like he’s about to punch him again. Noah pulls himself away from the sofa and edges backwards, out of reach.

‘You heard him,’ Noah says, still backing away. ‘You heard what he said. This is the sort of thing your father’s been suspicious about, and it seems he had a point.’

‘Don’t you talk about my dad, you don’t know him,’ Archie says through clenched teeth. ‘Nor do you know anything about what happened to Mom.’

‘I think I do. I think your dad does. And I think everyone in this room can hear how desperate you are to hide what happened.’ Noah succeeds in sounding braver and bolder than he feels, and he sees his words give Archie pause. He opens and closes his mouth, and Noah seizes the brief moment to speak to Nicole. ‘Give us your version,’ he says to her.

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ she replies, standing up. ‘Archie’s right, you need to stop holding court and let this go.’

‘Holding court? Your dad thinks one of you is a killer. Cliff’s having a meltdown about it on the floor right now. In fact, he’s probably been having a meltdown about it without you knowing for the past six years. Trust me, I don’t like your dad’s methods, but even I have to admit there’s unresolved business here.’

‘And what gives you the right to resolve it?’ Nicole says.

‘Because there’s a dead body out there and I’m here now. I’m caught up in this. And I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with understanding what happened to Rose unless we sort out what happened to your mother.’ Noah presses his hands together in the air in front of him, knotting his fingers. ‘It’s all one big, tangled mess.’ He looks back at Archie. ‘And out of all of you – and I know you’ll probably hit me or attack me again for saying this – I think you’re the one who holds the key to it all.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Archie.

‘No, no, listen, what if that car was Rose? What if she went to the manor house and saw you walking back and was going to reveal you as the killer?’

Archie lets out a laugh, but he doesn’t sound the slightest bit amused. The sound is rough, ugly, dangerous. ‘Jesus Christ. You really are a dumb prick, aren’t you? Why wouldn’t she have just told the police when Mom’s body was found? Why would she keep that to herself all this time?’

As Archie steps forward towards him, the light from the fire spreads onto his face. And Noah sees it in his eyes. The thing Archie was trying to hide from him. And it all clicks into place.

‘Because she was in love with you, wasn’t she?’ Noah says, his voice dropping low. ‘The woman who has always been there. Your father’s ex-lover. A fling he couldn’t let go of. So he put her up in a massive house on an island, meaning she’d never be out of your lives. If you fancied her, I reckon it drove you wild, Archie, having that temptation always hovering on the outskirts of your family life. A woman who, by her own admission, liked younger men. When did you first try it on with her?’

This causes Archie’s eyes to widen. ‘She tried it on with me!’ he shouts back. Then raises his hand to his face, instant regret visible. ‘Fuck,’ he mutters, then says, ‘We’ve been… together… sort of… since…’ He seems to be having an internal struggle, and Noah notes this moment of mental weakness and hits home.

‘Were you very young, Archie? Too young? Is that why you killed her? Because you couldn’t cope with that secret any longer?’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I was twenty-three. I wasn’t some innocent virgin, so don’t twist it like that.’

‘So why kill her tonight? Was it because she caught you doing something dreadful, back in 2020? Like going back up to the house early on Christmas morning? Did she remind you of it one too many times?’

‘She didn’t catch me killing Mom,’ Archie says. ‘Just like your stupid seduction theory, it was the other way around.’ He looks down at Cliff. Then at Nicole. Then, at last, back at Noah. ‘Rose killed her. And last night she told me everything.’

THIRTY-ONE

ARCHIE

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

Archie doesn’t think he’s ever hated someone as much as he hates Noah right now.

No, actually, that’s not true. His mom. He hated her. So much, it was like a burning pain. A pain that would never leave him.

That pain resurfaced earlier in the evening, when he threw Noah out of the house. It was as though that awful man was pressing on a wound, a wound that’s never healed and now never will. And it’s started to bleed.

All Noah’s fault, he thought to himself as he paced in the darkness of his room, shortly after Noah’s expulsion. He hoped he was freezing out there. Hoped he’d maybe even die. So what if he did? It would serve him right. He was fairly sure his father could cover up the death of a pathetic, insignificant little weasel like Noah Myers. He was pretty sure his father had sorted out those two dicks Nicole dated. Why not add a third to that number?

He went to the window and checked if he could see him outside, but all he could see was snow. He thudded his fist down on the windowpane, then headed out of the room and down the corridor to Rose’s room.

‘That little prick,’ he said as he burst in.

Rose’s bedside lamp was on, but it seemed she was asleep. ‘What? Archie? What are you doing here?’

‘I need to know what’s going on with Noah Myers,’ Archie said, closing the door.

Rose sighed and sat up. ‘Darling, my head hurts, I was having a really, really good sleep that I needed, and I don’t need you stomping in here like some angst-ridden teenager moaning about your friends.’

Archie couldn’t help spluttering in outrage. ‘Friend? He’s not a friend! He wasn’t even an acquaintance!’

‘Shh!’ Rose said, waving her hand. ‘Quieter, Archie. Quieter.’ She pulled herself up and frowned at him. ‘Sweetie, we’ve never been exclusive. Noah and I can be a couple if we want. I hope you’re not going to get possessive on me, are you? I don’t find it as attractive as I used to.’

Archie was momentarily floored. ‘So you’re confirming it. You are a couple? Because I didn’t believe it. Nothing about it seemed real. I’ve been watching. Nothing… nothing true. Not like us.’ He felt his legs shaking a little, and he dropped onto the bed and reached for her.

‘Hey, no, get off,’ she said, pushing him away.

‘Rose, come on, it’s been literally months since we—’ He didn’t bother finishing the sentence, just tried to kiss her, and she pushed him more firmly now.

‘Christ, do you really think I’m in the mood? I told you I was asleep. I told you I had a headache. This is your problem, Archie, you just take, take, take and don’t listen.’

Archie drew himself up. ‘You don’t want me to listen. You just want me to do as I’m told. That’s how you like it, isn’t it? You’ve always run rings around me, kept me dangling at the end of your little lead. Knowing I’ll always be here, every Christmas, every secret little holiday away. Even this fucked-up thing with Noah is about testing me, isn’t it? Please tell me you haven’t actually let him shag you?’

Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Just leave, if you’re going to be this unpleasant.’

Archie kneeled on the side of the bed, bringing himself closer to her again. ‘Please, just tell me, has any of this got anything to do with… that night? It has, hasn’t it? This is to do with Mom? I’m right, I know I am. This is all to do with Mom somehow.’

Rose looked at him in the eyes for what felt like an age. Then she sighed and said, ‘Fine. Let’s talk. There are probably some things we should discuss.’

Now, hours later, with Rose’s body lying in the hallway and Archie standing in the living room, face to face with the man he’s started to regard as his nemesis, he can’t stop thinking about that last discussion with Rose. What it means for them. What it means for his future.

‘She told me everything,’ Archie says again, jutting out his jaw, staring defiantly at Noah. ‘She told me she was going to make sure you’d never know what actually happened. That she was going to sort that out. Had already sorted that out. She… she’d heard the row we had and watched me throw you out. She said she went down the back stairs and hit you with one of the stone rabbits. Left you in the snow.’

As he says this, he sees Noah raise his hand to the back of his head.

‘Clearly didn’t do a good enough job, though. And besides, I wasn’t sure about her reasoning that Dad would just click his fingers and sort it. Maybe he would have. I don’t know. There’s never any guessing what he’ll do. I guess the fact he sent you here proves that.’ He balls his hands into fists and thinks about punching Noah, again and again, until he can no longer talk, no longer ask questions, no longer exist.

‘Then what happened?’ Noah asks, dragging him from his thoughts. ‘After she said she’d attacked me?’

‘She told me to keep quiet,’ Archie says. ‘She knew you asking us all questions was going to get everyone upset. Especially Cliff.’ He looks down at his brother, still crouched on the floor. ‘She told me to just keep quiet, stick to the story that we never left the annexe. That I never visited the house.’

‘But, of course, you did,’ says Noah. ‘What did you do when you got to the house, Archie?’

