Claire stopped in the kitchen doorway.
She was tall, with dark hair going silver at the temples.
She had Anna’s eyes.
But the shape of her face, the line of her jaw — I had seen that jaw in the mirror every morning for sixty years.
She looked at me.
Then at her mother.
Then back at me.
“Who are you?” she said.
Her voice was careful.
Not rude.
Just careful, the way people get when they already sense that the answer is going to cost them something.
“My name is James,” I said.
I stood up because it felt wrong to sit while she was standing.
“I was a friend of your mother’s.
A long time ago.”
Claire looked at Anna.
“Mum.”
“Sit down, love,” Anna said.
“Tell me what’s happening first.”
