This was where her mum had spent wonderful holidays as a child and as a teenager. It held happy memories for her. This break was all about her mum and nothing about Amelia. Supressing a sense of foreboding, she stepped inside the cottage and closed the door.

Chapter 8

Present Day

Amelia

Dad drives with care, snow crunching under tyres as he heads towards Honeysuckle Cottage, where we’d stayed a year ago.

Together we carry in our luggage, and close the door against the weather.

Ruth has lit the wood burner and the cottage feels warm and cosy, after the freezing conditions outside. We stand for some moments in the semi-darkness, both lost in thought, and I know, like me, the memories of last year are flooding Dad’s thoughts.

I feel that familiar sensation of tears rising. I would give anything to have everyone here with me, for the sun to beam down – for the sky to be clear and blue. ‘What are we doing here, Dad?’ I drop my rucksack to the floor with a thud, and flick on the light, hope of finding anything that could lead to Lark falling away.

‘I’m already wondering that myself, love.’ He runs his fingers through his damp hair. ‘I suppose I thought … well like I said before … that something might come to me. But now we’re here it feels such a ridiculous idea.’

I tug off my boots and coat, and pad towards the window. It’s bright out there, the snow reflecting light, and a full moon hovers above the ruin. It’s beautiful – peaceful yet haunting.

After staring out for some time, I pull the curtains across the window. ‘Was there something specific that drew you back here, Dad?’ I turn to see him perched on the edge of the sofa, tears in his eyes.

‘Only Lark,’ he says, rubbing his face with his hands. And talking through his fingers, adds, ‘I hoped to find Lark.’

I race to his side, drop down next to him, and wrap my arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad.’

‘Where is she, Amelia?’ His tears turn to sobs, and I’m struggling. Yes, I’ve seen him cry – when Lark went missing, and after Mum’s funeral, but it never gets easier seeing your father cry. ‘Where’s my little girl?’

‘I wish I knew.’ I’m crying too, fat tears streaming down my face – not only for his little girl, but for mine too. We’re a mess – a tragic bloody mess.

We finally release each other, and he dries his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Do you still think he took her?’

‘Jackson?’

He nods. ‘What did your mum really know about him? What did any of us know about him?’

It’s true. Mum had known very little. He told her his parents had recently died, and it was only by accident she’d found out they’d been travellers. When he disappeared, she never spoke about him again.