Archie’s fantasies about smashing Noah’s head, killing him on the spot, suddenly become so strong and vivid, he’s struggling to keep control of himself. And all this hatred, all this anger, is taking him back to that night. The night he opened the door to the annexe and walked through the snow up to the house.

‘I wasn’t going there to hurt Mom, I was going to meet Rose. We were going to screw in her car on some quiet road somewhere. But when Cliff got unwell, I messaged to say it was too dangerous, I didn’t want to infect her, but she’d already set out to meet me. So I was going to tell her we couldn’t. She was late, and I let myself into the house to wait. And I could hear her… hear Mom. In the attic. Hammering to get out.’

‘You just left her there?’ Noah asks. ‘You heard her trapped, heard her screaming for help, and you left her?’

‘She was a fucking psychopath!’ Archie shouts at Noah, feeling something break inside him. ‘She mentally tortured all of us. Every minute of every day, even when we weren’t with her, she was in here, in here with us. Always watching, always judging, always needling away.’ He jabs at his own head with his finger, aware he’s probably sounding mad, but he doesn’t care. ‘So I thought, well, fine, serves her right. Why the fuck should I help her? If I hadn’t gone into the house, I wouldn’t have known she was there anyway.’

He clears his throat. Tries to get his words in order. It’s important he gets this next bit right.

‘I saw Rose’s car arriving as soon as I closed the door. I was annoyed she’d come so close to the house, I’d told her to wait near the gate. When she got out, I told her to stay away from me, that Cliff had Covid, and I couldn’t risk infecting her. She was pissed off. Tried to convince me the risk was small, but I told her I couldn’t bear the thought of giving her the virus and killing her without meaning to. So she drove away. I didn’t mention Mom, I didn’t even tell her we’d been sent to the annexe. But when Mom’s body was found a week later, Rose made it clear she knew what I had done.’

He meets Noah’s gaze, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He sees him take in what he’s been told, then Noah asks, ‘So why did she keep quiet?’

Archie almost laughs. ‘Well, I thought it was because she loved me, but apparently not. She certainly made me believe she did. She just didn’t want to rock the boat. She wanted to keep this big house, her quiet little life on the island with an unlimited expense account. Back then, I thought she wanted to go public, get married eventually, but she kept putting it off, then said she’d like to see other men. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t say no to anything. But whenever I became what she called “difficult” or “disappointing”, she’d remind me of our “bond of trust”. I always knew what she was talking about. The hold she had over me. But it was all a lie.’ He feels his breath tremble and doesn’t attempt to hide it. ‘Because she had already been there.’

He sees a satisfying look of understanding in Noah’s eyes. ‘Oh… I see. She wasn’t arriving that night. Not for the first time.’

‘Exactly. She’d already let herself in and heard Mom in the attic. She’s the one who pulled away the ladder, leaving her up there. She’d gone back for her gloves when I saw her, worried that someone would find them and know she’d been there. She decided it was time to tell me, said it was why she’d hit you. She said it was proof of how much she loved me. But let’s just say I didn’t see it that way…’ He stops. Looks at Noah again. He knows what his next question will be, and he is prepared.

‘Why would Rose kill your mother?’

Archie opens his mouth to reply, but Nicole beats him to it. ‘Because she knew,’ she says. ‘Mum knew about you and Rose. And she was going to tell Dad.’

Archie looks at his sister. ‘What… how did you… you knew too?’

Nicole nods. ‘I overheard her talking to one of her spies on the phone. She used them to find things out about us. Paid people. She had someone follow you and Rose to a hotel.’

Noah’s nodding. ‘I see the problem. Rose was going to lose the comfortable life she’d got used to.’

‘This may sound shocking to you, Noah,’ Nicole says, going to stand by Archie. ‘But our mother’s death really wasn’t a loss to the world. With her gone, we’ve been free.’

Archie feels the tension rising again. That word, ‘free’, does something in his brain, like chemicals igniting.

Because he hasn’t been free.

The cries for help. The thudding. The calling of his name. Each of their names. A woman screaming for her children in the hope, the impossible hope, that one of them might hear her.

And one of them did hear her.

He closes his eyes, but it doesn’t help. He can still hear her, even now. She’s still screaming. And now it’s intermingled with other sounds, too. More recent, but just as disturbing.

The sound of someone choking. Struggling to breathe.

‘Is that why you put the ibuprofen in the box of paracetamol, Archie?’ Noah asks.

Archie keeps his eyes shut, screws up his brow. Under Noah’s words, he can still hear the sounds. The screams. The choking, rasping, the desperate attempts to stay alive.

‘You put the pills there, didn’t you?’ Noah says. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Yes!’ Archie roars, opening his eyes. ‘Yes, I fucking killed her. I knew she was allergic, I knew she probably wouldn’t notice until it was too late, I knew they would kill her!’

It’s as if the words ricochet around the room like a blast of gunfire. Everyone is looking at him. He stares at his siblings, then at Noah. The stranger who’s ruined everything. Shattered whatever illusion they’d managed to create for themselves. And now here they stand amidst the ugly ruins of their secrets and lies.

He takes a step towards Noah, pointing one trembling finger at him. ‘None of that leaves this room,’ he says. ‘When we call the police, Rose died in an accident. A tragic accident. Just like Mom.’

THIRTY-TWO

NICOLE

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

Nicole has been watching her brother’s meltdown and confession with a detached sort of interest. She still feels shaken from the discovery of the corpse earlier, although she’s conscious that it was her own reaction that has disoriented her the most, rather than the actual body at the bottom of the stairs. She’s never once considered herself the sort of person who would scream when finding a body. She used to find the idea of shrieking and wailing in shock rather ridiculous – Can’t people just get a grip on themselves? she’d think when watching crime dramas on television – but today she became one of those people, and she doesn’t feel good about it. True, it was the dream she’d been having moments before that was the true driver. Mistaking Rose for the dehydrated corpse of her mother was, perhaps, an understandable cause for alarm.

She hoped that that whole ordeal would be the strangest part of the evening, and after that, calm logic and order would prevail. Not so. Instead, now she’s standing in the living room listening to her brother explain about his affair with Rose, the part she allegedly played in their mother’s death, and how all this led to Archie killing her. She wonders how much of his outburst was genuine anger, and how much was a performance, artfully crafted for Noah’s benefit.

She keeps her eyes on Noah during Archie’s little speech, and it’s clear from his intense expression that he believes it. It almost makes her feel sorry for him. There’s a childlike innocence about the rapt, hungry way he’s consuming every detail. He thinks this is a real confession. He’s buying every word, thinking he’s got her brother to confess to something terrible.

But he doesn’t know the full story.

He doesn’t know that Archie came back to the annexe and told her that their mum was trapped in the attic. How he explained that he’d heard her banging and shouting and screaming and then made the fateful decision to just walk away. Noah doesn’t know that she and Archie agreed to let time go by and leave her there. Silently counting down the days, knowing by the time they reached day three, it would probably be done. Over. Past the point of no return.

All this blaming everything on Rose is very convenient, but she suspects this new death might still complicate things. No matter how their mother died, they now have a dead body here in the present. And that’s going to take some ironing out if Archie wants to avoid prison.

Noah’s not going to hide it, she thinks, as Archie makes a valiant attempt to convince him that what’s happened tonight should stay in this room. He talks with a bold confidence, as though he’s laying down the law. But it isn’t going to be that easy. If only he hadn’t let his anger get the better of him, if only he’d pretended it was an accident, saved the emotional confession for when they were alone. As ever, the presence of Noah Myers is a thorn in their side. How she wishes she’d never met him. Or sorted things out when she had the chance.

She came very close, that day in Winchester market when he made her feel so wretched and worthless. She pulled out her phone and called her father. He could tell there was something wrong. Asked her what the matter was. Hidden behind a market stall selling hazelnut crêpes, she said, quietly, ‘I’ve been thinking about Dylan, Dad.’

There was a silence. Then her father said, ‘Dylan Volkher, right? That nice German lad you were with earlier this year?’ Her father’s feigning of ignorance, as though he could barely remember Dylan, was comforting. As though what happened was all just a dream.

