Page 95 of High Season

“I heard that Ryan skedaddled?” he says.

“He didn’tskeddadle,” Nina says. “We were planning to go back on Sunday. He has work.”

“We’ll see,” Blake says. He straightens, returning the wedding album to the drawer. “Sorts the men out from the boys, our family. Some people can’t hack it.”

“Can’t hack what?”

“Being a Drayton,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “People are interested in us, until they get on the inside. Then most people realize they aren’t cut out for it. The attention. The gossip. Looks to me like Ryan got out at the first sign of trouble.”

Nina doesn’t answer him. Blake pulls open another drawer.

“Maybe it’s back in London,” he says, distracted again. “Although I’m sure he had his will done here. The solicitors closed down years ago, unfortunately—”

“Blake,” Nina says, interrupting him. “I went to see Josie Jackson the other day.”

He stops still. His face furrows, as if reaching for a thought.

“Nina,” he says, and there’s a note of warning in his voice.

“She’s back,” Nina says in a rush. “And she didn’t want to talk to me, at first. But now, she’s decided that she wants to, and I’m going to meet up with her today, and I thought maybe you might want to…”

“Jesus, Nina.” Blake shuts the drawer, hard. “What did I tell you about leaving this stuff alone? Haven’t you got into enough trouble already?”

Nina’s mouth slides shut.

“Next thing you’ll be telling me is you want to do this bloody documentary,” Blake continues.

“Actually—”

He looks up at her, his face aghast.

“I went and did a preliminary interview,” she says. “On Monday, when I told you that I was going shopping in Montpellier.”

“For god’s sake.”

He sits down heavily on the bed, lowers his head to his hands.

“What did I tell you,” he says, thickly, his words muffled, “about talking to those people?”

“You said it was my decision!”

“Yourdecisionaffects all of us, Nina.”

He straightens. His face is flushed and livid in a way that Nina doesn’t recognize.

“She was my twin sister, Nina,” he says. “She was my best friend. I knew her better than anyone. Don’t I have a right to say who gets to talk about her? Don’t I get a say in that?”

For a moment, he doesn’t look like Nina’s bold, brash brother who always drinks a bit too much wine, always makes people laugh, always has everyone wrapped around his finger, always seems at ease. He seems crumpled. Broken.

Nina thinks then of all the other things that she doesn’t remember. Not just the night that her sister died, but the aftermath. The devastation that swept through this house. The long, slow process of putting lives back together.

But then, she thinks of her own life, spooling out in front of her. All the years that she has carried the guilt of sending someone to prison. How she knows, from experience, that over time this guilt will only get larger and larger until it consumes her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But I have to do this, Blake. It’s my life, too.”

There’s a silence. It stretches out for slightly too long. Makes Nina itch.

“Nina,” Blake says, at last. “I know that this documentary has resurfaced a lot of… a lot oftraumafor you. For all of us. But you’re getting obsessed.”