And she had been. Not immediately. The loss of her family had almost broken her. She had cried for months for the future no longer promised to her. No mother, warm and sensible, to offer advice on relationships. No proud father at her graduation. No sister to share secrets and clothes with. The loss of unconditional love. But she had survived. Friends and family had rallied round. Shopped. Cooked. Washed her bedding and driven her to school. But the kindnesses had gradually faded, as most kindnesses do. And she had been left on her own. Not yet seventeen and already self-sufficient.

She might have veered off the rails, but her desire to join the police had fueled her study. She had filled her family’s absence with schoolwork, and she had excelled. As soon as she was old enough, she had applied to join the force.

But she had never sought promotion at work, had actively shied away from it. Not because she was daunted by the responsibility of becoming an inspector. But because she remembered being that teenager, the fear of it all, and wanted to stay at the front line of policing.

And she was fine. But the abrupt ending of her childhood had left its scars. Youngsters who experience tragedy in their formative years often struggle to cry later in life, even in the eye of fresh trauma, Wildeve had learned during her police training. And so it was for her. Sometimes she wondered if she had cried so much as a teenager, there was nothing left but dust and ashes. In the dark hours of the night after Adam’s death, she had longed for release, the relief of tears, but it was denied her. Every now and then, the dam broke, but it was only a temporary respite. It might be years before it happened again. And it didn’t mean she didn’t care. Never that. Adam had shown her that she still had the capacity to love.

But she knew she would survive. She had done it before.

* * *

Garrick Lockwood opened the door, the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow on his chin.

“I hope I’m not wasting your time,” he said.

Her second visit in less than twenty-four hours. If she hadn’t been on her way to see Lovell, she might have called it in to another officer. But coming here suited her. She could keep an eye out for French while she was here, and make sure their paths didn’t cross. She followed Mr. Lockwood into the kitchen. He was washing a plate and his hair was sticking up, as if he’d been clutching at it.

She had decided on a compromise. Not a lie, exactly. But not the whole truth.

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to be talking to,” she said. “I can pass on your details to the team, if you’d like.”