‘Yes… thank you, Dad. For believing me when I said he was a bad guy. And that it would be better if he would just… go away forever.’

There was a silence. Then her father said, very quietly, ‘Nobody hurts my little girl. And believe me, my darling, he has gone away forever. And you’ve now got a nice new boy, right? That handsome chap Noah?’

Nicole didn’t reply, and her father interpreted the silence. ‘Ah… maybe there’s trouble in paradise? Is that why you’re phoning me, mentioning Dylan Volkher, perhaps wondering if I might need to… help you out again?’

Nicole was so tempted to say yes. Then she looked over at a market stall selling wood carvings. Saw Noah picking up a bookend, carved into a little stack of hardbacks with an owl resting on them. He was looking sad. Regretful, perhaps, because of their row. His melancholy eyes enhanced his boyish beauty, standing there in his tweed blazer and burgundy scarf. No matter how much she had hated him five minutes ago, suddenly the thought of someone harming him felt like an impossibility. An abomination. So she said, ‘No, Dad. Nothing like that. I just wanted to say… I don’t think I’ll be bringing anyone to Liar’s Island this Christmas.’ She ended the call and then walked out of Noah’s life for what she hoped would be forever.

She was wrong. And she looks at Noah’s face now, still boyish and beautiful, barely showing any of the past ten years, and wonders whether maybe she should have said, ‘Yes, Dad. Remove him from my life for good. Make him disappear.’

If only he would disappear. Because he’s already a problem, and he’s going to get worse.

Proving her right, she sees Noah starting to back away. ‘You don’t expect me to go along with that story, do you?’ he asks.

Nicole turns her gaze to Archie. He meets her eyes. Then he looks at Cliff. Then back to her.

There’s a tense silence.

Then Archie says, ‘I think I may have said a bit too much.’

‘But luckily,’ Nicole says, letting her eyes settle back on Noah’s face, ‘there are no witnesses.’

THIRTY-THREE

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

Noah looks at Nicole with confusion. Of course there are witnesses. He’s a witness. So are she and Cliff, dazed and vacant, though the latter is currently curled on the floor, tears once again pouring from his eyes. Then he sees her expression harden. He understands what she’s saying.

‘We stick together,’ Nicole says. And there’s something in the way she says ‘we’ that makes it clear he’s not included in that little club. That he is an outsider, a problem. A snag they need to solve.

A huge flash and a boom cracks through the already tense air, making them all jump. The blizzard outside seems to be developing into a full-blown electrical storm. Through the French windows, he sees the curtains of heavy snow smashing against them, and hears the rattle as the wind pummels the house. Then he looks back at Nicole. ‘But you heard him. You heard every word Archie said. He confessed to his involvement in your mother’s death, and Rose’s. Rose would have been struggling to breathe due to her allergic reaction, trying to get one of us to help, falling down the stairs. She could have been saved. You can’t let him get away with that.’

Nicole doesn’t reply to this. She just stares at him, unblinking.

Archie folds his arms. ‘Noah, what did you honestly think would happen when Dad asked you to investigate? That there’d be police and a court trial? This is typical of him, poking a hornets’ nest, bringing in someone he thinks is an expert, trying to find something out, but I doubt he’ll do anything about it.’

Noah feels the panic that has been with him most of the night starting to rise to a feverish peak. ‘What do you think?’ he asks Cliff, almost shouting now.

Cliff stays on the ground, unmoving. He doesn’t even wipe his tears away. Then he says, without looking at Noah, ‘I think we should probably do as Archie says.’

There’s another bright flash followed by an enormous boom. But none of them jump this time. It’s as though the tension between them all is so charged, no storm could come close to matching it.

‘No,’ Noah says. ‘I’m not going to be part of a cover-up – not of a murder from six years ago and certainly not one that’s happened under the very roof where I’m staying.’

Archie takes a slow step forward. ‘Well, if you’re not going to stick to the story, what makes you think we’d ever let you leave the island?’

THIRTY-FOUR

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

Noah feels a plunging sensation deep in his stomach. His head is hurting again, and he isn’t sure if it’s from his injury or tension from the worsening situation in front of him.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he says, his voice quiet and uncertain, the words sounding pathetically small. ‘Archie, I’m not saying what you did to Rose was right… or your mother, for that matter… but you acted in the heat of the moment. People do things when they’re angry or upset. It’s human.’

He hears Nicole sigh. ‘Oh, Noah, haven’t you been listening? This wasn’t some sudden crime passionnel. Archie didn’t pick up a gun and shoot her in a fit of rage. He went and found some tablets that he knew would cause an allergic reaction and likely kill her. He disguised them as something harmless. And when it comes to our mother, he’s already told you about hearing her cries for help and doing nothing. Sitting in that annexe, eating the contents of the freezer, watching films, monitoring Cliff’s high temperature, all while Mum was up in the house, hammering on the attic walls until eventually she stopped screaming forever. Does that sound like a heat-of-the-moment crime of passion?’

Noah knows she’s right. ‘Yes, I get that… I was just trying to say I understood. I can see why he did those things. But hurting me wouldn’t be like that. It would be cold-blooded murder.’

‘And those two weren’t?’ Archie says, raising his eyebrows and cracking his knuckles. ‘I’ve said it from the start: you’re a dumb fucking prick, Noah Myers. You’re not cut out for this life. You’re weak and naïve. We’d be doing the world a favour if we removed you from it. Just like Mom.’

While he’s been talking, Archie has been walking steadily towards him, and now Noah has run out of room. He feels his back meet the wall, but still Archie continues. Noah looks desperately at Cliff and Nicole. ‘You’re not going to let him do anything to me, are you?’

Both stay silent.

‘Please,’ Noah says, looking into Nicole’s eyes, tears pricking his so that her face seems to swim in front of him, lost in the darkness behind Archie. ‘Tell him not to hurt me.’

Nicole eventually lowers her head, looking away from him. She turns to Cliff. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ She holds out her hand.

‘Cliff! Please, stay here. You’re not like this, you’re not like your brother.’

Cliff takes Nicole’s hand and gets slowly to his feet. He won’t even look at Noah.

‘All that guilt you feel about your mum, it’s going to get worse if you let Archie hurt me!’

Cliff still won’t meet his eyes. He and Nicole start to walk to the door, and Noah turns back to the man in front of him. Towering above him. Taller, stronger, a mass of muscles visible through his sweatshirt. Noah doesn’t stand a chance against him, and he knows it. He’s never been in a fight. Never had to physically defend himself against an assailant. He knows, no matter how much he fights back, Archie will win. Probably sooner rather than later.

‘You’ve been such a fucking nuisance, Myers,’ he says, his eyes cold, his cruel mouth twisting into an unpleasant sneer, distorting his handsome features. ‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to enjoy this.’ He’s now up close, their bodies almost touching. ‘First things first,’ Archie says, then knees him hard in the groin. Pain floods Noah, localised at first, then it spreads outwards, causing him to shout out and drop like a dead weight, sliding down the wall.

Noah’s shouts turn to cries, and then sobs, as Archie pulls him up under the shoulders and hits him hard across the face. ‘Such a snivelling little child, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘No wonder Cliff has fancied you since college. You’re a match made in heaven, you know. Just like I said, you’re weak. Pathetic. Worthless.’

He hauls Noah up by the front of his top. The material rips as he drags him forwards. That rip signifies something to Noah. The tearing of an illusion, perhaps. An illusion that he’s comforted himself with, ever since arriving here. The mistaken belief that he would – could – ever control this situation on this island with these siblings. The belief that he’d be able to outsmart them or figure out their secrets. He thought it would be an intellectual exercise. In the end, it’s going to be about something else. Brute force.

‘I’m going to break your arms, Myers. And your legs. You’re going to scream and not be able to do anything about it. Then I’m going to stamp on your face, and if you’re still alive after that, I’m going to throw you out into the snow and watch you flail, unable to run, unable to drag yourself to safety this time. I reckon you won’t last till dawn.’

