“What is it? What’s wrong?” Nikki took her hand and squeezed it, and with some difficulty Heather dragged herself back to the present.

When I was a teenager, someone left a Valentine’s card on our doorstep. I thought it was for me, but … Mum saw me pick it up, and Nikki, she went batshit.”

Her mother had grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her back into the hallway and slamming the door shut. Her face had been so pale, and Heather could clearly picture the dark smudges that had appeared under her eyes, almost like bruises.

“She yanked the card out of my hands and she tore it up, just like that. When I shouted at her, said that it was mine, she had asked me if it had been addressed to me, and it hadn’t, but you know, I was a kid, it never occurred to me that anyone could have been sending my mum a Valentine’s card. She was old, and married, and to kids that basically means dead, right? But …” Heather looked at the shards of the pot littering the floor. “When she was done shouting at me, she started crying. Locked herself in the bathroom. We never spoke of it again.”

“What do you think it means?’”

“I don’t know.” Heather rubbed her hands over her face. They smelt like the dirt that had been inside the pot. “Probably nothing. Come on, I can’t be bothered to clean this up now. Let’s go and finish our wine.”

Heather watched Nikki walk back into the living room. It was cold, too cold. She rubbed vigorously at her arms, and a violent shiver worked its way down her spine.

The card didn’t mean anything, except that her mother was paranoid about something, even at a time when Michael Reave himself had certainly been in prison, and in no position to leave cards on doorsteps—unless there was someone on the outside, performing little tasks for him. Tasks like romantic gestures. And murder.

Heather kicked one of the bigger shards of pot under the fridge, and went to join her friend.

CHAPTER

24

THE TWELVE ELMS Centre was a pleasingly gothic building, with white windowsills shining against dark gray brick, and all the more imposing under a sky filled with rain clouds. Heather walked up the path through the gardens, noting that they were well kept and neat, while the sign outside the building was narrow and discreet: Twelve Elms Centre for the Treatment of Anxiety Disorders and Trauma. Inside a cozy reception area she spoke to a sturdy looking man with kind eyes, who shortly introduced her to Doctor Parvez.

“You’re here to visit Anna Hobson?”

Dr Parvez was a tall willowy man with an advancing bald patch and large, old-fashioned glasses. He wore a beige cardigan that was both too long and too big for him, making him look a little like an absent-minded grandma.

Heather smiled. “Yeah, a favor for my friend Pamela. She used to visit quite often, I think, but has been rushed off her feet lately. You’ve probably met her?”