About the Author

Amanda Brittany lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading and sunny days. Her debut novel Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. It has also been optioned for film. Her second psychological thriller Tell The Truth reached the Kindle top 100 in the US & was a #1 Bestseller in the US. All her ebook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised over £7,500.

Readers LOVE Amanda Brittany

“Amanda Brittany is a superb writer”

“Totally gripping”

“I had to keep turning the pages – I couldn’t guess the ending, and I had to know!”

“5 out of 5 stars. A real page turner with a brilliantly executed twist”

“Yet another 5* thriller from Amanda Brittany”

“Brittany is a superb writer, highly skilled at keeping you gripped, staying up late to uncover the secrets.”

Also by Amanda Brittany

Her Last Lie

Tell the Truth

Traces of Her

I Lie In Wait
AMANDA BRITTANY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Amanda Brittany

Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008362874

Version: 2020-8-03

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers LOVE Amanda Brittany

Also by Amanda Brittany

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Present Day

Chapter 1: Present Day

Chapter 2: Present Day

Chapter 3: Present Day

Chapter 4: Present Day

Chapter 5: A Year Ago

Chapter 6: A Year Ago

Chapter 7: A Year Ago

Chapter 8: Present Day

Chapter 9: Present Day

Chapter 10: Present Day

Chapter 11: A Year Ago

Chapter 12: A Year Ago

Chapter 13: A Year Ago

Chapter 14: A Year Ago

Chapter 15: Present Day

Chapter 16: Present Day

Chapter 17: Present Day

Chapter 18: A Year Ago

Chapter 19: A Year Ago

Chapter 20: A Year Ago

Chapter 21: A Year Ago

Chapter 22: Present Day

Chapter 23: Present Day

Chapter 24: Present Day

Chapter 25: Present Day

Chapter 26: Present Day

Chapter 27: Present Day

Chapter 28: A Year Ago

Chapter 29: Present Day

Chapter 30: Present Day

Chapter 31: Present Day

Chapter 32: A Year Ago

Chapter 33: Present Day

Chapter 34: Present Day

Chapter 35: A Year Ago

Chapter 36: Present Day

Chapter 37: Present Day

Chapter 38: Present Day

Chapter 39: Present Day

Chapter 40: A Year Ago

Chapter 41: A Year Ago

Chapter 42: Present Day

Chapter 43: Present Day

Chapter 44: Present Day

Chapter 45: Present Day

Chapter 46: Present Day

Chapter 47: Present Day

Chapter 48: Present Day

Chapter 49: Present Day

Chapter 50: Present Day

Chapter 51: Present Day

Chapter 52: Present Day

Chapter 53: Present Day

Chapter 54: Present Day

Epilogue: Three months later

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Kev, with love.

Prologue
Present Day

Me

‘Maddie? Maddie, is that you?’ It is. I know her voice. She’s in the next room. ‘Maddie! Maddie, please help me!’ I tug at the chain trapping my wrist to the bedstead. It cuts into my flesh. Makes fresh wounds.

‘We’re heading back to Drummondale House on Friday,’ she’s saying. ‘It’s the anniversary of Lark and Jackson’s disappearance.’

‘Maddie, please!’ I yell. Why can’t she hear me?

‘Robert feels there may be something we missed that night. I’m not sure what to think, but I’ll keep you updated. Wish us luck!’

‘You’re wasting your time, Maddie,’ you say. And of course, you are right.

The sound of your laptop snapping closed brings me back to reality. Maddie isn’t there at all. You were listening to her vlog.

I close my eyes, fatigue washing over me, my usual thoughts carrying me to nightmares: How did I let this happen? How could I have been so stupid?

*

I have no idea how long I’ve slept, but I’m now alone, and the place is in darkness. I shuffle up the bed, ears pricked on alert for the sound of tyres rolling over the ice-packed ground. My sore, watery eyes pinned on the window, waiting for a glimpse of your car’s headlights to cut across the grubby glass. But it’s silent, and I wonder if you’ve gone back there – back to Drummondale House.