Noah feels blood in his mouth, his lips stinging. He tries to lift his head, tries to get words out. He isn’t sure what he’s going to say, perhaps to plead for his life, pointless though he knows it would be.

Then everything changes.

Right at that moment, Archie takes a step back, and his feet connect with one of the logs by the hearth, discarded by Nicole earlier when she was trying to build the fire. He loses his balance instantly, the log rolling from under him. He falls backwards, and Noah feels a rushing sensation, a huge surge of energy, propelling him to his feet.

He knows what it is. It’s adrenaline. It’s life. It’s survival.

He runs from the room. Through the pain, through the fear, the blood and the tears, he’s still able to run. Down the corridor, into the hallway.

He opens the front door, and the blast of cold air makes him pause for a second. He isn’t wearing shoes, and there aren’t any nearby. But there is one solitary coat hanging on the right-hand side of the door.

Noah grabs it and runs, heading out into the night, ignoring the cold of the snow through his socks. He isn’t sure where he’s going, doesn’t know if there’s any hope of getting off the island, wonders if he’ll be able to wade through the water if the causeway is flooded, perhaps even swim…

Then lights illuminate the stretch of snow in front of him. Headlights. Accompanied by a little bleep.

Archie’s Range Rover has just unlocked.

Noah comes to a stop and reaches into the pockets of the coat he’s wearing. It must be Archie’s coat, and the keys to his car have come close enough to unlock it.

He doesn’t wait a second more. Noah pulls open the driver’s door. It makes a cracking, splintering sound, ice and snow falling away, but it opens. He’s in. The snow on the windscreen is thick, making driving an impossibility. Noah wonders for a moment if he could hide here until daylight, make the others think he’s tried to make his way to the mainland on foot. But then he hears Archie shout.

‘Myers!’ he screams, close enough to be heard. Noah moves fast, finding the lock and pressing it down hard. Within seconds, Archie is there. The headlights and interior are illuminated, giving him away instantly, and Archie is pulling at the door and hammering on the windows.

‘Get the fuck out of my car!’ he shouts, shoving the vehicle, making it rock. The movement dislodges a chunk of collected snow, causing it to fall off the right-hand side of the windscreen almost in one piece. It isn’t ideal. It’s certainly dangerous. But it’s enough to give him a chance. Noah finds the start button and presses it. He looks at the controls, ignoring the shouting Archie still pummelling on the window, and finds the heated windscreen symbol and the heater fan. He turns them all on, along with the windscreen wipers. Then he drives.

The car pulls away from the house with surprising speed, taking Noah towards the slope that leads down to the causeway.

Or the sea.

Noah doesn’t know which, and he can barely see through the hundreds of flakes hitting the car. Archie’s shouts have disappeared. Darkness is all around him, each passing second feeling like a miracle as Noah realises he’s still on dry land, that the causeway is free of water. But he can only see a short distance ahead, and the winding curves of the road are a near-impossibility to navigate.

A bright, white flash causes his vision to sparkle, and the boom of thunder that follows makes him jump in his seat. The lightning illuminates the water in front of him. Water spreading across the causeway. Whether the tide is going out or coming in, he doesn’t know. He’s just hoping that the vehicle will cope.

But he doesn’t get that far. Although the lightning afforded him a glimpse of the road far ahead, the cost to his attention is too great. He misses the bend in the causeway. With a horrifying sense of inevitability, Noah feels the ground give way and the car speed forwards, hitting the water with an enormous crash.

This is the end, he thinks as the vehicle hits the ground below the water line, sending a ricochet of cracks across the windscreen. This is how he’ll die. Drowning in a flooded car, between this terrible island and the mainland, early on Christmas morning. Injured, cold and alone.

‘No!’ he says out loud. No. He’s not going to let this happen. He hits the unlock button and tries to get the doors open, but the weight of the water on the other side is too much.

He pulls himself round so he is lying lengthways across the front of the car and kicks as hard as he can against the cracked passenger window.

It might have worked if he was wearing shoes. But his feet, clad only in his damp socks, collide ineffectually with the glass with a dull thud that almost kills any hope and resolve he has left.

In a last desperate attempt to get free, he pulls on the handle, presses himself against the car door again, then again. Water floods in as he continues to push. The car makes a mechanical, groaning sound, as though it’s a beast, a living beast, surrendering itself to the waves. And allowing Noah to swim free.

He’s out. Swimming, swimming, heading for the surface. It’s less than a metre above him, though his limbs are so weak from the effort of escaping, it feels like a hundred miles. When he does break through the surface, he gasps for air, forces his arms to push against the water, but he can’t see the shore. Can’t find the road. Can’t see anything but snow and water and his breath freezing on the air.

‘Help!’ he manages to shout, garbled and indistinct. He tries again. ‘Help! Please!’

He knows this is foolish. Knows he’s asking for help from the very people who want him dead. But he has no choice. All he can think about is getting out of the freezing water.

He hears a splash. Then arms close around him.

His feet hit the hard ground. He’s in shallower water. He can almost stand. Then there’s a hand. A hand snaking around his neck and shoulders. And his face goes back under the water.

No, no, no, is all he can think. His pleas for help have killed him. He’s brought Archie to him, and now he’s going to drown in the grey, icy water.

But then he realises the arm around him isn’t trying to force him under the waves. It’s trying to hold him above them. He’s being pulled along as he floats on his back. He’s being rescued. And within seconds, he feels his feet touching the stony seabed again.

Things seem to be getting darker. Even darker than they were before. He isn’t sure if his eyes are open or not. He can’t even see the snow.

‘Stay awake, Noah,’ a voice says in his ear.

Cliff’s voice.

Perhaps he’s dreaming it, Noah thinks, tiredness spreading through him like a drug, a beautiful, calming drug. He could just give in to it. Maybe that would be the best thing to do. It would be so tempting to just… let go.

‘Noah, stay awake. Open your eyes. I need to get you to the road.’

He blinks.

He can see Cliff’s face. His arms are around him. He’s standing now. Standing on solid ground, trying to get him free of the water.

Another flash of lightning ignites the sky. And as it does so, he can see a figure coming up behind Cliff. A tall, dark silhouette. Getting nearer.

Then Noah closes his eyes again. And everything disappears.

THIRTY-FIVE

NOAH

CHRISTMAS DAY 2026

‘Welcome to heaven.’

Noah blinks. Light hits his eyes. Too much light. It hurts.

‘Where am…? Who are…? What’s happening?’ His words are slurred, his mouth unpleasantly dry. He tries to swallow, but ends up coughing. He sits upright and then wishes he hadn’t, a wave of pain and nausea running through him. ‘Where…? What…?’

‘Egyptian cotton sheets. Breakfast on a tray. Sea view. It could well be heaven, Noah. Perhaps it is. Perhaps you died out there, and I’m St Peter here to lead you through those pearly fucking gates.’

Noah recognises the voice. Even before the outline of the man at the end of his bed swims into view, he realises who it is.

‘Oh God, not you.’

‘Ha! I’m not God, boy.’

Noah closes his eyes. ‘I don’t want to see you.’

This earns him a tut. ‘Well, isn’t that charming?’ Turner Wentworth says, shaking his head. ‘After everything I’ve done for you, laddie. I saved your bloody life. I. Saved. Your. Life.’ With each word, he reaches forward and jabs Noah’s bare chest, causing a sharp pain each time his finger makes contact with the injuries there.

Noah opens his eyes and looks down, pulling the duvet away from him and examining the mass of bruises. It reminds him of a map of the islands. A map of pain.

‘I think Cliff saved my life, not you.’

Turner ignores this. He’s looking at Noah’s chest.

‘You have been in the wars,’ he says, sucking air through his teeth, shaking his head again. ‘That’s what happens when you go rolling about on rocks in the sea at night.’

Noah grits his teeth. ‘I think my injuries have more to do with your son’s feet. Kicking me. Stamping on me.’

‘I don’t think anyone stamped on you, Noah.’

‘He certainly wanted to.’

Turner rolls his eyes. ‘You’ve had some creative dreams.’

