“Who knows what you were thinking, right? You must have been … you must have been out of your mind, I don’t know …”

Suddenly, the room seemed very warm and close, the silence too loud. Heather stood up, a little shakily, crashing hard enough into the dressing table that a bottle of perfume fell over—the stopper tumbled from the bottle, startling her further.

“Shit.”

The scent filled the room, flowery and thick. It made her think of the morgue, and specifically of the waiting room, which had featured several tasteful flower arrangements, as though that could distract you from what you were about to see. She shook her head. It was important not to fixate on it, that’s what her housemate Terry had said. Don’t think about the smell, don’t think about the wind whipping along isolated cliffs, and definitely don’t think about the particular effect that a very long drop will have on the organic material of a body …

“Shit. I need some air.”

Heather shoved the crumpled paper into a drawer where she couldn’t see it and headed back downstairs. She was on her way to the backdoor when the doorbell rang out through the house.

Instantly, the sick, tight feeling in her chest was replaced by anger. It would be someone selling something, or collecting for a charity, or chattering about god. Or it would be Mr. Bloody Ramsey. She swept to the door, already savoring the look on this interloper’s face when she said can’t you see I’m grieving, how dare you, and was startled to find a tall, well-dressed older woman on her doorstep. She didn’t have a clipboard or a donation box, but she did have a covered casserole dish in her hands and an expression of sympathy.

“Er, can I help you?”

“Heather? But of course it is.” The woman smiled, and Heather found her anger fizzling into nothing. She had very short gray hair, cut into a style that would be quite unflattering on most people, but she had strikingly good cheek bones and a long, handsome face. Heather could not guess her age; she was clearly old, older than her mother, but her skin was largely unlined and her bright eyes were clear and sharp. Mary Poppins, thought Heather wonderingly. She reminds me of Mary Poppins. “I’m Lillian, from up the road, dear. I just wanted to pop in and make sure you were coping.” She lifted the dish up, in case Heather hadn’t spotted it. “Can I put this down somewhere?”

Heather jumped back from the door. “Sorry, of course. Come in.”

The woman moved smoothly down the corridor, heading straight for the kitchen, her confidence suggesting she was familiar with the place.

“It’s just a stew,” Lillian announced as she put the dish down on the counter. “Lamb, carrots, onions, and so on. You’re not vegetarian are you, dear? No, I thought not. Good. Heat it slowly in the oven.” Catching the expression on Heather’s face, she smiled again. “I know what it’s like when you’re dealing with something like this. It’s very easy to forget to eat properly, but that will do you no favors at all. Make sure you get something hot in your stomach, every night. Colleen was a dear friend. She’d be pulling her hair out if she knew you were wasting yourself away over this.”