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"Miranda?" I say, shaking my head.

"We're one of those annoying families who calls their mother by her first name."

"Right," I say. "So in a sense, you deserve all this."

Bobbie smiles, then fishes the lemon rind out of her drink and throws it at me.

"Can I see a picture of your brother?" I ask, wiping it out of my eyes. 

"Sure," she says, vaguely amused.

It feels like the fastest way out of here, and I'm not even thinking while she goes through her bag, because I know I'll just say, Wow, you're right. I can really see it.

Then she hands me her phone, and my face goes hot. I look at Bobbie, then back at the screen.

Heydon's got the same lapsed swimmer's build as me. The same brow and jaw. It's not exactly like looking into a mirror. His eyes are green, and mine are blue. But it's more than just a passing resemblance. It looks like he's stayed awake all the same nights I have. There's still some puppy fat left in Heydon's cheeks, but if anything, that helps the comparison. When this picture was taken, you wouldn't have confused us so easily. My cheeks had gone hollow when I was a boy. I'd been more wiry and sharp-eyed than this. But now my face feels like one route that his might have taken in the time since, especially if he'd kept up with the late nights.

"Right?" says Bobbie.

"Right," I say, shaking my head at the likeness. "How old would he have been here?"

"This was the week before he left," she says. "So twenty-nine." 

She leans over and swipes to the next shot.

There's a dazzling blond girl sitting on Heydon's lap. She's wearing a bright summer dress and laughing about something, completely unaware of the camera. And suddenly, it's like I've got martini for blood. It feels like I was born into the wrong life.

"Who's that?" I ask. 

"Ha," says Bobbie.

I look up, and a second later, I see it.

"I mean," I start. "Your hair's just so different now."

The woman sitting opposite me looks transformed from the carefree girl in the picture. She's thinner than that, paler too. Her hair's dyed dark as it can go, and she's wearing sunglasses indoors to cover a black eye.

"I just fancied a change," she says.

Heydon's smiling in the picture as well, but it's pained, like he's faking it for his sister's benefit. I feel bad for the guy, but somehow it makes his disappearance seem less surprising. Like he's the kind of person who might cut and run on you, or worse. Bobbie must see this thought occur to me, because she starts drawing my attention to Heydon's tattoo, trying to prove how invested he still was in life.

"See here?" she says.

In the picture, the tattoo on Heydon's left cheek looks like a teardrop. When she taps the screen to zoom in, I see it's actually the outline of a broken heart, as she'd said. It's upside down, a crack running down the center.

"Yeah," I say. "It's great."

Y'know. It's fine. The tattoo's tough and gooey at the same time; you could take it either way. But when Bobbie zooms out, I see Heydon's face again, that troubled smile, and the ink says something different to me. Heydon's not thinking about the future. He can't even see himself there.

"I did it myself," says Bobbie.

"Did what yourself?" I ask, looking up.

"The tattoo. I did it, prison-style." She knows it sounds funny through her cut-glass accent, and we grin. "Heated ink, a needle, an electric toothbrush motor..."

"Wow," I say. "Well done."

"Do you have any?" she asks. I shake my head. "I could do you one, if you wanted?"

"Yeah, sure," I say. "Tattoo my face." 

She smiles. "Anything in particular?"