‘He tried to kill me!’ Noah attempts to shout the words, but his mouth is so dry and his throat so tight that the words come out sounding strangled. Weak. Pathetic. He hates himself then, lying there in a bed that’s not his own, once again at the mercy of this deranged family. If only he’d been able to get to the mainland. If only Cliff hadn’t saved him and pulled him from the water. If only he’d just let him drown. This final thought shocks him. He can’t be thinking this way. Can’t be writing himself off like this. He’s still alive. He survived this far. He’ll survive this next step. Whatever it might be.

Noah pushes the duvet further away and tries to swing his legs out of the bed, an action that causes him to grunt out loud with the pain. He sees he’s wearing pyjama bottoms that aren’t his own. It takes him a few seconds to recognise them as Cliff’s. He wonders if Cliff was the one to dry him and put him to bed after he convinced his brother not to kill him.

‘What’s giving you pause, Noah?’ Turner asks, watching him.

Noah shrugs. ‘I was just wondering why I’m still alive. Why didn’t your kids bury me in the garden? Or throw me back into the sea?’

Turner sighs. ‘Oh, don’t worry, all those options were floated. Let’s just say that the mental state of my youngest son may not cope with any added weight. He’s feeling the strain. Keeping you alive seems like a fair price to pay for his wellbeing. But…’ He pauses, and his mouth makes a chewing motion as though he’s considering his next words. ‘It is still a price. And I’m a businessman. I need to feel like I’m getting a fair deal.’

Noah waits for whatever comes next. Whatever it is, he doubts it will be good.

‘Let’s start with some positives!’ Turner says, louder than before, clapping his hands together. ‘First, you solved the mystery. Did what I sent you here to do. And for that, I thank you.’ He taps Noah’s bare shoulder twice. The second is more of a slap than a tap, and Noah grimaces as more pain flashes. ‘Sorry, sorry, son. I’ll get the doctor downstairs to bring up some stronger painkillers. Yeah, we have a doctor. Just for you. Good, that, isn’t it? I always take care of my guests. Speaking of which.’ He gets up, walks quickly around the bed and then, before Noah realises what he’s going to do, bends down and grasps Noah’s ankles, pulling him down again on the bed.

‘Hey, get off me!’ Noah cries, but Turner ignores him.

‘You need your rest, boy. You need to chill. Breathe. In, out, in, out.’

‘I’m not having a panic attack,’ Noah snaps. ‘I just want people to stop manhandling me.’

‘Noah, you’re safe. Nobody’s going to kill you, I give you my word. You did your duty, you caught a killer, let’s look at the silver lining.’ Turner says all this in a gentle, calm voice, like an adult trying to talk down a child on the verge of a tantrum. Then he cracks his knuckles together, and when he speaks again, his tone is brisker. ‘But the problem with silver linings is they’re only a tiny edge to a big fucking black cloud, know what I’m saying? So let’s talk about the cloud. And a big part of that cloud is dear little Archibald. Although, as I’m sure you’ve discovered, he’s not that little. He can pack quite a punch, that boy. But despite his aggressive nature, you squared up to him. You revealed him as a killer. Well done.’ He gives Noah a curt nod. ‘But the whole “call the cops, send him to jail” thing, that doesn’t work for me.’

Noah frowns, though he has a horrible feeling about where this is going. ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t work for you? Your son is a killer. Deal with it.’

Turner raises his eyebrows. ‘Deal with it? God’s sake, Myers, why do you think I’m here? Why do you think I got a helicopter out here, against safety instructions, during a fucking storm, if not to deal with Archie’s mess? That’s what I’m here to do. That’s what I’m doing right now, talking to you. This is the wrap-up, kid.’ He reaches forward and picks something up from the bedside table. It’s Noah’s paperback copy of After the Funeral. The one Cliff was leafing through when he found him here, on this bed. It feels like a hundred years ago now.

‘The problem with you, Noah, is that you think your story should end like one of these books. You think you should be gathering everyone in the library to do this big, flourishing reveal of the killer, like the detective would. Like the hero would. Then the killer is hanged or goes to prison, and everyone eats their cucumber fucking sandwiches and drinks their Darjeeling and life moves on.’ He drops the book on the bed. ‘The problem is, you’re not the detective. You’re not even the hero. You were, or rather, you could have been, but then Rose’s murder went and put a spanner in the works. And now here we are. With a new body in the library. Or the entrance hall. And someone needs to go to prison for the crime.’

Noah is trembling now. He isn’t sure if it’s the temperature of the room or the fever he’s sure he’s running or the words coming out of Turner’s mouth, but all of a sudden, he can’t stay still.

‘My dear boy, you’re shaking. Let’s get you back under the covers.’ Turner leans forward and roughly tugs the duvet out from under Noah’s legs and then throws it back over him. ‘I can’t promise you’ll have as plush bedding as this in jail, but it’s amazing how quickly you get used to things.’

‘You can’t…’ Noah says through his chattering teeth.

Turner looks at him with an expression of consternation, as though he can’t believe the fuss he’s making. ‘I don’t understand why this is a surprise, Noah. I mean, did you ever think I’d allow one of my children – a Wentworth – to go to prison? That was never on the cards. I think that was always your problem. You just went along with whatever was in front of you. You never really played the long game, did you? Never asked what I meant to do with my wife’s killer once they were identified. None of them were ever going to be punished for that, at least not by the long arm of the law. And none of them will be arrested for Rose’s unfortunate end, either.’ He gently brushes Noah’s fringe out of his eyes. Pats his left cheek. Smiles. ‘And why would they? Because you killed Rose, Noah. The sooner we can all agree on that as the official story, the easier this will be. Anyway, I’ll let you sleep.’

He walks out of the room. Noah watches him as he leaves, but Turner doesn’t look back. As he goes, Noah feels like his last chance of talking his way out of this is slipping through his fingers, and he can’t do anything about it.

Then he hears Turner speak again. But this time, it isn’t to him. He’s out in the hallway, the bedroom door not fully closed.

‘Phone the police. Do it now. Act like you’ve struggled to get through because of the storm. Then we’ll come up with a plan about what to tell them.’

‘Right. Fine.’ Noah can’t see the other person, but he knows instantly who it is. There’s a silence before Archie speaks again. When he does, his tone is full of venom. ‘You disgust me, Dad. You fucking repulse me. I know everything. And it makes me sick to think of it. I can’t⁠—’

A strangled, choking sound cuts off his words. Noah can’t see anything, but he’s fairly sure Turner’s hand has gone to his son’s throat.

‘Don’t push me, Archibald,’ Turner says, his voice low and dangerous. ‘Remember, I’m the only thing standing between you and a life sentence. So don’t you dare criticise me.’ There’s another gasp and the sound of movement. Perhaps Turner has released his grip.

‘Now do as you’re told and phone the police,’ Turner says. ‘If we move fast, our little friend Noah won’t be an inconvenience. He’ll be a solution.’

THIRTY-SIX

NOAH

SIX MONTHS LATER, 2027

‘I’m not pleading guilty. I didn’t kill her.’

Noah says this for what feels like the hundredth time and sits back on the uncomfortable plastic chair, feeling like the grey walls of the cramped meeting room are closing in on him. The room is sweltering, and he sees his solicitor, David, loosen his tie and fan himself with a wodge of paper. ‘Noah, please, just face facts. We’ve been round and round this so many times, and nothing’s changed.’

‘I know. The truth doesn’t change,’ Noah says, glaring at him. ‘That’s why it’s called the truth. I can’t just make up a story. I’m not like them.’

He hears David sigh. ‘They have witnesses saying you fought with Rose and pushed her. She also tried to send a text message, which failed due to the lack of signal, to say she was scared of you. They have your fingerprints – in fact, not just fingerprints, actual blood – on the box of paracetamol and the ibuprofen blister packs and the box they came from.’

Noah puts his head in his hands. ‘I’ve told you, of course the “witnesses” are going to back up each other’s stories. They’re the Wentworths; they protect each other. They’re closing ranks, and they’ve set me up. And you’re swallowing it all.’