Chapter 1
Present Day

Amelia

He took her. Jackson Cromwell – my mother’s lover. He took my teenage sister. He took Lark from us. I know he did. And sometimes, looking back – eyes wide open – I wonder if I should have reacted when I saw the way he looked at her, the way he flirted.

It’s the anniversary of her disappearance this Friday. Twelve long months of not knowing where Lark is – whether she’s alive or dead.

My ex-partner William couldn’t cope with my outpourings of grief following my sister’s disappearance. It couldn’t have been easy for him listening to me repeat the same tragic words, desperate to explore my feelings, desperate to cope with what had happened. I went from numb to feeling too much, to numb again, all with the aid of too much wine.

In fact, I still hadn’t come to terms with her loss when, seven months later, my mum died. Imagine a car wreck – well that was me in human form.

But a few weeks after her funeral, life took an upward turn. I discovered I was pregnant. For three months a tiny baby had been growing inside me and I’d been too swept away by grief overload to realise. It was a miracle, and for the first time in ages, bubbles of happiness fizzed.

‘It can’t be mine,’ William said, when I broke the news over his favourite meal of guinea fowl and gnocchi.

‘Of course it’s yours,’ I said, placing the little stick telling me the best news ever onto his side plate, and trying to smile despite his tactless comment.

‘That’s got your pee on it, Amelia,’ he said, pushing it away. ‘Are you positive it’s mine?’

‘OK, for one …’ I held up my index finger ‘… I’ve only slept with you in all the time I’ve known you. And two …’ I burst into tears.

William jumped up, grabbed a serviette – he always insisted we had them on the table, as I had, still have in fact, a habit of getting ‘stuff’ on my face when I eat – and thrust it into my hand.

‘OK, great, I’m going to be a dad,’ he said, and left the room. He’d barely touched his gnocchi. I guess the pee on the stick hadn’t helped.

So this portrays William in an awful light. But, in fairness to him, he’d been through my hell with me, and was no longer ‘Fun-Loving Will’ the man with the amazing smile who I met on a night out with the girls three years ago. He was a faded, tired version. In fact, I couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled. He wanted out of our relationship, but, at the time, he didn’t have the heart to leave a woman weighed down by a bucket-load of tragedy. And now, a baby – our baby – would trap him forever.

*

Things improved after that. We began picking up the scattered pieces of our relationship, and I tucked the loss of my mum and sister into a little velvet box at the back of my mind, determined to move on with my life – our lives. It’s what Mum and Lark would have wanted, I told myself. And I desperately wanted to make William happy.

But that small snatch of happiness lasted no time at all. My life, the life I thought was back on a safe, even road, plummeted into another deep dark ditch, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to climb out this time. After awful stomach cramps I prayed were IBS, I lost our baby at five months pregnant.

So, it’s been a tragic year – a year of heartache and loss. I’ve heard people say bad things come in threes. But how does anyone stay strong when said bad things hit one after the other? One! Two! Three! Wham! Bam! Slam!

Lark vanished.

Mum died.

I lost my baby.

I’m not going to lie; I wondered what I’d done in a previous life to deserve such sorrow.

I tried so hard not to be that woman who everyone felt sorry for. ‘Poor Amelia – nothing goes right for her.’ ‘Oh, Amelia, love, it could only happen to you.’ Or worse, the woman people crossed the road to avoid, fearing her misery was catching. But it was impossible. I was that woman wallowing knee-deep in self-pity, and I hadn’t got a clue where to find the strength to pick myself up; still haven’t. In fact, I fully understand how some women lose their mind following a miscarriage, as I’m pretty close to losing mine right now.

With the loss of our baby, my life with William was over. He’d seen the worst of me – not a pretty sight. Couldn’t take any more. Wasn’t strong enough. He said, as he touched my cheek gently a week after our loss, his fingertips drying my skin, ‘I can’t do this anymore, Amelia.’ He’d lost his baby too, he said – he was in pain too, he said – but I know he never felt the same kind of screwed-up agony I felt.

He stayed around for two months after that, spending a lot of time at his mum’s, or crying on the shoulder of an ex-girlfriend. He never did tell me her name. Did he think I would knife her on a lonely street?

