“You need to talk to him about how you’re feeling, Izzy. About feeling angry—all of it.”

“No way!” Izzy jumped to her feet, panicked. “I can’t—you have no idea—there’s stuff—other stuff—”

“Okay, okay—” Flora lifted a hand “—but it might help to talk to someone.” And Flora knew for sure she wasn’t the right person. “How about Aunt Clare?”

Izzy stared at her, chest rising and falling as she breathed. “Aunt Clare?”

“Yes. She’s known you forever and she loves you. You could tell her everything that is on your mind. All of it. Get it off your chest. Even if she can’t help, I’m sure she’d be a good listener.”

Izzy didn’t answer for a minute. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Think about it.” Flora zipped up her backpack. “If nothing else, it might make you feel better to have shared it. Less alone.”

And what was she going to do?

Izzy wasn’t the only one who needed to talk.

She did, too.

18

Clare

Clare was up in the attic, braving dust and spiders when she heard her mother call up to her.

“What are you doing up there?”

“I’m looking for old photo albums. I know they’re up here somewhere.” Why was she so disorganized? She and Todd shoved everything that needed storing up here and there was no system. She’d come across baby clothes, toys and a pair of curtains she was fairly sure would never be hung by anyone anywhere. She badly needed to clear out but she was hopeless at throwing things away. Everything came attached to a memory. She’d just spent five minutes sighing over a scrapbook Aiden had made when he was four years old.

Todd had even talked about converting the loft into another habitable room but Clare couldn’t begin to get her head round the work involved.

Her mother’s head appeared at the top of the ladder. “Good lord, Clare. This place is a fire risk. I’ve never understood your inability to part with things. If you like, I’ll lend you my book on decluttering.”

“One person’s clutter is another person’s hidden treasure. I don’t like throwing things out in case I need them.”

“You don’t need any of this stuff, Clare. The fact that you can’t even find anything up here tells me you don’t need it.” Her mother brushed dust from her sleeve. “What photos are you searching for?”

“The ones of Becca and me when we were young. You shouldn’t be up here, Mum! We just spent four hours in the emergency department.” The laceration had been deep and required suturing. “You’re not supposed to get the dressing on your finger dirty.”

Her mother made a dismissive sound. “If you wanted to see photos, you should have asked me. I have most of them over at the Gatehouse.”