‘No, Noah, I’m not,’ David says, sadly, shaking his head. ‘I’m just trying to make sure you understand what’s likely to happen when you go to war with one of the richest families in the world. They can essentially do what they like.’

‘And we’re just supposed to accept that and let them? Are you happy with that sort of world?’

‘Again, stop assuming you know my thoughts or acting like I’m your enemy here. I’m on your side.’

Paid to be on my side, Noah thinks. With a pang of guilt, he thinks of the legal fees this whole terrible situation is costing his mother and stepfather. ‘Don’t worry, Frank’s going to hire a lawyer to get you out,’ his mother said through her tears when she saw him for the first time after his arrest. ‘The absolute best. No expense spared.’ He saw Frank narrow his mouth, as though he felt any expense spared on Noah was a waste of money, but he said nothing.

‘It comes down to this,’ David says now, taking off his suit jacket. ‘Either you plead guilty and hope for a reduced sentence thanks to the mitigating circumstances we could try to put forward, or it’s all-out war with the Wentworths in court.’

‘Surely it would be all-out war with the Crown Prosecution Service. You’re not telling me the literal Crown is in the Wentworths’ pocket? We present our case, they present theirs, the jury decides.’

David closes his eyes. ‘I wish it were that simple. I don’t wish to be condescending, Noah, but you have quite a quaint, naïve view of how the law and justice work. It’s not how it is on TV or in those old murder mysteries you ask me to bring in for you.’ He stares sadly into Noah’s eyes, as though he truly regrets what he’s having to explain. ‘One way or another, they’ll always get what they want. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before. You walked into their web, thinking you were the spider. But, as it turned out, you were the fly.’

EPILOGUE

Noah waits for his visitor, watching the other prisoners doing the same around him. He tries not to meet anyone’s eyes. It’s best not to in here. He’s learned that the hard way.

Instead, he focuses on the stream of free people coming through the doors, making their way to the numbered tables. He recognises many of them – wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters, mums and dads of his fellow inmates.

And then someone appears in front of him who certainly isn’t a regular.

‘I wondered if you’d actually come,’ Noah says. ‘Wondered if one of your siblings would talk you out of it.’

Cliff Wentworth is in a suit. A crisp blue shirt with a black jacket. Close cut. Expensive-looking cufflinks. He looks like a businessman. Quite unlike the Cliff Noah met before. Only his worried expression is familiar, although his face is noticeably thinner, as is his frame. Less muscle than before.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ Noah says when Cliff doesn’t talk. ‘You were always smaller than Archie, but you look like you’re starving yourself.’

‘Your face looks thinner, too,’ Cliff says, very quietly.

‘Spoiler alert, Cliff, prison food isn’t appetising.’

Cliff looks around nervously. Noah sees his eyes flick over the other inmates, as though worried one of them will suddenly fly at him with a weapon. ‘What’s it like in here?’ he asks.

‘Hell,’ Noah says, not bothering to sound remotely reassuring. ‘I would tell you some of the things I’ve seen, some of the things that have been done to me, some of the things some of the staff do, but we’d be here all day and all night.’

This causes Cliff’s eyes to well up. ‘I’m so sorry, Noah. So, so sorry.’

Noah closes his mouth and swallows. Looks Cliff in the eyes. ‘You left me to die.’

Cliff leans forward urgently. ‘No, no, I saved you. I pulled you from the water. I made Archie stop…’

‘You also left me in the living room, knowing that Archie was going to hurt me. You and Nicole decided it was the better option. As though I were an inconvenience that your big brother could dispose of.’

Cliff wipes at his eyes. Noah feels the anger within him lessen, just slightly. ‘But yes, you did pull me from the water. I’m grateful for that. I wouldn’t have got to experience this amazing place if you hadn’t.’

Cliff looks unsure whether Noah is being nice to him or not. He coughs and pulls himself forward again. Then he says, ‘I’ve been struggling. With the guilt. I’ve tried to push it away. Dad… he’s given me a job in one of his publishing companies. In London. But I’m, like, really bad at it.’ He pinches the sleeves of his suit, as though it’s a costume for a character – a part he’s never wanted to play. ‘I don’t read books. Barely heard of Dickens and shit. They get annoyed when I don’t understand the words they use. I get the feeling everyone hates me. They don’t tell me they hate me, because of my dad, but I kinda know, if you get what I mean. I’ve tried to focus on it anyway, but I can’t. Can’t focus on anything. It’s like how I felt with the whole thing about Mom all over again, but even worse this time. I keep thinking of you inside here… and when I do, it’s like I can’t breathe.’

Noah wonders if Cliff’s on the verge of having a panic attack. With quick fingers, he grabs at his tie and removes it, slipping it off and stuffing it into his pocket. ‘I feel like the whole job thing is to punish me. And to keep me in London, too. I fucking hate it. I just want to go back to Miami. I want to surf. I want the beach. I want to be happy.’

‘I can’t help you with that,’ Noah says. His pity is limited, but he keeps his voice neutral.

Cliff looks at the table and lays his trembling hands flat on it. ‘It was all lies,’ he says, biting his lip.

‘That isn’t news,’ Noah says. ‘Which lies are you talking about? The ones about your mum, about Rose, about me?’

‘Lies about Mom,’ Cliff says. ‘What Archie said… it wasn’t true. About Rose removing the ladder from the attic. That night in lockdown, when she met up with him. She never went into the house. She suspected Archie was involved, but she didn’t do it. It wasn’t her.’

Noah lets out a breath. ‘I did wonder… well, I’ve wondered about a lot of things, a lot of scenarios. Especially about why Archie fell out with her on the night she died. If he didn’t discover she’d been lying to him about his mum – what was his reason for killing her? But then it all clicked into place when I remembered what I heard Archie say to your father. He said, “You repulse me”. He told his father he found him sickening. A father who was about to help him cover up a murder. Curious thing to say, considering.’

‘Yeah. His anger with Rose was about Dad. She… she never stopped seeing Dad, you see.’

Noah can’t help but smile at this, in spite of everything. ‘Wow. So Archie was sleeping with her for years… and all the time his father…’

Cliff nods.

‘I can see why that might piss him off. But typical of your brother, instead of breaking things off with her like a normal person, he decided she deserved to die. Just like he did with his own mother six years previously.’

Cliff looks awkward. ‘It wasn’t just him.’

Those four words cause a cold prickle to run down Noah’s neck. ‘What?’

Cliff’s breaths are shaking, his words getting so quiet they’re almost a whisper, barely audible above the chatter in the room. ‘It wasn’t just Archie who killed Mom. It wasn’t just him who knew she was trapped in the attic.’

Noah feels like he already knows what he’s going to say. ‘You knew too, didn’t you, Cliff? You knew she was there.’

Cliff nods, tears falling down his face. Seeing him crying takes Noah back to that terrible night on the island. The early hours of Christmas morning, when Cliff sat bunched up on the floor, sobbing like a troubled child.

‘I knew she was there. We all did.’

Noah’s eyes widen. ‘All three of you? Nicole too?’

Cliff nods. ‘Especially Nicole.’

Noah frowns. ‘Why especially?’

Cliff pauses for a few seconds, then says, ‘It was her. The ladder. It wasn’t Rose. Nicole went up to the house because she was worried we were running low on medicine – my temperature was very high from Covid, and she was concerned, if she and Archie caught it, we’d run out. So she went to the house to get some. I didn’t know it at the time, but later I heard them talking. I woke up and went out into the hallway. They couldn’t see me, but I heard them. Archie told her what he’d heard, how he’d sheltered in the house waiting for Rose and realised Mom was trapped in the attic, trying to get out. And how they still had time to save her if Nicole thought they should. I heard what she said… I’ll never forget it.’ Cliff wipes away a stray tear, sniffs, then says, ‘Nicole said to him, “I know she’s there. I pushed away the ladder. I watched the door slam shut.” She told Archie about going up to the house, realising Mom was in the attic and seizing the moment to get her out of our lives.’

‘What did Archie say?’ Noah asks.