For a while it was as though my baby – the little girl I had so many plans for – was still with me. But eventually, with time, I accepted there was an empty place inside me where I once felt her flutter – a timid butterfly trying out her wings for the first time. I’d felt so sure she was happy. I’d held my belly so often, talked to her, sung to her. But we can never be sure when happiness will be snatched away from us. I know that now.

*

‘Amelia, have you got the contract for Jennings and Jennings?’

I look away from the office window, and up at Malcolm. My boss is out of breath, and needs to lose a few pounds before he keels over. His tone, as always, is anxiety-tinged, his face stretched into a shiny-cheeked smile. He won’t make old bones at this rate.

‘You need to shave off that ridiculous moustache, Malcolm.’ I’ve wanted to say that for years, if only to help him find his soul mate. No wonder he’s single. ‘You look like Hitler.’

His eyes widen, as much as they can in their puffy sockets, as he touches the hairy culprit under his nose. ‘You need more time away from the office, Amelia.’

‘I need forever,’ I say. I haven’t even turned on the computer and it’s almost midday. I’ve spent most of this morning gazing out at the grey day. Thinking. ‘Can you give me forever, Malcolm?’ I ask, in a maudlin tone – that’s pretty much my only tone right now.

‘Take more time out if you need it. You’re no use to us here.’

‘Cheers for that.’

‘I think you know what I’m saying, Amelia.’ He strides off, in his creased shirt and too-short trousers.

I’ve got to go home, or hide in the loos for the rest of the day. I fidget in my swivel chair. I won’t get paid if I go home. I’ve had way too much time off already. The thing is, I can’t afford the apartment now anyway, not since William left. I need to do something – something else, something to make life worth living again. But then how can I do that without Mum, without Lark, without William, without my precious unborn child?

I look out of the window once more. The tall buildings of London surround me, and The Gherkin feels so close. I’m tempted to open the window and lean out – try to touch it. I would fall, of course. Tumble to my death, and possibly make headlines in The Metro. But then nobody would care. Not a single soul would miss me – except perhaps my dad, and possibly my brother Thomas.

I roll my chair back over the plush carpet, put the photo of William in the bin, and my Thor figure, that Thomas bought me a few years back because I told him I love Chris Hemsworth, in my bag. I grab my jacket, rise, and head for the door, throwing one look over my shoulder at the rabbit warren of desks. Nobody looks my way. I’m right. Nobody will miss me.

Outside, I dash towards London Bridge Underground, pushing through the crowds. I won’t cry, I tell myself. I’m all cried out.

*

‘William, it’s me. Pick up, please.’ I’m pissed, sobbing into my phone, my cat curled on my knee, her purr giving me comfort. Drunk-me is far too needy, and I seem to turn to her too often lately. ‘Call me, please. I need you right now.’ It’s the tenth time I’ve called and it’s only seven o’clock. Ten times he’s ignored me.

I throw my phone across the room. It hits a photo of us in Rhodes. It clatters on the dresser. The glass cracks. Were we even happy then? I know it was difficult when Mum got cancer, and everything that followed was impossible – William struggled with me struggling, which made me struggle even more.

I look at the empty wine bottle, before burying my head in my hands until the tears stop. And then it hits me. I need my dad, to feel the comfort of his arms around me. But I can’t take off to Berwick-upon-Tweed and leave my cat – who now looks up at me as though she knows what I’m thinking. ‘But if I stay here, sweetie, I’ll go crazy,’ I say, tickling her soft ears.

Later, after crying on my neighbour’s doorstep – a kindly twenty-something with pink hair – she gives me a much-needed hug. ‘You’ve been through hell, Amelia,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ll look after your cat. Take as long as you need.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I say, wishing I knew her name – but it’s far too late to ask her what it is; we’ve been chatting for months.

I return to my flat and call Malcolm, realising, after apologising profusely for letting him down at such short notice, that he sounds relieved I’m taking time off.

‘Great. Super,’ he says. ‘Brilliant!’

‘I’ll be taking an early train to Berwick-upon-Tweed and probably won’t be back for a while. Is that OK?’

