After the meal, my mother went upstairs to fetch a light sweater, and I saw my chance.

I followed Gavin into the dim kitchen, where he had gone to pour himself a glass of water, and I closed a little of the distance between us and asked him, plainly, “What exactly is going on in this house, Gavin?”

He did not turn around.

He smiled at the window over the sink, at his own faint reflection.

“These are private matters between a husband and a wife, Isabel,” he said, in a smooth, reasonable voice.

“It would be best if you did not involve yourself.” I did not let it go.