“No . . . you gave her the confidence to sell her baked goods at the market. Viola might have said the right words to get Caro to open up tonight, but you opened the floodgates long before that.”

“You think too well of me,” I whispered, worried for us both.

“You’re not perfect, Evie, rationally I know that.” He let out a long sigh. “But you’re perfect to me.”

My breath caught, and as I scrambled to find the words to reply to such a comment, Roane said gruffly, “See you in the morning.” He hung up.

I must have sat there for a while staring at the bedroom wall, wondering what on earth to do about Mr. Roane Robson, when Viola peeked her head in the room to ask for an update.

Once I’d explained to Caro and Viola that Roane was on board, we settled into the living room again, and Viola and I tried to distract Caro from the thought of tomorrow. We talked about the market, about the villagers, and I took the opportunity to mention Annie and Maggie.

Caro seemed grateful for the distraction. Between the three of us we decided there had to be a way to bring mom and daughter back together, and I’d been elected to plant the first seed of reconciliation. I listened to their suggestions on how to do that, glad we’d found a way to focus Caro’s mind on something other than the upcoming biggest confrontation of her life.

Twelve

It occurred to me, not for the first time, as I leaned against Roane’s Defender, how appearances could be so deceiving. That had never been truer as I looked at the woman standing in the doorway of the chocolate-box cottage in the forest.

Summer was in full bloom in Alnster, the leaves of the surrounding trees thick and lush. Rosebushes and hydrangeas grew lavishly around the double front windows of the house, filling the air with their heady scents.

This place looked like a little paradise tucked away on the outskirts of the village.

Yet for Caro, reality had been the opposite. It had been a place of oppression and abuse.

Well, no more.

Caro stood before the cottage with her hand on Shadow’s head, Roane on her other side.

Helena stared warily at us from the doorway, her gaze flickering to the police officer who stepped in front of her.

Patrick O’Malley, I discovered, was around Roane’s age. Friendly, all smiles, when we were introduced. However, as soon as he’d gotten out of his car at the cottage, his countenance had turned impressively stern. It had taken Roane over an hour to convince Caro to file a report against Helena for stealing her bank details, knowing that without that report Patrick couldn’t act in the capacity of a police officer.