‘It’s not ideal, Rhys. It’s not protocol.’

‘Fine, go then.’

I pause, trying to work out what to do. A gentle breeze whips up the smell of wet grass and hot, damp soil.

‘How do you know what she wants? Did she ask you?’

He steps back down the path towards me, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Susan’s handwriting, recognisable from her barely used diary, forms the only words on the paper: ‘Book of fairy tales. Bedside table.’

‘I’m here to help her. That’s all. I’ll get what she wants, then I’ll go.’ Rhys walks up to the house. ‘It’s up to you if you come in too.’

Chapter Twenty

RHYS

I hear her footsteps as she chooses to follow me towards the house. I turn to look whilst trying to push, twist and unlock the door. She’s looking around, checking her watch. Her face has changed; the caring Kat who stood by Susan’s bed has disappeared, and in her place there’s a stern figure. She looks harsh, pissed off, but she also looks vulnerable. Her cheeks have a trace of black, smudged make-up down them. ‘I’m coming in too,’ she says.

‘Fine,’ I say, finally pushing the door open over letters and newspapers and junk mail. I place the milk bottles down, and pull the key back from the Yale, stuffing it inside my jeans pocket.

It’s the smell I notice first, sort of musty. There’s a base note of something – furniture polish, maybe. It clings to my nostrils. It’s not dirty, or dusty, I don’t think. Just old. Clean, but old, like my nanan’s house. I don’t remember it smelling like this before. Stairs lead upstairs on my right, the hallway stretches narrowly before me and there’s a door to my left. I search for clues to her mindset before she left the house the other day – a note, perhaps. But there’s nothing except a feeling of innate hollowness to her home. I don’t move.

Kat clears her throat, shifting to see over my shoulder. Slowly, she takes a step to stand alongside me. She doesn’t say anything. The vintage carpet, busy with emerald-green paisley, swirls beneath my feet. Kat moves the green-striped curtains away from the front door, reaching down to collect an armful of post. She cradles it in her arms, looking for somewhere to tidy it before piling it all neatly on the mahogany phone table to her right.

‘Where did she say the book was?’ she asks.

‘Bedside table.’ We both look up the stairs.

‘Maybe you should…’ I say flatly, gesturing towards the stairs. I want her to say no, because I want to check the room for myself, but I won’t have her assume I’m here for anything other than the book. Kat takes an uncertain step forward, making my heart skip. Then she pauses, her foot resting on the bottom step. She looks over her shoulder – not at me, just in my general direction. I follow.