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Why is it familiar?

Breathing in a lungful, I gazed, perplexed, around the room. It made no sense. Perhaps I was imagining it. I shook my head, frustrated at myself, but inhaled once more. It was lovely, and it had a soothing, calming effect. I laid down, drinking it in, and soon I was asleep.

Chapter III Seventeen

When I woke the next morning, I stretched out, feeling rested for the first time in ages. I opened my eyes and looked around at my white, clinical surroundings.

Where am I?

Oh, yes. At Dylan’s. My family’s gone.

My grief hit me like a freight train, and closing my eyes, I took a deep breath to try to distill my sorrow and compose myself. I turned to look at my family’s photograph and the sight of their laughing faces helped to calm me.

“Hi,” I whispered. “I miss you.”

A lump swelled in my throat, and I knew that my grief hovered too close to the surface.

Where was Numb when I needed her?

To distract myself, I threw back the duvet, clambered quickly out of bed, and staggered over to the window to throw open the shutters. Outside, it was a glorious summer’s day. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I glanced down at my legs. I was still wearing my T-shirt and underwear from yesterday but not my jeans. Puzzled, I looked around the room and spied them neatly folded at the end of the bed.

How weird!

I didn’t remember taking them off. In fact, I thought I fell asleep on top of the bed with my jeans on.

Oh no!

Did Dylan… No!

The thought that Doctor Dyl might have undressed me was too mortifying to contemplate, but he’d never done that before so it was unlikely. Maybe I took them off and I’d forgotten because of the sleeping pills.

I shook off the awkward, unsettling feeling and examined my still-packed suitcases. It was a daunting task, but rather than think about my jeans, I set about unpacking the rest of my clothes and putting them away.

Finishing the job was an issue because I didn’t have enough space in the chest of drawers. I abandoned my second, half-full suitcase and headed for the bathroom.

After my shower, I wrapped myself in an enormous white towel, brushed my teeth, then scampered back to the bedroom. I didn’t want Doctor Dyl to catch me on the landing without clothes; the thought was too disturbing. I dried myself, then dressed in my folded jeans, a clean T-shirt, a sweat top, and trainers. Drying my hair would take an age, so I tied it into its usual tight plait and let it fall down my back.

As I left the room to face Doctor Dyl, I caught a hint of the strange fragrance again.

What is it?

It was my imagination. That was the only explanation that fit. This smell was another symptom of my grief. My brain was doing odd things.

Dylan was in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading what looked like a newspaper on his iPad. He glanced up and offered me a cautious smile when I entered. Dressed in a gray T-shirt, cut-off jeans, and a pair of black Birkenstocks, his grave regard did not match his casual clothes.

“You look well rested,” he said, his voice soft with uncertainty.

“I slept well, thank you.” I forced a smile, and his face softened as he relaxed.

“Good. Your things should arrive today.”

I frowned, testing my reaction to this news as I filled the kettle to make tea. Dylan had spent a great deal of time meticulously packing up the contents of my bedroom in Kent: my cello, my books, my possessions. I’d sat in my rocking chair, staring into space while he did. As the executor of my parents’ will, he’d gone through all their papers with painstaking care. He’d written dozens of emails and letters and made numerous phone calls to sort their affairs. I’d had to sign several papers, and I know he’d told me at the time what they were, but his words had just hung in the air until they evaporated into the ether. While he’d worked, I’d sat in the living room and stared unseeing out the window, or I’d absented myself and taken long walks around the village. That was all I’d been capable of.

We hadn’t touched the rest of the house. I recalled his dark, muttered comment—“This is a long-term project”—as he’d surveyed the chaos and clutter of the living areas. The shelves crammed with books, photographs, and souvenirs, the cupboards full of… stuff. The stuff that took a short lifetime to collect. The sum of their lives was now lying unused in my old home in Kent.

The thought was a sobering and sad one.

Now seeing how tidy and minimalist Dylan’s own house was, I could only imagine how completely freaked out he’d been by the anarchy of my parents’ home.