“I saw that,” Heather broke in. “The stamps.”

“But the earlier letters are interesting, at least. Miss Evans, I think the key to this isn’t in the letters, but more his reaction to them. He didn’t know your mother had passed away.”

A cold shiver walked down the back of Heather’s neck. “You’ve told him? What did he say?”

There was a beat of silence as DI Parker took a breath. “Very little, really. Michael Reave rarely says anything much, which has long been a source of frustration. But we need him to talk, and quickly. I’m sure you understand why.”

In the kitchen, Heather frowned, wondering where this was leading.

“I can imagine.”

“He didn’t know about you either, that Colleen Evans had a daughter. When your name came up, his behavior changed. I …” DI Parker cleared his throat again. “I know we spoke about it briefly earlier, but would you really be willing to come in and speak to him? It’s not something we ask lightly, I promise you.”

Heather blinked. This was exactly what she had wanted, when she had initially brought up the idea with Nikki, but now that it was being presented to her on a plate, she felt wrongfooted.

“He’ll talk to me?”

“He wants to talk to you.” Parker gave a small grunt of wry amusement. “You’re the only one he will talk to. And as I said Miss Evans, we desperately need to find out what he knows about these new … incidents. If he knows anything at all.”

Heather looked up at the kitchen window, catching sight of her reflection. Her face was pale and her eyes were lost in dark shadows. She found herself thinking of her last day on the newspaper, and the feelings of strength and rage she’d had before it all went to shit. That Heather wouldn’t even hesitate.

“Can I see the other letters? The ones my mum sent to him?”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “… That may be possible.”

Heather nodded to herself. It was a start.

“When can I come in?”

CHAPTER

9

THE FIRST THING that was wrong was the cat.

Normally, when Fiona let herself in after a long day of persuading sulky teenage girls to throw a netball at each other, Byron would be immediately on ankle duty, curling himself enthusiastically around her trainers until opening cans of cat food was the only option. But as she let her shopping bag collapse onto the hall carpet—sloppily ejecting a rogue cabbage—the slinky devil was nowhere to be seen. The house was quiet. No ugly rattle of cat litter from the kitchen, and no guilty thump as he removed himself from the kitchen units.

“Byron?”

Muttering to herself, Fiona wrangled the shopping into the kitchen, flicking on lights as she went. Byron was a housecat, much too fancy, expensive, and, let’s face it, stupid to be allowed outside unsupervised, but he did occasionally find some new hiding place in the house, vanishing for hours. Once he had managed to squeeze himself into the open suitcase rammed underneath her bed. It was unlike him to pull a fast one at dinner time, however.