With all thoughts of social media sliding away—celebrity gossip could wait—she typed a few words into the search bar.

Google told her that the fancy name for different-colored eyes was heterochromia iridis. Apparently, it was reasonably common, and lots of celebrities had it. Mila Kunis, Kate Bosworth, some baseball player called Max Scherzer. People thought David Bowie had it, but he didn’t (his was a paralyzed pupil as a result of getting punched in the face).

Emily skimmed a few medical websites. Heterochromia was usually hereditary, but there were many circumstances under which it might be acquired. It could be the result of an injury, or some kind of growth. Google supplied her with an extensive list of disorders characterized by different colored eyes: Sturge-Weber syndrome, von Recklinghausen disease, Hirschsprung disease, Bloch-Sulzberger syndrome … Apparently, tuberculosis and herpes could do it, as could a benign tumor. There was also a thing called Waardenburg syndrome, a genetic condition that could cause deafness and changes in pigmentation, not only in the eyes but also in the skin and hair.

Alarmingly, the use of medicinal eyedrops could change a person’s eye color, as could blunt or penetrating trauma, a fact that chilled Emily to the bone.

She flicked through more sites, following links and opening pages until her brain hurt. Eventually, she took her hand off the mouse and ordered another coffee. Pulling at the dry skin on her lips, she stared at the street outside without taking anything in.

In theory, it was possible that Aurelia had one different-colored eye as a result of physical abuse. She could have been hit in the face or pushed into something hard or sharp. But Nina would never do anything like that. Munchausen seemed more likely in comparison. So, maybe Nina had been administering a particular kind of eyedrop as medication for, say, imaginary glaucoma? Hadn’t she mentioned on Emily’s first day that Aurelia’s eyes were sensitive? It would fit right in with all the other fictional symptoms. Hives, vomiting, bed rest for days on end—why not throw in an eye disease, too?

But Nina wouldn’t hurt her daughter. Surely she wouldn’t.

Emily pressed her hand to her forehead. She was sweating.

Maybe Aurelia did have a medical condition, but Nina was just lying about its true nature. If Aurelia had Waardenburg syndrome, for example, the thing that affects a person’s hearing, eyes, skin, and hair, there wouldn’t be any real symptoms per se, just physical markers. Emily thought about Aurelia’s shyness, her refusal to speak—but there was no other evidence that might suggest that she was even partially deaf.

Hearing, eyes, skin, hair.

Skin. Hair. An image flashed through Emily’s mind. Yesterday, when Aurelia hit her head, Emily had checked the damage by parting her hair. She thought she’d seen dark bruising, not just around the wound but all over the scalp—but no one could bruise their entire head, could they?

Her entire head … Aurelia’s hair was black. The bathtub had been stained, and the towel she’d found stuffed underneath was covered in dark streaky marks.

The truth kicked her in the gut, and she had to fight to keep herself from slipping off her chair: Nina was dying Aurelia’s hair.

If Aurelia had Waardenburg’s syndrome then, according to Google, she might have a streak of white in her hair, changes in skin pigmentation, and different-colored eyes. Emily had even found a website that mentioned a link between Waardenburg’s and “intellectual disability,” citing “unprovoked aggressive outbursts” as typical. It made a certain sense. Yes, that had to be it. Aurelia’s hair was dyed, her eyes disguised, and her skin kept covered because underneath it all she looked different. She behaved “abnormally.” And that just didn’t fit in with Nina and Scott’s beautiful, flawless existence. Emily had been right: Scott was ashamed of Aurelia. They both were. Nina was embarrassed to have an ugly, weird kid, so she hid her daughter away in a fantasy world where she was free to love her without fear of judgment.

Tear’s pricked Emily’s eyes. What was wrong with being different? Emily turned back to the PC and scrolled angrily through Google Images. There were loads of cool celebrities with heterochromia, and they were all stunning. Look! Mila Kunis? Gorgeous. Kate Bosworth? Dazzling. What’s-his-name, the baseball player? Ridiculously hot. Their crystalline eyes only made them more attractive. Jane Seymour, Elizabeth Berkeley, Kiefer Sutherland, Alice Eve.

