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I frowned. We were no nearer to solving the mystery. “If he comes back here, which I hope he doesn’t, maybe you can find out then. And I promise not to interrupt you next time.”

“Deal,” said Tristan.

“I need to get those crates unpacked. Will you stay while I do it?”

“I’ve told you, there’s no place I’d rather be than with you.” He smiled warmly.

“I like that you’re here with me.” Feeling a little better, I stood and went to the door. “Crates, then?”

Tristan stood up. “Lead the way, Beauchamp.”

My first crate had shoes, boots, and winter clothing. It didn’t take long to empty it and carry the contents and pack them away in my new bedroom.

The second had my books, sheet music, and a couple of family photograph albums.

“You have photos,” Tristan said when he saw them.

“Yeah. My dad liked to use his SLR and a Polaroid camera, which I got to use too.”

He grinned. “My dad likes to use 35 mm. May I see?”

“My family? Sure,” I muttered and took a deep breath to brace myself for the sight of them. I opened the first page and there was a Polaroid selfie from Christmas years ago. My parents were wearing cringey Christmas sweaters—I had tinsel in my hair and must be aged around twelve, and Billy, angelic Billy, was no more than a toddler, his golden hair a halo.

I turned to the next page and talked Tristan through each photograph, and he listened intently, not stopping my flow once. I remembered poring over each of the albums after the accident. I couldn’t get enough of them, and it was good to look through them again. Occasionally, I traced their outlines, committing their expressions to memory.

“You are their memory keeper, Beauchamp. For all the Beauchamps,” Tristan murmured. “They’re very much alive in your heart.” His smile was tender.

I turned to the final page of this album and there were a couple of Polaroids of Dylan. He was so skinny when he was younger. In one, he was sporting pink-painted nails and I remembered he let me paint them that day. I must have been about eight.

“When was this taken?” Tristan pointed to the other photograph of Dylan.

“I think that was when Dylan was at university. He was so skinny. I’d forgotten that.”

He looked too thin, and deeply unhappy. It never occurred to me then that he might be suffering. But I was just a child back then. I snapped the album closed and moved on to my final crate.

“What’s all this?” Tristan asked as I removed my sketchpads and pencils from the last crate.

“This. It’s nothing.”

Tristan tilted his head, staring down at the array of art materials. “Doesn’t look like nothing. You can draw too?”

I shrugged, feeling a little exposed. “Maybe.”

“May I see?”

“Um…” I wasn’t sure if I was ready to look at, let alone share, any of my drawings. I knew there was one of my mum that would set me off if I saw it.

“Not the right time?” Tristan asked gently.

I nodded, and he gave me another warm smile. “I get it. Maybe you could draw me one day?” He posed as if giving a Shakespearean soliloquy, placing his hand on his chest and turning his head to the side in a sweeping, dramatic gesture.

I giggled. “Maybe I should take your photo. Then I could draw you when you aren’t here and I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious.”

He frowned. “Photo?”

“Yeah. Hang on. I’ll get my phone.”

“Um…”