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have a driving license and a car, I don’t see why I should be a free taxi service.”
    “First of all,” I said, “I’m not sure that thing qualifies as a car. Secondly, Ella is lovely. You’ll be glad you helped.”
    Hugo snorted. “You insult Miss Lemon and expect me to drive you anyway? I don’t think so.”
    Miss Lemon was a yellow Fiat and the current love of Hugo’s life. I dug my phone out of my pocket and found a holiday picture of Ella in sunglasses and a strappy top, all glossy dark hair and a big smile. Holding it up, I said, “Want to change your mind?”
    “Show me?” He snatched it and peered at the picture. “What did you say her name was?”
    “El”—I paused—“la. Two syllables. Not difficult.”
    “Boyfriend?”
    “Not presently.”
    “Personality disorders?”
    “You’re in luck. She doesn’t mind them.”
    “Funny.” Hugo shrugged. “I’m not doing anything else.”
    “Excellent.” Now as long as he didn’t freak Ella out completely, we’d be fine.
    I sat down between Hugo and Tom, who had propped a book against the milk jug. He was leaning forward so he could scoop cereal into his mouth without even looking, his head practically in his bowl. Hugo, long-limbed like his father, stretched to grab a carton of milk off the counter and dumped it in front of me.
    “Don’t even bother trying to get the jug. He’ll fight you for it.”
    “Thanks.” I poured treacle-colored tea into my cup. I needed something more like rocket fuel.
    Hugo stole half the bacon from my plate to make another sandwich for himself. “So did you find him?”
    I didn’t need to ask who he meant. “No, and that was my food.”
    “You must have just missed him by a couple of minutes. Shame.” He took a massive mouthful and said, through it, “Dad’ll do you another one.”
    My appetite had taken a nosedive. I flapped a hand at him. “Never mind.”
    “You’ve got to eat.”
    “I am eating.” I nibbled some toast, which was dry and had all the gourmet appeal of loft insulation. “Did he say anything? About me?”
    Before Hugo could answer, my mother raced into the kitchen. I glared at him, hoping he’d get the message that I didn’t want him to say anything in front of her. He chewed his sandwich and stared back inscrutably.
    “Morning.” Mum grabbed a banana and started peeling it. “I’m late. How was last night? What time did you get back, Jess? I hope it wasn’t too late.”
    “Around eleven.” I appreciated the effort at being a disciplinarian, but I could have got back at four and Mum would have been none the wiser. Dad had always been the one who enforced rules in our family, until he became preoccupied with his midlife crisis, their divorce, and his stream of increasingly youthful girlfriends. I was used to bringing myself up, pretty much.
    “Do I look all right? Professional, I mean. But arty.” Mum worked in a gallery on the main street in Port Sentinel. She took it very seriously and, as far as I knew, had yet to make a single sale.
    I scanned her. Long dark hair in a ponytail, gray jumper, narrow black trousers, boots. “You need something else. A necklace or something.”
    “I don’t have time.” She smudged lip gloss on with her finger. “I’m late. The gallery opens in ten minutes. Or at least, it’s supposed to. I’ve got the keys. I’m supposed to be in charge. Nick should never have trusted me to be there.” She was on the verge of tears. “I’d drive but there’s nowhere to leave the car.”
    “Hugo can take you,” Jack said.
    “It’s the thin end of the wedge,” he said darkly. “I knew it would be a mistake to say yes once.” He stood up, though. Despite the cynicism, Hugo was a soft touch. To me, he said, “Did you hear what happened to Seb Dawson?”
    “Yeah.” I decided not to tell him how I knew. “Is he OK?”
    Hugo shrugged. “Do you care? I don’t.”
    “You can’t say that.” I had a sudden vivid memory of Seb’s blood on