‘Of course, Amelia. Please, please don’t hurry back.’

I end the call, flop down on my bed, and close my eyes.

Chapter 2
Present Day

Amelia

I caught the early train from London and it’s now 10 a.m. I’m relieved to be here, standing on the doorstep of the house I grew up in, waiting for Dad to answer the front door.

‘Surprise!’ I cry, as he opens the door. I dive in for a hug, breathing in his familiar aftershave, almost knocking him over, despite him being six foot.

‘Amelia!’ he says as I release him and step back, noticing he’s dyed his hair black and seems to have sprouted a moustache – moustaches are clearly invading my world. I’m close to telling him it does nothing for him, and the black hair makes him look as though he’s fallen headfirst into a barrel of tar, when he adds, ‘What are you doing here, love?’

He seems happy to see me, but there’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

‘Well I’m pretty much waiting for you to invite me in.’ I rub my gloved hands together as a blustery wind catches my hair and blows it across my face like flames. ‘It’s bloody cold out here – snowed all the way from the station.’

‘Yes, sorry.’ He opens the door wider.

My throat closes as I look down the narrow hallway, and memories of Lark and Mum flood in. This is the house where I spent my childhood and teens. A four-bed modern detached that looks out over a huge expanse of grass leading to the River Tweed. A once crazy, noisy, happy house, that now feels far too quiet. Only Dad and Thomas live here now, and I’m guessing my brother is in his bedroom – once the dining room where we all shared happy meals, now extended to accommodate my brother’s needs.

Dad’s stepped to one side. ‘Come on, love, you’re letting the cold in,’ he says rubbing his hands together, bringing me back to the moment. I will myself to move, heave my rucksack off my back, and edge past him. He closes the door behind us.

‘So what brings you all this way?’ he says, following me into the kitchen. He picks up the kettle and gives it a little shake before flicking it on. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

Yep, just about everything.

I shake my head and sit down at the round kitchen table. It still has the pretty embroidered tablecloth draped over it that I remember Mum buying over ten years ago.

‘How’s work?’ I ask. Dad loves his job as curator at the local museum, and last time I spoke to him he was working on an exhibition about ancient crimes in the area. It fills his mind, leaving no space to dwell.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Keeps me busy.’ I rest my case.

I ponder his earlier question, as he heads towards me with two steaming mugs of tea, places them on the table, and sits down opposite me.

So what brings you here?

He doesn’t know I’ve lost my precious baby. I never told him when I found out I was pregnant. I don’t know why – an amalgamation of reasons, probably. I suppose the news was far too good after everything that had happened. Maybe I didn’t want to jinx it. Maybe I was convinced that only bad things happen to me now. Maybe I wanted to tell him face to face. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t need to know now. He doesn’t need my tragic news on top of all the heartache he’s already been through.

‘I’ve broken up with William,’ I say, keeping my voice upbeat and even, as I fiddle with the handle of the mug.

‘Oh, love.’ He turns warm brown eyes on me.

I raise my hand, knowing if we go down the hugs road at this moment, I’ll sob like a baby. ‘But I’m fine.’

He throws me a sad smile. ‘I never liked him.’

I smile. ‘You never met him.’

‘You deserve better.’

‘Well yes, yes I do.’ Another smile, though tears are close. I’ve almost accepted I’m better off without William, but it still hurts like crazy. I need a change of subject. ‘So what the hell have you done to your hair? And what’s with the moustache?’

He laughs. ‘I’m playing Hercule Poirot.’

‘A card game?’

‘You know who Poirot is, you devil. Don’t you come here teasing your poor old dad.’

I laugh. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’ It’s good to see Dad back performing with the local am-drams. ‘Well I must say I’m relieved. I thought it was your new look. So a French detective, aye?’ I’m teasing.

He straightens his back, and with a pretty impressive accent says, ‘I’ll ’ave you know Poirot is from Belgium.’ He picks up his mug and takes a sip. ‘So are you on holiday from work?’

‘Unpaid leave.’

‘And you’re managing OK?’