‘He just said “OK”. That was it. That was the last thing either of them said about it. I waited for days, to see if they’d tell me or go up to the house to save her. But neither of them talked about it again, or at least, not when I could hear. They let her die. But, I guess, so did I. I knew she was there. I think I may have even heard her at one point. Shouting out. I don’t know. I could have imagined it. But although I was ill, I could have gone to the house to save her. Or at least tried. But I stayed in bed, and took my tablets, and drank tea and watched YouTube on my phone, while Mum got thirsty and hungry and… and died. Alone. I wasn’t part of their discussions. I never told them I heard. But I still did nothing.’

Noah leans back. ‘I don’t understand why you’ve bothered to come and tell me this now. Is it the guilt? I expect your dad keeping you in the UK has made that harder to deal with. All those memories can’t be burned away by that Florida sun. Perhaps he knows more than you think, and he’s doing that to punish you.’

Cliff nods. ‘He does know a lot because… well… he kinda had the place bugged. The house on Liar’s Island. He was listening and watching. Everything we said and did. He’s got it all recorded.’

Noah stares back. ‘So?’

Cliff looks around him, leans closer and says, ‘I went to Dad, told him I wasn’t coping, said the only way I think I can… well… go on… is if we get you out of prison.’

‘I do hope you’re not going to suggest some jail break,’ Noah says, grimly.

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Cliff says. ‘I’ve been getting very friendly with one of my father’s assistants, Clive. He works closely with Mark Stone. He’ll probably take over when Mark retires. He likes me. We’ve been, um, seeing a lot of each other. And over the past few months, he’s been able to get hold of the CCTV and audio recordings. I’m going to take them to the police. Show them that you didn’t do it.’

Noah feels waves of astonishment rush over him, coupled with something he hasn’t felt for a long time. Hope. Then something occurs to him. ‘Won’t that incriminate you?’

Cliff bites his lip. ‘I’ve spoken to a lawyer. Clive’s helped me get my own legal team set up, separate from Dad’s people. They think, by coming forward, I’ll be treated… I can’t remember the word. But nicely.’

‘I imagine the word is “leniently”,’ Noah says. Then something occurs to him. ‘But what about your mum?’

Cliff looks awkward. ‘I’m not going to say anything about that. I don’t want to go to prison.’ He looks around the visitors’ hall, clearly horrified by what he sees. ‘My lawyers think they can avoid it when it comes to Rose. But with Mom… they said something about “joint enterprise murder”, which scared me. So the plan with that is “no comment”, apparently. If they reopen Mom’s death, Archie might try to drag me into it, but he doesn’t have proof. Doesn’t even have any proof against Nicole. It’s all on him.’

Noah feels there’s a snag that Cliff might not have thought of. ‘And what does the great Turner Wentworth think about this? When he learns about all this, and I’m sure he will sooner rather than later, won’t he try to shut it down? Put obstacles in your way. Big ones.’

Cliff looks at him, and Noah can tell there’s something else still to come. ‘Dad has gone missing from his yacht. It’s going to hit the news later today. He was onboard with three of his mistresses. I know one of them has killed him. If I get you out of here, if the police don’t make an arrest, will you help me find out which one of them did it? After all, you are the Student Sleuth, aren’t you?’

Noah opens his mouth. Then he laughs. For the first time in over a year, he laughs. ‘Oh, Cliff. I want to get out of prison. I want to clear my name, for what it’s worth. But I think we both know I’m no sleuth. I was pretty awful at it on the island. That crime I solved at university all those years ago was just a mixture of luck and common sense.’

‘Then what do you want? What do you want to do?’

Noah thinks. Then he says, ‘I want to write. I’ve had hours to spare in here and it’s helped crystallise things. Make me think about what I want, what I actually enjoy. I’ve finished a book. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to do anything with it, because of being in prison. But maybe, if I had a future on the outside…’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve always wanted it, but never had the courage. It’s been, like, a secret. I don’t know why. It’s silly, but just sitting down for hours and writing has meant I can leave these walls. And if I ever get out – if your plan works – I’d like to carry on. I think it’s who I am. Who I was always supposed to have been.’

Cliff smiles, looking hopeful. ‘Well, you know where I work. I may be bad at my job at Matthews House Publishers, but my colleagues certainly aren’t. So, if I do get you out, we could… stay in touch.’

Noah smiles. He feels a lightness he never thought he’d feel again. A sense of possibility. Opportunity. Hope. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I think that sounds like a plan.’

***

If you were gripped by every twist and turn of The Christmas Guest, you won’t want to miss B P Walter’s festive chiller, The Winter Visitor! The perfect family Christmas will lead to the perfect murder…

Get it here or keep reading for an exclusive extract.

THE WINTER VISITOR

A COMPLETELY GRIPPING AND TOTALLY UNPUTDOWNABLE CRIME THRILLER

The perfect family Christmas. The perfect murder…

PROLOGUE

The man and the boy are looking at the screen in shock.

‘That can’t be…’ the man says very quietly, his words drowned out by the noise of the boat.

‘Dad, what is it?’ says the boy, pulling at his father’s sleeve. ‘Dad!’

But his father is busy stopping the engine. Navigating back, trying to find the spot where he saw it. The evening is drawing in. They should be home by now. His wife will be worried. She doesn’t like it when he’s out late on the loch. It’s not safe, she says. And she doesn’t approve of his new hobby, searching deep lakes, canals and lochs with state-of-the-art camera technology. He’d seen it in a TV series and found the idea fascinating. It had taken him just a week to get his boat kitted out with the expensive set-up. To his disappointment, his son hasn’t shown much interest in the ‘camera combing’ of the depths, as he calls it. But now he seems interested. Something about the way his dad is acting has caught his attention.

‘Just hold on a second, son, let me try to…’

He can’t find it. After all this time, he’s finally seen something interesting and he’s managed to lose it. He steers the boat back along the same stretch of the loch again and again until eventually his son gets bored and starts saying he’s hungry. ‘Let’s go home,’ he says to his father. ‘Maybe it wasn’t anything.’

‘It was something,’ his father says. ‘I think it was⁠—’

But he stops himself. He isn’t sure he wants to say what it was. Perhaps he shouldn’t involve his son in this discovery. He’s only eleven. And what he thinks he may have seen isn’t nice. Not nice at all. Not something he’d want a child to see.

But despite this, he can’t go to shore without proving to himself he isn’t mad. He stops the boat, goes to the iPad, locates the recordings from that afternoon and starts to scroll.

‘I said I’m hungry,’ his son says.

‘Just a moment,’ his dad replies. ‘I just wanted to check if…’

He stops speaking. Finishing the sentence isn’t possible. Not now he has proved he really isn’t going mad. The camera did pick it up. And it’s more horrible than he remembered from the quick glimpse earlier.

‘What are you looking at?’

He looks up from the iPad. Blinks, trying to think what to say.

‘Did you find it?’ his son asks. ‘The thing you saw?’

‘I did,’ he replies. ‘We need to get going. I have to phone the police.’

He sees the word ‘police’ cause the boy’s face to light up with excitement.

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ he says, slowly, ‘I’ve found something.’

The excitement appears to grow in his eyes. ‘Something good?’

‘No, not good, son,’ he says, taking out his phone. ‘Something very, very bad.’

As he lifts the phone to his ear, he tries to free his mind from the images he has just seen on the iPad screen. The image of a wrapped package, open at one end. A woman’s head visible. Like a scene from a horror film.

‘Hello, police please. I’m on Lemire Loch, Inverness. I think I’ve found a body.’

ONE

THE VISITOR

CHRISTMAS EVE 2025

The storm is worse than he could ever have imagined. But despite the wind and the snow, he just keeps going, his need to reach Lemire Castle driving him on. Occasionally he shelters underneath a tree or a bus stop along the road, but the cold makes him want to keep moving. And at last, he arrives. A place that he’s never visited but has been in his mind for months, now. A destination. A beacon to aim for. He’d looked it up online, but it doesn’t compare to seeing it in real life. It’s like something from a children’s storybook or fantasy adventure film, complete with snow-dusted conical spires and imposing grey walls.

