The Radleys by Matt Haig

kitchen, realizing she must look as somber as a pal bearer. Clara isn’t there, but in a way Helen wishes she were, if only to give her a way to divert herself from Rowan’s questioning face.
    “Who is it?” he asks.
    “It’s your uncle.”
    “Uncle? What uncle?”
    Rowan is confused. He has always been told his parents were only children.
    And then his dad and the mystery uncle appear. Peter smiles sheepishly. “Okay, this is my . . .
    brother, Wil .”
    Rowan is hurt and doesn’t respond to his uncle’s smile. Helen imagines what he’s thinking: One more lie in a life brimming with them.
    To her dismay, Wil sits himself down in Peter’s chair and looks at the exotic landscape of cereal boxes and cold slices in the toast rack.
    “So, this is . . . breakfast,” says Wil , with poorly concealed disdain.
    Helen looks in desperation at the scene before her. She is desperate to say a mil ion things to Wil , but she can’t utter a word. He has to go away. Peter has to get him to go away. She tugs on her husband’s shirt as she walks out of the room.
    “We have to get him out of here.”
    “Helen, calm down. It’s al right.”
    “I can’t believe you left that message. I can’t believe you did that. I mean, how stupid.”
    Peter is angry now, a hand kneading his forehead. “For Christ’s sake, Helen. He’s my brother . I don’t get it. Why do you just unravel like this when you see him?”
    Helen tries to slow her voice to a normal pace as she peeks through the doorway. “I’m not unraveling. I’m raveled. It’s just . . . God, the last time we saw him we were . . . you know . He’s our past. He’s the rot we left behind when we moved here.”
    “Don’t be so melodramatic. Listen, he can help. With al this Clara business. You remember what he’s like. With people. With the police. He can persuade people, charm them.”
    “Blood minding? Is that what you’re advocating?”
    “Maybe. Yes.”
    She looks at her husband and wonders how much blood he had last night.
    “Wel , right now he’s under our roof charming our vulnerable son. He could tel him anything.”
    Peter looks at her like she’s hysterical. “Helen, come on. Vampires can’t blood-mind vampires.
    He can’t make Rowan believe anything that’s not true.”
    This only seems to make Helen more agitated. She shakes her head furiously. “He’s got to go.
    He’s got to go. Go. Get rid of him. Before he—” She stops, remembering how little Peter real y knows. “Just get rid of him .”
    Rowan watches his uncle bite into a cold piece of whole wheat toast.
    There is a slight resemblance to his father, he realizes, but he has to do quite a lot of Photoshopping in his mind to real y see it. He has to take away the three-day beard and the raincoat and the battered black biker boots. He has to add quite a bit of weight to Wil ’s face and stomach, and age his skin a decade or so, and imagine him with shorter hair, and exchange the Nico T-shirt for a shirt with a col ar and put a dul gleam in his eyes. If he did al that, he would get someone vaguely similar to his father.
    “Carbohydrates,” says Wil , referring to the toast he’s eating. He makes no effort to close his mouth. “I tend to neglect them, as a food group.”
    The awkwardness Rowan feels, sitting at the breakfast table with a wild-looking stranger who is also a blood relative, just about keeps a lid on the anger.
    Wil swal ows, waves the slice of toast vaguely toward him. “You didn’t know about me, did you?
    I could tel by your face when I walked in . . .”
    “No.”
    “Wel , don’t be too hard on your mum and dad. I don’t blame them, real y. There’s a lot of history there. A lot of bad blood. And a lot of good blood too. They didn’t always have principles, you see.”
    “So you’re stil a—”
    His uncle makes a show of being embarrassed. “ Vampire ? Such a provocative word, wrapped in too many clichés and girly novels. But, yes, afraid I am. A ful