I want to tell him I’m not managing at all. That I’m going to have to move out of London because I can’t afford the rent, but instead I say, ‘Fine, I’ve got a bit of money saved.’

‘It will be good for you. You never gave yourself time to grieve after your mum.’

‘Oh I don’t know, I’ve done a ridiculous amount of crying.’ My voice cracks.

‘Oh, love.’

‘Will it ever get any easier, Dad?’

He lifts his shoulders. ‘They say it does, eventually.’

I blow steam from the tea and take a sip. ‘I thought if I came to see you, stayed for a bit …’ I suddenly feel overwhelmed. I haven’t been back here since Mum died, and there are memories of her, of my childhood, everywhere.

‘The thing is …’ He glances at his case by the back door, that I hadn’t noticed.

There’s a beat before my thoughts become words. ‘You’re going away?’ I rub my temples. I don’t want to go home right now. I want to stay here with him. I meet his eyes, knowing he feels awful. ‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have turned up unannounced. I just wanted to surprise you, that’s all.’ It wasn’t strictly true. I needed him. Desperately.

‘Don’t be daft. I’m thrilled to see you, love. But—’

‘I should have called you first.’ Despite him telling me each time we spoke on the phone that he keeps busy, that he’d even joined the local ornithologists, that he’d started acting again, I still imagined him sitting at home broken – like me. And truth is, I know he is broken. He’s just better at plastering over the cracks than I am.

‘You can stay here, Amelia,’ he says. ‘I’m only away for a week, and once I’m back, we can—’

‘No. No it’s fine.’ I rise. Annoyed. Not with him, but with myself. Rattled that I assumed he would be here waiting for me, his life on pause.

‘Sit,’ he says. ‘I’m not leaving for half an hour, and I’m all packed. We have lots to catch up on.’

I lower myself back down. ‘So where are you off to?’ I say, diverting the conversation into unknown territory.

‘Well, that’s the thing.’ He avoids meeting my eyes as he runs a finger over his moustache. ‘I’m hoping you’ll understand why I didn’t tell you.’

‘Didn’t tell me?’ My body tenses.

‘I’ll be staying at Drummondale House.’

‘What?’ It came out high-pitched. ‘Why?’

‘Lark disappeared a year ago this week,’ he says.

‘Christ, Dad. Don’t you think I know that?’

He covers my hand with his. ‘I know you know that, love. I’m not trying to upset you.’

‘But why didn’t you invite me to come with you?’ I’m hurt, upset. I pull my hand from under his, lean back, and cross my arms over my chest, knowing I’m being defensive. ‘At least mention it?’

‘Because … because I didn’t think you would cope with it, Amelia. You’ve been so up and down over the last year. I thought it would be too much. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I wanted to protect you.’

He’s right. I’ve been so unstable. ‘But I still don’t get why you would go back to that place.’

His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath. ‘Inspector Beynon may have given up hope of finding Lark, but I haven’t. I need to check we didn’t miss anything. Something that could lead us to her.’

‘After all this time?’

He raises his eyes to the ceiling, tears glistening. ‘I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It just feels right somehow.’

‘Oh, Dad,’ I say, softening. ‘She’s not in Scotland.’ But there is no strength in my words. Despite the whole area being searched at the time, my mind still wanders back there. What if someone hid her underground, or deep in one of the many caves along the shoreline? We’d combed the area for hours, the police, dogs, and people from the local villages giving their support. But had we really covered every inch of the Drummondale House estate? I sigh deeply, reach over, and close my hand over Dad’s.

Truth is, I’ve been through every possibility. At first I’d clung to the hope she took off. But when Mum died and Lark never appeared – never said goodbye – hope petered away, and lately I’d wondered if we’d missed something in Scotland too.

Dad grabs a clump of tissues from a box on the table and divides them between us.

‘I need to do something,’ he says, dashing a tissue across his eyes. ‘Since your mum’s been gone, all I can think is what if we missed something, so we thought we’d head up there.’

‘We?’

He nods. ‘Thomas and Maddie are coming for support.’ He looks away, as though he doesn’t want to see my reaction.

