Traces of Her

Tears appear on her lower lashes. ‘You know about that?’

‘That her real mother was murdered? Yes, I know.’

‘I brought her up, Rose. She is my daughter.’

‘You adopted her?’

‘She’s had a far better life with me – us – than she ever would have.’ She sucks in a sigh, as a resting tear zigzags down her cheek. ‘You may as well know how it came about.’

‘Go on.’ I lean back, feeling a tension in my shoulders, and the beginnings of a headache forming.

She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘So you know Willow’s mother was murdered.’

I nod, feeling fuzzy, as though I’m not in my own body. As though none of this is real.

‘Her name was Ava Millar,’ she goes on, and I don’t stop her, even though I know that much. ‘I knew the Millars from my time as a social worker. In the early Nineties Ava’s older brother was a difficult boy, and her mother couldn’t handle him. There was concern for the safety of Ava and her sister, Gail. They were eight and ten when I was assigned their case.

‘Although things calmed down when the brother took off to Australia, I kept the family on my radar, and heard when Ava got pregnant at seventeen with Willow – the father was a useless article.

‘When Ava was killed, I visited her mother. Jeannette Millar was a mess. Anyone would be after losing two daughters. Gail killed herself you see, after supposedly killing Ava.’

‘Supposedly?’

‘I never quite believed she was capable. She was a self-centred girl but, in my opinion, not a killer. Although the evidence was there – the note – her wedding dress folded neatly – the knife.’

My mind drifts to the photographs I was sent. ‘So if you don’t think she killed her sister, who did?’

She shrugs. ‘There were other theories. Ava’s brother-in-law, Rory, was suspected for a short time, but he had a sound alibi.’

I think back to the photos. ‘So Rory was Gail’s husband?’

She nods. ‘It happened on the night of their wedding.’

I cover my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say into my hand. ‘That’s awful.’

‘It was, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘A terrible tragedy.’

‘And the other theories?’

‘Well … there was Justin, Willow’s father.’

‘Her father?’ My mind is racing. ‘Is he still alive?’

‘I’ve no idea. He was a useless man. I hope Willow never meets him if he is.’ She takes a deep breath, and fiddles with her earring – a simple sleeper, she never wears fancy jewellery. ‘There were so many stories kicking around that part of Cornwall at the time, Rose. But I doubt we’ll ever know the truth, not after all these years.’

‘So when Ava Millar died, you adopted Willow,’ I say, bringing the conversation back to where we began.

‘Not right away – as I said Jeannette Millar couldn’t cope, and Willow’s father was useless. Willow ended up in care. I fostered her, and being part of social services, pushed for a quick adoption.’

It doesn’t seem possible we are talking about my stepsister – the young woman staying in Cornwall hunting for a killer.

I stare at Eleanor for some moments, before reaching over and taking her hand. ‘So why tell Willow now?’

‘I didn’t. Someone contacted her on Facebook. Told her everything.’

‘Who?’

‘Willow didn’t recognise the name, and there was no profile photo. They attached an article about the murder of her mother. Willow didn’t believe it, of course. She came to me, hoping I would tell her it was an elaborate lie.’ She lifts her head, dashes a tear from the corner of her eye, her voice crumbling. ‘But I couldn’t lie to her. I always said I would tell her one day, and it felt like the right time. But she took it so badly.’

I can’t believe I don’t know any of this, that Eleanor kept it a secret all these years. ‘Did Dad know? Does Dad know?’

‘He does now. He wishes I’d told him sooner.’

‘Maybe you should have.’

A silence falls, as she rises to pour a brandy. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’

I shake my head and get up too. ‘I should go,’ I say.

‘You do understand why I didn’t tell Willow, don’t you, Rose?’ she says, ‘Why I kept it quiet for so long. What good would have come of her knowing her mother was murdered?’

It seems vital to her that I understand. ‘Of course,’ I say, and turn to leave.

*

By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. What I’m not up for is a full-on argument with my daughter, who, going by her stance as she stands in the hallway, is ready for one.

‘OK,’ I say, before she can say anything.

‘OK?’

‘You can come,’ I go on, as I tug off my shoes. What I don’t say is her grandpa and Eleanor are going away, so I have no choice but to take her to Cornwall. That the last thing I want is her hanging about at home without supervision. ‘But if things get tough, Becky, we’re coming straight home.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says, lunging at me, and hugging me. ‘Yay!’

At that moment it hits me that I need her with me.

Chapter 13 (#ulink_c2e467cc-320d-599d-87f3-768d54cc46b0)

ROSE (#ulink_c2e467cc-320d-599d-87f3-768d54cc46b0)

Now

My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.

I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.

My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.