“You don’t seem shocked?” When he didn’t reply, she continued. “Did she tell you she was going to do something like that? In her letters?”
“No, lass,” Reave’s eyes were steady, his gaze not leaving her face. “But life is hard, and some people get … all torn up by it.”
“Torn up is an interesting choice of phrase.” Heather felt rather than saw DI Parker shift behind her. “Mr. Reave, can you tell me anything about why she killed herself? Judging from the letters, you knew her quite well.” The idea that he might know the answer, that he could make her mother’s death neat and somehow understandable, and yet could choose to withhold the information from her … was unbearable. She took a slow breath, focusing on what was in front of her. What had her editor Diane told her, years back, when she’d been an assistant on the paper, fetching coffees and taking lunch orders? Ears and eyes open, always, Heather. That’s the first part of your job.
Michael Reave tipped his head slightly to one side, regarding her with something that looked suspiciously like pity.
“You’re her girl. I reckon you’d have a better idea than me, what was going on in your mum’s head.”
Heather nodded slowly, conceding the point. “Fair enough. It’s hard to lose someone that way though, with all these unanswered questions hanging over you. Maybe it’s the hardest way of all.”
Michael Reave said nothing. His eyes, she noticed, were a deep dark green; the color of pine needles against snow.
“Why did my mother write to you?”
“She was a friend. A good friend.”
“You knew each other for a long time?”
He shrugged. “I suppose we did.”
“I had no idea.” Heather forced herself to smile, although it felt strange and small on her lips. “Such a long correspondence, and she never once mentioned it to me. I … perhaps you can help me understand that?”
“Everyone has secrets, lass.” He was still watching her, so closely her skin was crawling. “It’s hard for kids to understand, I reckon, but even parents hide stuff sometimes. Your mother had a life before you were born, Heather.”
Her name on his lips felt like a threat. Heather looked down at her hands, suddenly desperate to get the conversation away from her.
“Did you confide in my mother, then? Was she that sort of friend? You see, the mum I knew never had any interest in crime, or murders. She wouldn’t even watch the news because it was too depressing. So why was she talking to you?”
“She was my friend. An old friend. And I have no one else to talk to here, lass.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.” An expression of surprise flitted over his face briefly, and she felt like she’d won a small victory. “Not now that your name is back in the news. Surely lots of people want to talk to you about the murders happening up north?”
He smiled slightly, and tugged gently at the chain between the handcuffs, so that they clinked together. “I know nothing about that. How can I? I’ve been sitting in prison longer than you’ve been alive, I reckon. How old are you? Everyone looks young to me now,” he nodded toward DI Parker, “like that one. He hasn’t even started shaving and there he is, giving me the evil eye.”
“Once I start, I’ll be sure to ask you for tips,” said Parker dryly.
“Ok then,” Heather leaned forward, catching Reave’s eye again. He smiled slightly, and she had to suppress a shiver. There was something in the way he looked at her; like a magpie that had spied something shiny in the grass. He was pleased by her, and she didn’t know why. “What about your own past? Can you tell me about the old murders, instead?”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out in front of him.
“Shall I tell you a story?”
Heather sat up straighter in her chair. Where was this going?
“If you like, Mr. Reave.”
“Michael, please.” He touched his hand to his mouth, hiding his expression for a moment. “Once upon a time, there was a brother and a sister whose mother died, leaving them in the care of their stepmother, who was secretly a witch. She beat them and let them starve, so the brother and sister ran away, far into the countryside, where they hoped to find their own happiness. But it was a hard journey, and they didn’t think to take anything with them, so soon they were so hungry and thirsty they could hardly think straight. Eventually, they came to a stream, and they bent to drink from it, but just before they did the girl heard in the babbling and running of the water a voice, and the voice said, ‘whoever drinks of me will become a tiger. Whoever drinks of me will become a tiger.’”
Heather blinked. The strangeness of the situation and his words were making her feel like she was sleeping through a particularly unsettling dream.
“Mr. Reave … I’m not sure …”
“The witch, you see, had cast a spell on all of the streams. The little sister said, ‘oh brother, do not drink from that stream, or you will become a tiger and eat me.’ The brother agreed to wait, but when they came to the next stream, she heard the water again, and this time it was singing ‘whoever drinks of me will become a bear. Whoever drinks of me will become a bear.’ Again, the sister told her brother not to drink, and this time he agreed reluctantly. ‘We’ll have to drink soon,’ he told her, ‘or we’ll die.’ Eventually they came to a third stream, a wide and welcoming one full of sparkling clear water, and they fell to their knees desperate with thirst, their lips all cracked and their mouths all dry. This time,
