Rachel jumped as her phone began to ring. It was Heather. She was intrigued, but not enough to answer. She had enough to deal with right now without adding her father’s fiancée to the equation. She stabbed at the screen to silence it, but unfortunately, in her haste, she accidentally accepted the call. Worse still, it was a WhatsApp call – with video. After a second, Heather’s face appeared on the screen.

‘Rachel?’

‘Heather!’ Rachel scrambled to grab the phone and then turned away to ensure the money wasn’t visible. ‘Hello. Sorry, I . . . um . . . dropped the phone.’

‘No, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to do a video call. Your dad added me to the family WhatsApp and it’s not my strong suit.’

‘It’s fine,’ Rachel said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I won’t keep you. I just wanted to see if you and Tully might be free to have lunch. You know, just us girls?’

Rachel heard a knock at the door.

‘I thought it might be nice to get to know each other better.’

‘It would,’ Rachel said, getting to her feet. ‘But there’s actually someone at the door right now. Do you mind if I call you back?’

There was a short pause followed by a quick: ‘Sure. Of course.’ Then Heather hung up the phone, leaving Rachel to wrestle with her guilt.

There was another knock at the door. All right, all right. Rachel shoved the cash under the bed, and headed for the door. Before she could get there, there was a third knock. Seriously? Did people not know that she had just uncovered tens of thousands of dollars that her mother had potentially stolen and stashed in a hot-water bottle and she was trying to figure out what to do, while also trying to get off the phone from her soon-to-be stepmother, who was one year her junior? Rachel threw open the door, ready to tell whoever it was to take a hike. But it was Dad.

Of course it was.

When Mum got sick, he’d started coming around all the time. Three times a week he’d stop in, on his way to or from work, ostensibly to give her an update on Mum but more likely to have a conversation with someone who didn’t merely repeat the same question over and over again. Rachel enjoyed the visits, but she could never seem to instil in him the importance of calling ahead.

‘I run a business, Dad,’ she’d tell him, and he’d apologise then come in anyway. She knew that her cake business confused him, even if he made an effort to seem proud. Whenever he saw her he’d say, ‘So . . . er . . . how are things in the kitchen?’

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him now.

‘Do I need a reason to visit my equal favourite daughter?’ He kissed her forehead on the way inside, as sure as a child that his company would be a welcome delight.