Strong-smelling lilies and white roses – a bouquet from Leon’s parents – stand in a vase on the table. It’s meant to give Alice peace. She caresses the petals with her fingertips. The gesture from the couple she grew so fond of during her time with Leon was a kind one, but she’s so far from peace right now, Google Maps couldn’t find it.

Further vases of flowers and condolence cards clutter surfaces. The desk in the corner holds her father’s closed laptop, reams of paper, and Post-it Notes with jottings – ideas for future novels he will never get to write.

Tegan picks up a condolence card with a dragonfly on the front. Opens it. Looks inside. ‘You’ve had a lot of support,’ she says. ‘Everyone loved your dad.’

‘Mmm, though I hardly know any of these people, and I’m pretty sure Dad didn’t either.’

‘Fans of his writing?’ She puts the card down.

‘Mostly. It’s so kind of them. But I wish the press hadn’t revealed the address of the cottage.’

‘I know. God knows who leaked it.’

Alice turns and heads across the room. Picks up a card from amongst others on an oak table. On the cover is a tiger, mouth open wide in a roar. ‘This one came this morning.’

Tegan appears beside her, takes the card from her. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you,’ she reads, furrowing her forehead. ‘That’s a bit odd.’

‘I know, right? Another fan, probably. Though it’s not exactly a sympathy card, and it’s not even signed.’

Tegan puts down the card, and they return to the window, where silence stretches – tight – tense – lasting minute upon minute. Tegan pulls a cigarette packet from her bag, shakes one free, rolls it between her fingers, puts it back in the box. ‘What time is the car arriving?’

‘Not long now.’

‘I see the press are here.’

‘They’ve been driving me bloody crazy.’ Alice noticed them earlier creeping around, setting up cameras, staring in at her with beady eyes. They’ve been outside on and off since her father’s death. ‘If I ever find out who told them my dad’s identity, I will kill them.’

‘You’ll have to get in line behind me.’ There’s no strength in Tegan’s words or her attempt at a smile.

So few people knew Adam Hadley was E. H. Membrose, and it’s hard to imagine any of them would tell the media.

‘They’re here.’ Alice pulls on her purple, ankle-length coat, and flicks her hair from the collar. ‘Let’s go, before I run and hide.’ She turns to Henry. ‘Be good, lovely boy.’

He looks up at her for a moment, before flopping his head back down in his basket. He misses his owner as much as Alice misses her father. It has been a struggle to persuade him to even take a walk.