Her phone pinged, and she glanced at it. Nothing important but it reminded her of the date. Today her father would have been ninety-two if he’d lived. With the logical side of her brain she could accept accidental death, but her instinct said that was simply a polite way to give the family peace. Family, a social structure. Sometimes useful, frequently not. She had seen more broken families than she had seen whole ones. Although the world held up the family as the ultimate goal, it wasn’t essential. She would agree that children needed a structure around them to grow safely. But it didn’t have to be a family and it didn’t have to be loving to see a child to adulthood. Food, shelter, and education were all that was required. Love was not. A child would become an adult with or without love. Love only shaped parts of a child, making them more vulnerable. Yet it was everyone’s holy grail. Living was simpler without love. Love created loss and the world was full of it.

Diana had loved her father. She’d now seen the proof. Maybe that was what she’d been searching for in her dreams. Yet here she was, standing in the unused big kitchen because her instinct had brought her to this place. Something had happened here. She was sure of it. She walked to the larder door. The handle turned easily. Somehow, she had expected it wouldn’t. A blast of cool musty air greeted her. It was bare, with only an empty biscuit tin on the shelf.

A spider’s web stretched from the top shelf to the small north facing window. That’s all that was there yet she could still smell chocolate, and in the pit of her stomach was fear. It was a feeling she’d faced so many times. But she’d always won. What would cause fear here? What would make a child afraid?

Above her head a black iron hook dangled. Ominous but not frightening. The room must have been originally used for game. The cool air ran up her bare legs and goosebumps covered her flesh. She would not run, despite the urge. This room was key, she knew it. Now she needed to dig deep to find out what happened here.

Her mother had said her father’s death had not been suicide. An hour ago she might have believed her but now she had seen proof that she’d lied about other things. George was lying too. He was good at it, far too good, but then he’d been a diplomat. No doubt if she delved, she might discover her stepfather was an old spook and lying was his profession.