I feel my eyes widen. ‘Maddie is your support?’

‘Not exactly. Thomas is my support, and your brother needs her. You know that.’

My jaw clenches. ‘Bloody Maddie. I curse the day she became Thomas’s carer.’

He shakes his head. ‘Please don’t say that, love.’ He places his hand over mine once more. ‘You sound so bitter.’

I cover my face with my hands. ‘She should never have said those things about me on her vlog, Dad.’

‘I agree, it was thoughtless—’

‘Thoughtless? She made me look—’

‘I know, love, but she’s young. She made a silly mistake, and you needed someone to vent your anger on. She’s sorry, Amelia. The post has gone now. Please let it go.’

But I’m not sure I can let it go.

‘I’ve rented two of the cottages,’ he says. ‘If you feel you’re up to it, there’s room for a small one.’

I look up and shake my head. I’m not sure I can face going back there.

‘No.’ He shakes his head too. ‘I didn’t think so. Although, it could be a chance to talk to Maddie – lay your demons to rest, as they say.’

‘I quite like my demons full of energy, thanks very much.’ It comes out snarky, and I’m not even sure of the point I’m trying to make.

He looks down for a moment, and then up and into my eyes. ‘And we might find something that leads to Lark.’

I so want to embrace his hope.

I have three choices: One, go home to my empty apartment and lose myself down a bottle of wine every night, whilst making desperate calls to William. Two, spend time here alone in this house, regressing into my childhood. Or three, head to Scotland, to Drummondale House with my dad beside me.

Tears burn as I imagine one of us recalling something vital that leads to finding Lark safe and well. Is it really possible?

‘OK,’ I say before I can change my mind, a surge of hope rising inside me. What if the answer to my sister’s disappearance really does lie up there in the Scottish Highlands? What if retracing our steps unearths a vital clue?

I drain my tea. ‘But you’ll need to keep me away from Maddie,’ I say, thumping my mug down. ‘Or I may just kill her.’

*

I watch from the front doorstep, as Dad lifts Thomas into the back seat of his Ford Freedom, and puts my brother’s wheelchair into the boot. Thomas looks different to when I saw him last. His hair’s longer, and it’s tied back in a man-bun, and he’s grown a beard too, which suits him.

‘Robert, could you spare one of those bottles of water? My mouth is so dry,’ Maddie calls out of the rear car window, as he loads a pack of water into the boot along with the bags and other provisions, including a litre bottle of gin, which looks tempting. The wind catches Maddie’s silky black hair and whips it across her face. ‘The weather’s going to be a challenge,’ she says, pulling the strands from her cheeks. ‘Let’s hope it’s better in Scotland.’

‘I hope so too,’ Dad says with a laugh.

I notice the way Thomas still looks at Maddie. I can’t work out if he’s in love with her, and I worry she’ll break his heart. A brief memory of her kissing his teary cheeks at Mum’s funeral flutters in and then evaporates. I’m sure she only sees herself as his carer, and one day she’ll meet someone and fall in love, and then what? Where does that leave my brother? My parents never planned for that.

‘Are you getting in, Amelia?’ Dad slams the car boot, and hands Maddie a bottle of water through the window.

Apprehension and the freezing weather nails me to the spot, and the earlier fluttering of snow is moving into blizzard territory.

‘Amelia?’

‘Uh-huh.’ A deep sigh turns to mist in front of me, as I make my way down the path, almost slipping on an earlier settling of snow. I climb into the passenger seat. Slam the door. Say nothing.

‘Grumpy!’ Thomas says, with a laugh. ‘I can see you’re going to be fun on this trip.’

‘How the bloody hell is this trip going to be fun, Thomas?’ I refuse to look round, sense Maddie’s eyes boring into my back.

‘Oh come on, sis,’ Thomas says. ‘Don’t be like that. We’ve got so much to catch up on.’ My brother seems oblivious to the suffocating tension in the car, or the fact we are heading to where we last saw our sister; that Drummondale House was the last place Mum smiled.

Dad gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door.

