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I froze up, the panic on the inside suddenly matching the way my hands shook. I couldn’t even move.

“Good morning,” a voice answered, one that I knew better than I knew myself. “My name is Constance Scotland. I’m looking for my father?”

“You’re Constance?” Stewart asked, all calm and cheerful.

I bit the inside of my mouth, shivering in complete fear. I hoped it bled. What was going on?

“Dylan? Constance is here,” he said, like he was my new, wildly efficient PA, as my sixteen-year-old daughter walked into the kitchen and threw her bag on the kitchen counter like she lived here.

She’d always lived here.

She was taller, longer hair than last time, dressed in jeans and a sweater like any other girl her age, and she was smiling and then laughing as she slowly walked towards me, rounding the counter with tentative steps.

“You’ve got skinny, Dad. Last thing you need. Don’t tell me you’re on that Zepbound stuff? Mommy did it for a couple of months and lost so much weight that she looked weird. Luckily, someone told her, and she put it all back on in a few weeks. Crazy stuff. Anyway.”

She was talking in a weird accent. I didn’t like it. But this was my Constance, and she was here, and I had no idea how to deal with that.

Her arms were around me in a strangely familiar embrace, and I played along even though I could hardly breathe. Sniffing her hair brought back too manymemories, and the feeling of being stuck in some kind of twilight zone was overwhelming.

“I assume you need some privacy,” Stewart said, which brought me back to reality in a terrifying realisation.

“Don’t leave,” I pleaded. “I’m officially not allowed anywhere near the children, so I need you as a witness that I was not aware of this visit.”

“I live here, don’t I?” Constance huffed.

“Of course you do,” I managed to say. “What are you doing here?”

“Art trip with school. The rest of my class has a private session at the Wallace Collection. You used to take me there all the time, so I can pretty much recite every piece of art by heart. I thought I’d use the time wisely and come home instead. I have until ten thirty before anyone will notice I’m missing.”

“Constance,” I scolded her, but I couldn’t help smiling. She was her mother’s daughter. And mine. “Oh gosh, darling, I’ve missed you,” I said, wrapping her up in another hug. “How are you? How are Marmaduke and Phinneas?”

“How are we?” She rolled her eyes. “We live in a fucking serviced apartment with more staff coming and goingthan a Target. Phinneas’s nanny is leaving again, and he’ll have an absolute meltdown. He only speaks Spanish, did you know that? Even answers me in Spanish now, and it’s so annoying. Mommy hasn’t been home for weeks, and Brandon keeps turning up in the middle of the night, and I found another woman’s jacket in Mommy’s office. Like, it’s a shitshow, as usual.”

I felt cold. Absolutely cold.

“So your dad’s not allowed to see you, but you’re being raised by nannies in a serviced apartment, and who’s Brandon?”

I was actually grateful that Stewart was here, buffering me from the facts again. I’d become so numb to all this that it was almost like I was hearing it for the first time.

“I want to move back here,” she said, looking straight at me. “I can’t stand Miami. Too hot, too bright, and the fucking palm trees are driving me insane. There’s no culture, no vibe. I’m friends with a bunch of rich trust fund kids who can’t even spell my name.”

“Hmm,” Stewart said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

I had to laugh. Like that would solve anything.

“Anyway, whilst we’re on the subject of shitshows, who are you?” She was staring at Stewart with a look Irecognised. “Yes to the tea. Proper stuff. I miss it, can’t get anything like it in Miami.” My daughter was hardcore, and those absolute feelings of pride were back in my chest, mixed with panic and fear and a sudden realisation that she would shortly be gone again and there was nothing I could do to hold on to her, keep her here, safe and loved and away from all the madness of the world.

“I live next door with my family.” He reached out his hand. “Stewart Schiller. I’ve been helping your dad.”

“Not doing a very good job.” She snorted. “What have you done to the living room? It looks like a storage facility.”

“It kind of is,” I said. “I lost the office, so I’m working from here now. Jean comes and goes. We just took on a new client.”

I made it sound better than it was. It felt like a lie.

“I know you.” Constance was eyeing Stewart suspiciously. “You’re The Reuben’s dad.”

“I am.” He looked proud. I loved that he did. It was an emotion I could connect with, standing here like a bloody mute statue.