“Are you suggesting he killed her, too?”

Parker shrugged. “Maybe she just left, but we have every reason to believe it was an unhappy, abusive home.”

“That proves nothing.”

“True. The hairs and the location of the van are what prove it.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” said Heather. Her face was growing hot, and she felt angry. Parker was suggesting she had been taken in by Reave, like those bizarre women who wrote letters to convicted killers and ended up marrying them. She thought of her mother, and her stomach rolled violently. “Ben, you have someone out there right now who seems to know an awful lot about the Red Wolf case. Who seems to know too much.”

He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, we appreciate your help. I appreciate it. I know it’s grim, sitting in that room with him.” He stopped, sighing suddenly. “We’ve found Miss Graham’s body.”

“Oh.”

Unable to stop herself, Heather thought of the photo she had given Parker, of the little grinning red head with the smudge of cream on her cheek. The idea that such a fate was waiting for her, a few years down the line, was unspeakable.

“Was she … was it like the rest?”

Parker shuffled his paperwork back into a pile, signaling that the conversation was over.

“It’s best I don’t tell you about it, to be honest. You’ll come back? Try again?”

“You don’t think it’s pointless then?”

“I will take anything I can get at this point. We have to find this guy and stop him. Soon. Plus,” he glanced away, looking to see, she suspected, whether any colleagues were in earshot, “I’d like to see you again.”

Heather grinned. “You know, there are other ways to ask someone out. Ways that don’t involve a third-wheel serial killer. Call me old fashioned.”

DI Parker smiled ruefully at her. “Like I said, I take what I can get.”

CHAPTER

23

HEATHER SAT CROSS-LEGGED on her mother’s sofa, the terracotta pot in her lap. She turned it around and around in her hands, her fingers occasionally brushing over the ragged heart-shaped scratch in the clay. Nikki was pouring more wine into their glasses as she sat on the floor.

It was a heart. It was nothing. She could wander into any department store in London and find some sort of rustic crap emblazoned with hearts—coasters, toast racks, plates. Probably everyone had something with a heart on in their house, whether you were stylish or chintzy or utilitarian. They were weirdly hard to avoid.

Yet.

“My mum never liked this sort of thing, you know.”

“What?” Nikki took a sip of her wine and raised an eyebrow. “Flower pots?”

“Hearts.” Heather turned the pot around so she could see the scratched heart. “My dad was always so careful about what Valentine’s gifts he brought home for her. He always said she was fussy. But the more I think of it …” she frowned. “He gave her all sorts of presents, my dad, but never love-hearts and flowers. When it was her birthday, he’d get chocolates in her favorite flavors, candles that smelled of things like fresh laundry and sea breezes, jewelry and perfume and books. No teddies clutching hearts or massive bouquets of flowers.”