The doorbell rings twice, a polite, measured sound that vibrates through the Edwardian hallway. Iris stands by the kitchen island, counting backwards from ten as the kettle clicks off. It is twenty past nine on a wet Tuesday, and Daniel is already at the office. She pulls her oatmeal cardigan tighter, her hazel eyes settling on the fanlight where the grey Surrey rain slicks the glass. Strangers ring twice; friends only once.
She opens the heavy pine door to a wall of damp October air. A woman stands on the tessellated tile doorstep, ash-blonde hair cut sharply to her jaw and a camel wool coat darkened by the drizzle. Beside her, two small children stare up with quiet, unnerving curiosity. The woman doesn’t smile. She looks at Iris with a tired, blue-eyed softness that feels like a claim already made. At her feet sits a worn navy leather overnight bag, its brass buckle tarnished.
'I’m Helena,' the woman says, her voice barely rising above the hiss of the rain. 'Helena Calloway.' The boy at her side steps over the threshold, his gaze fixed on the wedding photograph on the hall table. He asks where Daddy is. Iris feels the hallway tilt, her knuckles whitening on the brass handle. Helena reaches into her damp trench coat and begins to draw out a small, navy-blue booklet.
