‘I think Mum was saving up to leave you,’ Rachel said. ‘She would have had to save for a long time, since you only ever gave her housekeeping money. But then, as her mind started to go, she forgot about the hot-water bottle.’

‘And Fiona’s name was in there because . . .?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to reach out to her?’

‘As fellow abused former wives of Stephen Aston?’

‘Why not?’ Rachel said. ‘She needed support from someone.’

Dad lowered his head into his hands. ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind. What is it you want from me?’

‘I want the truth, Dad,’ she said. ‘All I’m asking for, is the truth.’

50

HEATHER

Heather was lying in bed when she heard the raised voices. It sounded like Rachel, which was strange for a Sunday morning. She lay there for a while, to give them privacy. The last thing they would want if they were having a disagreement was Heather showing up.

She rolled over in bed. Her wrist wasn’t hurting anymore. The pills Stephen had given her seemed to have taken care of that. She’d slept well too. She hadn’t even got up to pee – which was a first since she’d become pregnant. It was amazing how different things could look after a good night’s sleep.

Just after 9:30 am, Stephen poked his head around the door. ‘Heather? How are you feeling?’

Still lying flat, she did a scan of her body. ‘My wrist feels better. I just feel a little . . . achy. Like I ate something bad.’

‘You had those pills on an empty stomach,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you some toast.’

Stephen returned a few moments later with two pieces of sourdough spread with jam.

‘Was that Rachel I heard before?’ Heather asked, as he sat on the end of the bed.

Stephen nodded. ‘She dropped by. She’s going through a strange time at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Heather said.

‘I am too. I worried so much about Tully when Pam got sick. Rachel always seemed so competent, so emotionally in control. I went to her for support, for heaven’s sake. But I don’t think she’s coping as well as I’d thought.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, don’t you worry about that. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine, just . . . still not feeling the best. I need to use the bathroom.’

Heather walked into the bathroom. It was bizarre, eating toast made by her abuser. Sharing a bed with him. Talking to him about his daughter. She was so distracted about the strangeness of it that when she sat on the toilet, she almost didn’t see the blood. It was just a tiny bit; the barest stain. Only when she saw it did she register the low, dull ache in her lower belly and back. The absence of nausea. The fact that last night had been the first night she hadn’t needed to get up and use the bathroom during the night. She took some paper and wiped. This time the blood was darker.