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There was still a tinge of red along Nick’s cheekbones. Joan told herself that it was from the cold. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around?’ he said.
Joan was rescued from answering by shouts from the house. Two kids came bounding across the road—two miniature Nicks, a boy and girl of about six. They had Nick’s dark hair and dark eyes. The boy had thick black-rimmed glasses that made him look like a tiny professor.
Nick jumped to meet them, corralling them onto the pavement. ‘Hey, hey!’ he said to them. ‘What do we do when we cross the road? We wait, don’t we? We wait and we look both ways!’ He tucked them close, an arm around each of them.
Another girl came hurrying after the kids. She was older than Nick. Maybe nineteen. ‘Careful!’ she said to them, echoing Nick. ‘Be careful, now!’ She had lighter brown hair than the other three, and her northern accent was more pronounced than Nick’s.
‘We’re helping Mary make chicken!’ the boy announced to Nick.
‘Robbie dropped it!’ the girl said. ‘On the floor!’
The boy scowled at her behind rain-speckled glasses. ‘You weren’t supposed to say!’ he said. He turned to the older girl: Mary. ‘She licked the skin! The raw skin!’
Mary sighed. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Holding hands this time.’ She held out her own hand. Unexpectedly, she threw a wry smile at Joan. ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Sorry to interrupt your chat.’
‘Hi.’ Joan made herself smile back.
Mary returned her attention to the children, beckoning them, and Joan’s eyes caught on her ring. It was plain black with no shine. Joan had seen it before. Nick had worn it on a chain, tucked under his shirt. Joan had never known it had belonged to his sister.
‘See you at school?’ Nick said to Joan. He’d taken the little boy’s hand.
Joan nodded. Mary. Robbie. The little girl must be Alice. Nick had talked about them—just a bit. Joan hadn’t known it at the time, but he’d been grieving their loss for as long as she’d known him.
She had a flash again of the kitchen in the videos. Of all three of them—Mary, Robbie, and Alice—lying still and dead. And Nick … Joan’s heart clenched at the way he was smiling down at the little ones now. He’d shoved a knife into their killer’s neck, face contorted with misery and horror. Joan would never forget the sound he’d made.
Joan couldn’t hold the smile. ‘See you,’ she managed. She turned fast.
She walked up the steep slope of the hill, pushing herself until the physical exertion overrode the tightness in her chest. Gusts of wind stirred up sticks and stray leaves. Heavy drops of rain began to fall. The wind carried fragments of conversation up the hill.
‘—that pretty girl?’ That was Nick’s older sister, her tone teasing and fond.
‘Mary!’ Nick said, sounding so much like an embarrassed younger brother that Joan found herself almost smiling for real.
High laughs and shrieks from the kids, and then Joan was too far away to hear anything more. Safely out of sight, she squeezed her eyes shut.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was okay, she told herself. She shouldn’t have spoken to him, but it wouldn’t happen again. She’d make sure of that. And the stuff she was feeling right now—she could handle it. Heavy rain hit her face like tears. She could handle this. She’d been handling it.
She was back here in the real world. No monster slayers. No monsters. Just her normal life at home. And that was how it would be from now on.
‘I’m home!’ she called to Dad. She was hit with warmth and sweet pastry smells: butter and pineapple jam and ginger.
‘Hi!’ Dad called from the kitchen. As Joan kicked off her shoes, he emerged with a plate of pineapple tarts. ‘I’ve already eaten five!’ he said. He saw her then and frowned. ‘Where’s your blazer?’
Joan slid her shoes under the rack with the side of her foot and grabbed a tart from the plate. ‘Didn’t want it all rained on.’ She bit into the pastry, cupping her free hand underneath to catch flaky crumbs as she followed Dad to the kitchen.
‘It’s supposed to be rained on,’ Dad said. ‘It’s supposed to stop you from being rained on.’
‘This is really good,’ Joan said with her mouth full. ‘Oh my God! How many did you make?’ she added as she saw the kitchen. There were dozens of tarts cooling on racks—on the stove, on the bench, on top of the fridge.
‘You give some to your friends!’ Dad said. ‘And we’ll take some tomorrow!’
‘Tomorrow?’ Joan said. ‘What’s happening—’ She stopped. There was a sticky note on the kitchen bench in Dad’s handwriting: Hunt family dinner 6 p.m. The jam turned sour at the back of Joan’s throat. ‘What’s that?’
‘Hmm? Oh. Your gran phoned this afternoon.’
‘She did?’
‘She’s invited us to dinner tomorrow.’ Dad rummaged in the drawer. ‘Down in London with the whole Hunt family.’
