Headscarf in her hand, she stood up, noticing Caroline’s chestnut-brown wig on the dresser, lying there like roadkill. She dropped the scarf back into the case and headed over.

Sitting in front of the mirror she observed her reflection. Her face wasn’t particularly lined. It was more her jowls that gave her age away – much like her hands. She picked up the wig and pulled it on, tucking her greying ponytail up inside.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Ruth?’ she asked her reflection, hearing her mother’s voice in hers. ‘You look ridiculous.’

She snatched off the wig, her own hair falling free. ‘Stupid girl,’ she muttered, looking away from the mirror, and rising.

As she was about to leave the bedroom she spotted a thick pale-blue journal on the bedside table. She padded over and read on the cover the words: Caroline’s Journey.

She picked it up, lowered herself onto the bed, and opened it. Caroline’s writing swirled and curled on the pages. Notes about visits to hospital with Jackson by her side, how awful she’d felt after chemotherapy, how worried she was about Lark, how she missed Amelia so far away in London. There was no doubting from her words how much she loved Jackson, but Ruth could feel in the words Caroline’s sadness that Robert was no longer in her life. There were lots of mentions too of her best friend Rosamund – a dream come true that she’s back in my life.

The final entry in the book was labelled ‘My Last Holiday’ but there were no words there – not yet. Ruth closed the book, rose, and left the room.

She made her way into Lark’s bedroom, where she placed two towels at the foot of the girl’s bed, and ran her hand gently over the cotton fabric of the pyjamas folded neatly on the pillow.

‘Sleep well, my dear girl. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’

Three Stephen King novels were stacked on the bedside cabinet next to a half-empty can of cola.

A make-up bag on the dressing table caught her eye. She padded across the room, glancing at the door every few seconds, before unzipping it. Inside she found eyeliner, a tube of pale foundation, red lipstick.

She picked up the lipstick and smeared it over her thin lips. ‘Tart,’ she said, and dashed it away with a tissue.

Lacy underwear spilled out of an open drawer. Ruth went to slam it shut, but noticed a small cardboard box. She pulled it out. ‘Diazepam?’ she whispered reading the label. ‘Why the need for antidepressants, dear girl?’

*

Back outside in the cool evening air, the door locked behind her, Ruth noticed lights on inside Honeysuckle Cottage. Finn clearly hadn’t tempted everyone on his ghost walk.

She walked over, towels in her arms, and knocked on the door. Within seconds it flew open. It was the American woman.

‘Hey, Ruth.’