“Listen, I’ll tell you what I can tomorrow. If you can make it then?”
“It’s a date.” She waited for another laugh, but there was nothing this time.
When Heather arrived back at her mother’s house, it was to find Lillian standing at her gate, a large Tupperware box in her arms. Catching sight of Heather’s bemused expression, the old woman had the grace to look embarrassed.
“You mustn’t think I’m poking my nose where it isn’t wanted, dear, but you look thin and I’m worried you’re not eating properly.” When Heather opened her mouth to object, Lillian held her hand up. “I know, interfering old baggage, it’s not the role I wanted to play either but here we are. I can’t help worrying.” She hefted the Tupperware box in her arms. “Just a traybake. Something to line your stomach. I whipped it up this morning, and then blithely assumed you would be in. I was just dithering out here, wondering if I should leave them on your doorstep like a good fairy.”
Heather thought of the pile of washing up from the night before, the lines of empty tumblers and wine glasses. She winced.
“That’s very kind of you, Lillian. Please, come in.”
Once inside, Lillian took the box through to the kitchen and deposited it on the side, only glancing briefly at the chaos around the sink.
“There you are. Just bread pudding, but it’s good and stodgy and if you pop some ice-cream on the side it’s actually pretty good, if I do say so myself.” She paused and laid one warm hand on Heather’s arm. “I’ll leave you be now, I promise, but if you do need anything at all, you will let me know, won’t you? Are you holding up, Heather? I would hate to think that you were struggling, and I know your mother would be horrified.”
The old woman’s gray eyes were sharp and steady, searching Heather’s face avidly. For a moment, Heather felt close to weeping; close to telling Lillian about everything—the bone freezing terror when the police had called her about her mother’s suicide, the unending guilt she’d waded through every single day since her dad had died, even the haunting presence of Michael Reave. She opened her mouth, ready to spill all of it, and Lillian’s eyes widened, just slightly. For some reason, the eager expression on her face broke the spell, and instead Heather just smiled lopsidedly.
“Thanks for checking up on me, Lillian. And for the bread pudding.”
The woman nodded, smiling as she gathered up her handbag, but Heather had the distinct impression she was disappointed.
“Any time, dear. Perhaps you should think of getting away for a while, after the funeral. Some space by yourself, somewhere quiet. It’ll do you the world of good.” They walked to the door together, and just as she stepped outside, she added, “the Tupperware is dishwasher safe, if that helps at all.”
When she was gone, Heather served up a large portion of the bread pudding, reheated it, and then poured herself a large glass of wine. It was early enough that the sky was still light, but caught within its trees and bushes, the house itself was already growing the darker shadows of evening. Deciding to take her cue from this, Heather changed into her pajamas and sat on the sofa with the bowl of pudding, a pile of notes, and her laptop next to her. She ate steadily, getting through another serving and another large glass of wine, until she began to feel increasingly dozy. Soon, it was difficult to focus on her notes from her talk with Pamela Whittaker, and the pages of news websites were increasingly difficult to look at—all emblazoned with images of Fiona Graham. Heather yawned hugely.
She checked her phone and saw that there were a few missed messages from Nikki, but the thought of attempting to type out any sort of answer added to her increasing sense of nausea. Instead, she chucked her phone back onto the sofa—it bounced onto a cushion—and she stood up, a decision she immediately regretted.
“Shit.” Her stomach and the room seemed to be rolling in opposite directions. Two glasses of wine weren’t normally enough to make her drunk, but she had had only a sandwich for lunch. She chalked it up to low blood sugar. “Early night, I think.”
Uneasily she made her slow way upstairs to the bathroom. Blinking slowly at her reflection in the cabinet mirror, it was possible to see why Lillian had been so concerned; her skin was chalky white, and there were dark smudges under her eyes, like elderly bruises. Even her hair was greasy, strands of it stuck to her forehead. Grimacing, she went to grab her toothbrush only to find it wasn’t on the sink where she habitually left it, nor had it fallen on to the tiled floor. Assuming she must have chucked it in the medicine cabinet that morning, distracted by thoughts of meeting up with Pamela, she swung the door open—only for something to flutter out into the sink.
It was a piece of lilac paper, and a handful of brown feathers. Bile rising rapidly at the back of her throat, Heather hooked the paper out of the sink before it could absorb any more droplets of water. Turning it over, she saw the little printed wren at the top of the page—the same paper, she realized, her mother had written her suicide note on. There was a small note written on it in black ballpoint pen, printed carefully in block capitals.
“So?” she said to the room at large. “Just a bit of paper she left lying around. And the feathers are from that bloody bird. That’s all.”
Even so, her stomach was churning before she read the words.
I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, AND I THINK YOU DO TOO
And underneath that, a tiny black heart.
CHAPTER18
BEFORE
MICHAEL GREW TALLER and stronger at a tremendous rate, putting on a layer of muscle and