And … a little girl.

Emily stopped scrolling, her index finger hovering over the mouse.

The photograph was familiar. It was different from all the others: not professional at all, and not a red carpet in sight. Slightly blurry and overexposed, it showed a sweet little girl with strawberry-blond hair, a button nose, and gaps between her bright baby teeth. She wore a necklace of yellow plastic around her neck and clutched a My Little Pony in her pudgy hands. In the bottom-left corner, there was a patch of pink rucksack.

Suddenly, Emily found she could no longer breathe. Her skin flushed hot, and her stomach dropped as if she’d just fallen out of a plane.

And then she was pushing her chair back, knocking over her coffee, and racing out of the café as fast as she could, blindly running somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter. She just had to get as far away from that computer as possible.

* * *

At the end of the esplanade, she jumped onto the beach and ran into the water, letting the tide splash over her sandals and up her legs. No. No. No. This can’t … it can’t … People were looking at her, but she didn’t care. Something violent was happening in her chest.

The photograph of the little girl was familiar because she’d seen it before. A sharp, seedy memory came crashing back to her: three years ago, at Rhea’s house, lying on the couch with a dry mouth and a headache, looking around to see several random dudes in the room. Beards, bong smoke, and the news on repeat. Everyone hypnotized by endless stories of shootings, child abuse, murder … and a kid. A red-haired three-year-old.

Over the sea, a big dark mess of cloud creeped and bulged. A name wriggled in Emily’s head like a maggot.

Amandine.

The case had been famous. She remembered it especially clearly because of the stupid birthday thing Rhea had made her go to that same morning. She’d stood in Rhea’s sister’s back garden with hundreds of toddlers racing around her, just staring into space and thinking about that photo, thinking how inappropriate it was that she’d brought the sadness of it with her to the party along with a potent smell of weed.

A spot of rain landed on her cheek and a gust of wind blew her hair across her face. The approaching clouds growled with thunder. Another storm was coming.

Emily retched.

L’Enfant d’Orage.

The Storm Child.

That photo had been splashed across every newspaper in Europe. It had traveled the whole world. The girl’s eyes were, of course, the focus: one brown, one green.

My husband turns his laptop around so I can see the screen. He shows me a photograph of a house. No, two houses, side by side, with trees, grass, flowers, and a swimming pool.

“This first one has eight bedrooms and four full bathrooms. Just right for guests. It needs work but not too much.”

We are standing in the kitchen. I look past the laptop into the living room, at the mirror on the wall, at our reflection in the glass. The perfect couple in their perfect home, heads bent together, discussing real estate over a bottle of pinot.

“I can just see it,” he says. “A secluded bed-and-breakfast. We could do most of the renovations ourselves. I’d build your dream kitchen—outside, by the pool, so you could look at the water while you’re cooking.”

The lilies on the island bench are dying. Their petals are thin and droopy. One flower trembles as if brushed by an invisible finger, then drops onto the countertop. Clumps of orange pollen go skipping across the marble.

He taps the touch pad on his laptop, and the picture changes. “The second house is smaller, just five bedrooms. Very cozy. Just imagine: markets on Saturday mornings, Paris on the long weekends. Just like you always wanted. It could be a fresh start for us. A clean break.”

Fresh. Clean. I roll the words around in my head until they come apart and lose their meaning.

“This house will sell quickly, I’m sure. I’ll organize the packing. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

There’s a faint ringing in my head: an alarm bell. “No,” I hear myself say, a touch too loudly. “I’ll do the packing.”

“Fine, whatever you prefer. And after that, we’ll go on holiday.”

My head nods for me. His voice grows faint.

“We’ll have everything shipped while we’re away so we don’t need to come back here. You can go straight from relax mode into new-house mode.”

“What?” I say. “I can’t hear you.”

“How about Nice? Nice is nice.”

The edges of my vision begin to cloud. I feel sick. My hands are shaking. It’s been too long since my last dose. I turn my back and walk away, heading for the bathroom.