The old woman’s gray eyes were sharp and steady, searching Heather’s face avidly. For a moment, Heather felt close to weeping; close to telling Lillian about everything—the bone freezing terror when the police had called her about her mother’s suicide, the unending guilt she’d waded through every single day since her dad had died, even the haunting presence of Michael Reave. She opened her mouth, ready to spill all of it, and Lillian’s eyes widened, just slightly. For some reason, the eager expression on her face broke the spell, and instead Heather just smiled lopsidedly.

“Thanks for checking up on me, Lillian. And for the bread pudding.”

The woman nodded, smiling as she gathered up her handbag, but Heather had the distinct impression she was disappointed.

“Any time, dear. Perhaps you should think of getting away for a while, after the funeral. Some space by yourself, somewhere quiet. It’ll do you the world of good.” They walked to the door together, and just as she stepped outside, she added, “the Tupperware is dishwasher safe, if that helps at all.”

When she was gone, Heather served up a large portion of the bread pudding, reheated it, and then poured herself a large glass of wine. It was early enough that the sky was still light, but caught within its trees and bushes, the house itself was already growing the darker shadows of evening. Deciding to take her cue from this, Heather changed into her pajamas and sat on the sofa with the bowl of pudding, a pile of notes, and her laptop next to her. She ate steadily, getting through another serving and another large glass of wine, until she began to feel increasingly dozy. Soon, it was difficult to focus on her notes from her talk with Pamela Whittaker, and the pages of news websites were increasingly difficult to look at—all emblazoned with images of Fiona Graham. Heather yawned hugely.

She checked her phone and saw that there were a few missed messages from Nikki, but the thought of attempting to type out any sort of answer added to her increasing sense of nausea. Instead, she chucked her phone back onto the sofa—it bounced onto a cushion—and she stood up, a decision she immediately regretted.

“Shit.” Her stomach and the room seemed to be rolling in opposite directions. Two glasses of wine weren’t normally enough to make her drunk, but she had had only a sandwich for lunch. She chalked it up to low blood sugar. “Early night, I think.”

Uneasily she made her slow way upstairs to the bathroom. Blinking slowly at her reflection in the cabinet mirror, it was possible to see why Lillian had been so concerned; her skin was chalky white, and there were dark smudges under her eyes, like elderly bruises. Even her hair was greasy, strands of it stuck to her forehead. Grimacing, she went to grab her toothbrush only to find it wasn’t on the sink where she habitually left it, nor had it fallen on to the tiled floor. Assuming she must have chucked it in the medicine cabinet that morning, distracted by thoughts of meeting up with Pamela, she swung the door open—only for something to flutter out into the sink.