“Thank you,” she said. “I hadn’t seen much of her over the last few years, but it’s been a bit of a shock.” She knew that DI Parker hadn’t told Reave how she had died—his idea was that hearing it from Heather might provoke some sort of reaction. “She took her own life.”

Michael Reave nodded slowly, not looking away. There wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face at all, and all at once Heather was glad she had had the guts to face him. He had to be linked to it all. There were answers to uncover here.

“You don’t seem shocked?” When he didn’t reply, she continued. “Did she tell you she was going to do something like that? In her letters?”

“No, lass,” Reave’s eyes were steady, his gaze not leaving her face. “But life is hard, and some people get … all torn up by it.”

“Torn up is an interesting choice of phrase.” Heather felt rather than saw DI Parker shift behind her. “Mr. Reave, can you tell me anything about why she killed herself? Judging from the letters, you knew her quite well.” The idea that he might know the answer, that he could make her mother’s death neat and somehow understandable, and yet could choose to withhold the information from her … was unbearable. She took a slow breath, focusing on what was in front of her. What had her editor Diane told her, years back, when she’d been an assistant on the paper, fetching coffees and taking lunch orders? Ears and eyes open, always, Heather. That’s the first part of your job.

Michael Reave tipped his head slightly to one side, regarding her with something that looked suspiciously like pity.

“You’re her girl. I reckon you’d have a better idea than me, what was going on in your mum’s head.”

Heather nodded slowly, conceding the point. “Fair enough. It’s hard to lose someone that way though, with all these unanswered questions hanging over you. Maybe it’s the hardest way of all.”

Michael Reave said nothing. His eyes, she noticed, were a deep dark green; the color of pine needles against snow.

“Why did my mother write to you?”

“She was a friend. A good friend.”

“You knew each other for a long time?”

He shrugged. “I suppose we did.”

“I had no idea.” Heather forced herself to smile, although it felt strange and small on her lips. “Such a long correspondence, and she never once mentioned it to me. I … perhaps you can help me understand that?”

“Everyone has secrets, lass.” He was still watching her, so closely her skin was crawling. “It’s hard for kids to understand, I reckon, but even parents hide stuff sometimes. Your mother had a life before you were born, Heather.”

Her name on his lips felt like a threat. Heather looked down at her hands, suddenly desperate to get the conversation away from her.

“Did you confide in my mother, then? Was she that sort of friend? You see, the mum I knew never had any interest in crime, or murders. She wouldn’t even watch the news because it was too depressing. So why was she talking to you?”