I finally snatch a glance over my shoulder, and Thomas grabs the moment to smile my way. He may be twenty-eight, but I still see my little brother sitting there, and recall how we used to run and play together. But that was long before he took off to America – long before his accident.

I return his smile, and turn watery eyes back to the front window.

‘Should we be going in this?’ I ask Dad as he starts the engine. ‘The snow is pretty heavy.’

‘It doesn’t look great, does it?’ Dad agrees, flicking on the wipers. He leans forward and looks up through the window towards the sky.

‘Of course we should go,’ Thomas says. ‘It will be fine. I’m psyched up for it now.’

‘I don’t know, it looks a bit scary,’ Maddie says.

‘Well, let’s give it a go, and turn back if it gets too bad,’ Dad says, putting the car in gear, and pulling away.

It will take over four hours to get to Drummondale House, so I bring out my phone, shove in my ear buds, and begin trawling through YouTube videos, particularly enjoying a video of a cavalier puppy being taught to high-five and roll over. Eventually, despite not being tired, my eyes grow heavy – and sleep with its awful nightmares of a year ago beckons.

I’m going to where I last saw Lark.

A sense of foreboding rises. Why do I feel this is the biggest mistake of my life?

Chapter 3
Present Day

Amelia

The first two hours of the ride is silent, and by the time we get to the services in Perth, the snow has turned to rain now lashing across the windscreen.

Dad pulls onto the forecourt. ‘Need to stretch my legs,’ he says. And we take the opportunity to grab a takeaway.

Dad and I get out of the car, and race towards the McDonald’s, and despite him using his coat as a makeshift umbrella for us both, rain splatters down my collar, making me shiver.

We are silent in the queue. We are silent returning with the burgers. We are silent while we eat in the car.

‘Well at least the snow’s cleared,’ Dad says finally, finishing the last of his burger and screwing up the wrapper. ‘I was beginning to worry we would end up snowed in in the Scottish Highlands.’ He laughs. ‘Imagine that.’

‘I’d rather not,’ I say, though the thought of it raining all the time we are there is almost as bad.

‘Only another two and a half hours,’ Dad says, wiping his hands with a serviette. ‘You’ve got a splodge of something on your cheek, love,’ he adds, and I instinctively touch my face, and get mayo over my fingers.

Back on the road, I find myself dozing once more. When I wake, the car’s heater is pumping out a dry heat, and snow tumbles from a charcoal-grey sky once more, as though someone’s tipped out a giant bag of cotton-wool balls.

Dad is crawling along at ten miles per hour and the wipers struggle to and fro – thump, thump, thump onto cushions of snow each side of the windscreen.

‘When did it start snowing again?’ I say, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

‘About an hour ago,’ he says. ‘We’re almost there.’

We make our way up a steep hill, skidding and sliding. ‘I think we should have turned back, Dad,’ I say. But there’s a determined look on his face. He’s desperate to get there.

As the wrought-iron gates that separate Drummondale House from the rest of the Scottish Highlands loom in front of us, my stomach flips. Memories of the last time we were here invade my thoughts, and a feeling of absolute dread rises inside me.

The gates stand open, and as Dad pulls through them onto the drive that leads to the ruin, I battle an urge to grab the steering wheel and turn the car around. We shouldn’t have come. My heartbeat quickens, banging against my chest as I catch sight of Drummondale House, shrouded in snowflakes. A few years back I would have whipped out my phone and taken a picture. Put it on Facebook or Instagram. But I’m a different person now. Broken.

I sense Maddie moving forward in her seat, her breath hot on my neck. ‘This weather is awful, Robert,’ she says. ‘I mean I love snow, but this is crazy.’ There’s tension in her voice. ‘We should have turned back an hour ago.’

I turn and glare at her. ‘Well, maybe you should have said something an hour ago.’

‘It’s too late now, Maddie, love,’ Dad says, meeting her eye in the rear-view mirror.

I snap a look at Dad, my body tense. His eyes are back on the windscreen, and he’s hunched forward over the steering wheel.

‘I’m sure it will clear up by morning,’ he says.

‘Unlikely. I’m pretty sure this snow is here to stay, Robert.’ There’s a quiver in Maddie’s voice.

