The trail led into her mother’s bedroom, and there on the dressing table was a small crumpled pile of darkness. A bird—a starling, in fact. A very dead one. The small cavity of its chest had been split open, and inside it, glistening unpleasantly, Heather could just make out more of the petals. They were the delicate pink of dog roses, just like on the wreath at the funeral.

CHAPTER

30

CATHY STOOD IN the entrance to the pub, for a brief moment uncertain what to do. Compulsively she took out her phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen, just in case a notification there could poke her into one direction or another. There was nothing.

Okay, she thought to herself, a hand resting on the door. Turn around and go home now, if you want, get back on the bus and send her a message saying you couldn’t make it after all. But if you do that, you’ll always wonder what she was like. Forever. That’s not really a choice at all, is it?

The door opened and a man stepped out, pulling his collar up against the cold. He glanced at Cathy curiously, then he was past her. The glimpse she got of the pub interior was warm and cozy, so after taking a second to push her hair out of her face, Cathy stepped inside. Almost immediately she spotted the woman, whose name was Jane Bailey.

My mother. My birth mother, anyway.

She walked over to the table, and the woman looked up. Cathy felt a smile break out on her face even as she felt like crying.

“Hello, uh, I’m Cathy. Wow. I can’t … I mean, it’s amazing to meet you.”

The woman didn’t look amazed. Mostly, she looked pained, and she met Cathy’s gaze only for a handful of seconds before gesturing to the chair across from her at the table. Cathy hesitated. Shouldn’t they hug? Wouldn’t there be a tearful embrace? She reminded herself of what her husband, David, had said; that this might be difficult in ways she couldn’t predict, and that went doubly for her birth mother. She sat down.

“Here.” There was an extra glass on the table. The woman picked up the bottle of white wine she’d been working her way through and poured a glass. “White okay? I suspect we could both do with a drink.”

“White’s fine, thanks.” Cathy took a moment to study Jane Bailey. She was a little older than she’d been expecting, maybe a few years older than her mum had been when she’d passed away. She was well dressed, with an expensive looking navy-blue turtleneck jumper and white jeans, and she had gold hoops in her ears. Her hair was an unlikely shade of purple-red—something out of a packet. “And thank you for meeting me. I understand that it can’t have been easy, but it means a lot to me.”

“I won’t lie to you, part of me didn’t want to come at all. I thought all that …” Jane paused, fiddled with a thick gold band on one slightly pudgy finger. “Well, I thought it was all behind me. That was sort of the point. How did you find me, anyway?”