“Huh. I don’t remember anything like that.”

“As far as we can tell, they didn’t speak to your mother, or your father, and there’s no obvious connection between them.”

Heather shook her head. “Isn’t that weird though? I mean, it’s a huge coincidence that they went to a fête and sat and ate cake with the woman who used to know the man who …” She squeezed her eyes shut; shifting all the facts into place was giving her a headache. “The man who inspired the killer who murdered their daughter?”

“The woman who had been writing to Michael Reave for decades,” he corrected her, and Heather shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen. “Yeah, we think it’s a strange coincidence, too. We’re going back through the letters you gave us, and the ones Reave has from your mother, in case we can draw any more connections between your mother and the victims.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry to ask this, but … what was your relationship like with your mother?”

Heather leaned back, almost laughing then swallowing it down hard. “Do you think that’s a fair question to be asking me right now?”

“I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve got women being … Look, I had to talk to another father about his daughter today, and we had to ask him to identify her belongings, only there were spots of blood …” His voice was tight with emotion, and Heather felt a swift pang of desire for him. “He’s going to do it again, and probably very soon. We need to get the jump on him.”

“You’re right.” She looked down at the kitchen tiles. “Look, I left home when I was sixteen, not long after my dad died. I barely spoke to my mum after that—just the occasional awkward phone call when a relative died, that sort of thing. We weren’t close. She sent me Christmas cards.” Quite out of nowhere, it became difficult to speak. Her throat felt stuffed with feathers. “Christ, it was a bloody mess, if you want the truth.”

“Do you think it’s possible she was picking the victims somehow?”

For a long time, Heather didn’t say anything at all. There was a rushing noise in her ears, and a terrible thumping behind her eyes. I know what you are, and I think you know too. She could picture her mother, crouched over a terracotta pot with a knife in one hand, her face twisted with some unknowable emotion.

“Heather?”

“I don’t know what to say to that, Ben. Of course, I don’t think she was picking these women. I can’t believe my mother was involved at all. But what if the link is my family? My mother?” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to think that way, but that photo, and my mum’s suicide …”

He turned slightly toward her, looking concerned. “If there is a link, Heather, we’ll find it.”

“I know, you’re right. I just …” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, thinking hard. What if this was a story for the paper? What questions would you ask? “All right, what else? What other things can we reasonably assume about this new killer?”