He doesn’t have any luck with the doorbell. It either isn’t working or nobody can hear it. He walks around the side of the castle, heading towards an area of light falling on the fresh, undisturbed snow around the side of the magnificent building.

That’s when he sees them.

All gathered there, in front of a roaring fire, a massive Christmas tree covered with baubles and presents underneath it. He can see a plate of mince pies on a coffee table, one half-eaten.

A family Christmas. Something he’s never known. Not properly.

It’s time, he tells himself. It’s time.

He hammers on the window.

He sees them all jump and look around. One of them, the older lady, has been making her way across the room, but comes to a stop and stares over at him, clearly alarmed. The person nearest the window, a teenage boy, jumps up, as though he imagines the visitor might produce a gun and shoot his way through the glass. One of the men also gets to his feet and comes to the French windows. He knows who he is at once. George Weyman, the politician. Blonde, attractive, the hot-shot member of parliament, always smooth, always charming. Well, he doesn’t look so smooth right now, he thinks as he watches him fiddle with the latch and open the door. The curtains inside immediately start to billow as the cold air rushes into the room.

‘Can I help you?’ George says, his voice almost drowned out by the roaring wind.

‘I’m… I’ve come here because⁠—’

‘What?’ George shouts, leaning outside, his eyes creasing against the wind.

‘I’m here to – sorry, can I come in?’

George looks at him as though he’s mad. He lowers the hood of his jacket, hoping that will make him seem unthreatening. There have been many times in his life when he was pleased to be born with boyish good looks. People react differently if you’re handsome or beautiful. The Weyman brothers have probably benefited from this, even if they aren’t aware of it. But he has always been aware. And he sees the look in George’s eyes soften, even if he still seems confused and suspicious.

‘Who are you?’ George says loudly.

He wipes some ice from his face and says, ‘My name’s Tommy. I’ve come to talk to you. I started walking from the nearest village where I’m staying before the storm got worse. I would have turned back when it got so late but I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The snow is insane. It’s taken hours. I’m so sorry, I know this is weird, but can I come in and explain?’

George continues to hesitate. He looks back at his family behind him. Tommy can just make out a female voice saying, ‘Who is it?’ but George doesn’t answer. He turns back and says, ‘OK, come in.’

Tommy smiles gratefully and steps over the ledge into the room. George closes the door and suddenly there’s peace. A sense of silence and stillness he hasn’t heard or felt for so long, due to the hours spent outside, that at first he wonders if there’s something wrong with his hearing. But then he notices the crackle of the fire. The rustle of feet on carpet as the people on the sofas in front of him shift position. The boy is still standing, now on the other side of the room, and another of the men has got to his feet too. Ken Weyman, the action movie star, taking up a protective stance next to the lad. How strange it is, Tommy thinks, seeing him in this cosy, Christmassy, fireside setting.

‘Go on, then,’ George says, his tone brisk. ‘How can we help you?’

Tommy takes a deep breath and says, ‘Maybe I could sit down. I’ve come a long way and this is very difficult for me. And it may be difficult for you too. It’s just…’ He raises a hand to his temple.

‘No, you tell us first who you are and what you want,’ George says. When Tommy doesn’t reply immediately, he adds, ‘Right now.’

His gruff tone earns him a tut of disapproval from the old lady. ‘George, let the poor boy sit down and warm up. He looks half frozen to death.’

George still looks unsure. ‘I’d like him to explain himself.’

She ignores this, walking past him and putting a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. She steers him to the armchair the teenage boy vacated and says, ‘Now, when you’re ready, tell us what you’ve come to say.’

Tommy gathers his thoughts. Unsure which member of the family to focus on, he fixes his eyes on the fire, then says, ‘This is going to sound mad. It will come as a bit of a shock… but, well… I’m a member of this family. Your family.’

They all stare at him. Eventually, the lady to his left, the younger of the two women, leans forward on the sofa and says, ‘I don’t understand. How can you be? I don’t know you. Do my sons know you?’

He bites his lip, looks at the three men in the room, one by one. Then he looks back at the woman and says, ‘I’m your grandson.’ He pauses and swallows awkwardly. ‘One of your sons is my father.’

He hears her take in a sharp breath. ‘But… which one?’ He watches her turn to look at her children. The eldest, the film star standing with the boy near the bookshelves. The middle son, the MP, taking up a commanding stance next to his grandmother. And the youngest son, the famous GP, sitting next to his mother, his eyes red and wide.

‘That’s the thing,’ Tommy says. ‘I don’t know. And that’s what I’m here to find out.’

***

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THE NEW BOYFRIEND

You fell for him. You shouldn’t have…

He looks so handsome in the glow of the candlelight. I can’t believe I’m here on a date after our chance meeting. It’s like a new beginning. My son is grown, my life is settled. It’s time to enjoy myself.

But then he says something so shocking that for a moment I can’t even understand the words.

I stare at him. Watch as his charming smile turns cruel, as his sharp eyes glitter.

And in that moment I realise three things:

We didn’t meet by chance.

Now he’s in my life, he’ll never leave me or my family alone.

And I will do whatever it takes to stop him…

A completely unputdownable psychological thriller about love, revenge, and how far someone will go to protect their family. From the bestselling author of The Dinner Guest, The New Boyfriend is perfect for fans of T.M. Logan, Shari Lapena and Lisa Jewell.

Get it here!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to my wonderful family: my partner, Leno, my parents, sisters, uncle, and to Rebecca and Tom and all my close friends. Thanks to my agent, Joanna Swainson, rights director Hana Murrell and everyone at Hardman & Swainson, and to my editor Ruth Tross and the brilliant team at Bookouture. Thanks to Lizzy Barber, John Boyne, Sheila Bugler, Catherine Cooper, Fiona Cummins, Jackie Kabler, Rachel Lynch, Simon Masters, Lauren North, Daniel Sellers, Marion Todd and Michael Wood for all the WhatsApp chats and lunches that help break up the book writing. Thanks to Meg for our weekly Zoom chats. I’d like to say a massive thank you to all the readers and booksellers who have picked up my books and taken the time to recommend them and leave reviews online. I’ll always be extremely grateful.

PUBLISHING TEAM

Turning a manuscript into a book requires the efforts of many people. The publishing team at Bookouture would like to acknowledge everyone who contributed to this publication.

Audio

Alba Proko

Commercial

Lauren Morrissette

Hannah Richmond

Imogen Allport

Contracts

Peta Nightingale

Cover design

The Brewster Project

Data and analysis

Mark Alder

Mohamed Bussuri

Editorial

Ruth Tross

Charlotte Hegley

Copyeditor

Laura Gerrard

Proofreader

Becca Allen

Marketing

Alex Crow

Melanie Price

Cíara Rosney

Martyna Młynarska

Operations and distribution

Marina Valles

Joe Morris

Production

Hannah Snetsinger

Mandy Kullar

Nadia Michael

Charlotte Hegley

Publicity

Kim Nash

Noelle Holten

Jess Readett

Sarah Hardy

Dear Reader,

We’d love your attention for one more page to tell you about the crisis in children’s reading, and what we can all do.

Studies have shown that reading for fun is the single biggest predictor of a child’s future life chances – more than family circumstance, parents’ educational background or income. It improves academic results, mental health, wealth, communication skills, ambition and happiness.

The number of children reading for fun is in rapid decline. Young people have a lot of competition for their time, and a worryingly high number do not have a single book at home.

Hachette works extensively with schools, libraries and literacy charities, but here are some ways we can all raise more readers:

Reading to children for just 10 minutes a day makes a difference

Don’t give up if children aren’t regular readers – there will be books for them!

Visit bookshops and libraries to get recommendations

Encourage them to listen to audiobooks

Support school libraries

Give books as gifts

There’s a lot more information about how to encourage children to read on our websites: www.RaisingReaders.co.uk and www.JoinRaisingReaders.com.

Thank you for reading.

Published by Bookouture in 2026

An imprint of Storyfire Ltd.

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.bookouture.com

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Copyright © B P Walter, 2026

B P Walter has asserted his right to be identified

as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-80550-497-9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.