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“What?”

“Yes. She feels like a burden.”

“What have I done to make her feel that way?” Dylan sounded as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach.

“It’s nothing you’ve done—it’s her. It’s how she feels. I don’t think any amount of reassurance on that will help, though it won’t hurt to try. It’s a product of her grief and guilt that she survived the accident. She’s got to work through it.”

“What about the delusions?”

“She said that’s exactly what it was, a delusion. I’m not sure I believe her, but I don’t think she’s having a psychotic episode. You should bring her in to see Luke next week. Perhaps he can dig a little deeper with more time. I’ll make an appointment for her.”

“Thank you, Claire. I really appreciate this. You’ve put my mind at ease. I’ll keep a watchful eye on her.”

“You’re doing a great job, Dylan. She just needs time.”

Dylan opened the front door and they stepped outside, continuing their conversation where I couldn’t hear them. A few moments later, I heard the front door close and what sounded like something heavy pushed up against it. Descending the first few steps of the stairs, I peered into the hall. Dylan was slumped upright against the door, eyes closed, head tilted back against one of the stained-glass panels. He shook his head, then glanced up and saw me watching him.

“How was that for you?” he asked dryly.

His tone made me smile. “I’m glad I’m not mad and it’s official.”

He smiled with relief. “Please, come have something to eat. After everything that’s happened over the last day or so, I’m famished.”

“Okay,” I agreed. It wasn’t fair that he was suffering too, and I knew this would please him.

Lunch was laid out—a chicken Caesar salad. As I sat down at the counter, I noticed all evidence of the medicine bottle phenomenon had been cleared away. Dylan had been busy.

“Where’s Lulu?” I asked.

“Gone to see her parents.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

I frowned at him and then understood. “You don’t have to apologize just because Lulu has parents.”

Dylan served me some salad, then took a seat beside me and served himself. I picked at my food while I tried to process the idea that Tristan might be a ghost. I needed some quiet time to think about this, but not now, not while I was trying to placate Dylan.

“Do you cook?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I used to cook at home. I’m not too bad. Would you like me to cook for you?”

“If it meant that you’d eat, yes, I would.” He gave me a wry expression, but his blue eyes softened.

“Okay.”

“After lunch, I fancy going for a walk. Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

Chiswick House was directly south of Dylan’s road. We walked in comfortable silence toward the gates. We must have looked odd. Me wrapped up in jeans and a big old sweatshirt when Dylan was dressed for the summer in his denim cut-offs, T-shirt, black Chucks, and sporting his Ray-Bans.

The house was a Jane Austen–style mansion from the early 1700s, sitting amid sweeping manicured lawns and majestic centuries-old cedars. In the afternoon sunshine, we explored the grounds at a gentle pace. I suspected that Dylan’s motive for coming here was fresh air and exercise—an old-fashioned cure-all. The thought made me smile. Normally, he was anything but old-fashioned.

Families and friends were picnicking. Children were playing on the lawn, chasing one another among the yew hedges. It was a poignant scene, and it made me think of Billy. The memory of his small body pressed against mine from my dream came to mind. I smiled, remembering his laugh. I missed him so much. Who would have thought I’d miss my annoying little brother?

A small white dog bounded over and dropped a ball at my feet, distracting me. I picked it up and threw it, and the dog dashed after it, back toward his grumpy-looking owner.