She recalls again her father’s outburst when he saw it. He rarely got angry. Her head swims. Had Flynn House meant something to him? Had she been there at some point? There has always been something just out of sight niggling at her subconscious, and it seems even stronger now, since her dad died.

She roots around in a box of cuddly toys, giving her favourite old teddy a hug. She pulls out a tiger. It feels soft under her fingers. A flash of memory – she’s a child, clinging to the toy animal, not wanting to let it go.

She turns from her crouched position, adrenaline pumping, and rummages in further boxes. A small tobacco tin grabs her attention. Inside is a passport-sized photograph of a young woman and a receipt. She knows exactly who the pretty young woman, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, is. She presses a kiss onto the picture.

‘She died in childbirth,’ her father told her many years ago, handing her a photo of him and her mother. ‘She was amazing. Never forget that. She would have loved you so much, Alice.’ He went on to tell her that her grandparents on both sides were long dead, that he was the only family she had. She tried to question him further, but, as always, he closed off.

She turns the photo over. There are no words scribbled on the reverse. But the receipt is for a restaurant in Dunwold, Suffolk, dated 1988. Her parents had shared a steak meal, and a bottle of Mateus Rosé wine.

Alice’s mind whirs. The past is calling. Should she ransack the attic for clues? But it’s pointless. She’s combed every inch of it through the years, searching for answers. Now, without the fear of upsetting her father blocking her way, she feels an insatiable need to know rising inside her.

Who was her mother?

Who sent her the photo of Flynn House?

What secrets had her father kept buried?

She has lived with a big burning question mark over her past all her life, and it seems her father’s death has left her with an even bigger puzzle.

Whatever it takes. She needs answers.

*

Alice ends the call with the detective, and is staring down at her phone, fighting back tears, when the doorbell chimes.

‘I’ve brought wine.’ Faith stands on the doorstep of Butterfly Cottage, holding a bottle and a bag of cheesy savoury snacks in one hand, a wide smile on her face. Her dark hair is in a high ponytail, tendrils escaping, her thick fringe resting above blue eyes. One of the fastenings on her yellow dungarees hangs open across a checked blouse, making her look younger than her thirty years. She bends to fuss Henry, who wags his tail.

‘Sounds good,’ Alice says, stepping aside for her friend to enter, pushing down thoughts of the call moments ago.