‘Well we can’t go back now,’ he says, blinking. ‘It’s too late. We’re here now.’

We pull onto the snow-covered car park, and memories of twelve months ago skid into my head like a skier on a downward slope. I remember it all so well.

I press my forehead against the side window, eyes tipped towards the sky. It’s blustery out there – the wind rattling and moaning as it wraps itself around tall trees that sway as though dodging its icy hands.

A sudden thump on the glass makes me jump. ‘Fuck!’ It’s Ruth, the owner, far too close to the window, peering in at us, her small, grey eyes screwed up against the weather. I sink down in my seat, holding my chest, taking deep breaths to calm myself.

‘I’ll get the keys,’ Dad says, switching off the engine. He leans over his seat, grabs his coat from between Thomas and Maddie, and opens the door, which swings outwards, almost ripping from its hinges. Snow invades the car.

Once outside, Dad struggles to put on his coat, wind whipping it into the air like a kite, as he pushes his body weight against the door to close it. Finally, he beats the wind, and manages to get his coat on, doing it up as he trudges through settled snow, Ruth by his side.

I glance back at Thomas. He’s asleep, making puff puff sounds as he breathes. It breaks my heart that he messed up his young life. I can still recall how excited he was a few years back when a Hollywood director hired him to write a screenplay for a new feature – we all were. He’d flown to the US full of so much hope. But he struggled. Mingling in circles where he didn’t quite belong was too much for him. He began drinking and dabbling in drugs to cope, and instead of his life taking off, as it should have, he spiralled downhill. Lost control.

I gulp back my emotions, and turn back before Maddie can speak.

The cottages are a blur through the front windscreen, and I realise tears have filled my eyes. I cough, choking, as my larynx twists. I’d blocked this place out as best I could. Attempted to run from the memory.

‘You do know I’m sorry,’ Maddie says and I feel her move, and grip my seat. ‘That I didn’t mean—’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I cut in.

I hear her flop back in her seat. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Fine.’

We sit in silence for some time, before the car door opens, and Dad jumps into the front seat, feathers of snow covering his hair and coat.

‘Ruth says we can pull up in front of the cottages for now.’ He starts the engine and drives towards Bluebell Cottage where Mum, Jackson and Lark had stayed last time. He stops outside the front door, and glances over his shoulder. ‘Right, let’s get you two in the warm.’

‘Thomas,’ Maddie says, shaking my brother to wake him. ‘We’re here.’

He opens his eyes. ‘Christ. Where are we – Narnia?’ He pushes his nose against the window, and takes a gulp of air. ‘When did we drive through a wardrobe?’

Maddie laughs.

‘We have seen better days,’ Thomas says, his voice suddenly low and level. He often quotes Shakespeare, since studying literature at university and getting a first-class master’s degree. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.’

Chapter 4
Present Day

Ruth

‘Finn!’ I call, heading into the kitchen. ‘We need to prepare the vegetables. I want this meal to be perfect.’ I pick up a small knife that once belonged to my mother, and begin peeling potatoes. ‘Finn!’

‘For God’s sake, Mum, give me time to get down the bloody stairs.’ He appears, lifts a stripy apron from the back of the kitchen door, and slips it over his head.

I look up at him and smile. He’s looking so much better than he did a year ago. He runs each morning before I get up, and every evening too. I reach up, stroke his hair – he suits it shorter – a tingle of satisfaction running through my body. He’s finally got over his wife’s affair. It took some doing but I’ve got my son back.

Finn picks up a peeler, begins stripping carrots with the speed and skill of a professional chef. I’ve taught him well. My daughter couldn’t carry the baton, but Finn is the next best thing. ‘So the guests are here?’ he says.

I nod. ‘They are Lark’s family. They hope to remember something.’

He catches his finger on the blade, and winces. ‘About the disappearance?’

‘Mmm. I’m not sure what they hope to achieve.’

Finn shrugs, glances through the window. ‘And the snow is getting deeper out there. They can hardly search the woods.’ He crosses the kitchen and grabs a blue plaster from a medical box. ‘This is going to be awkward. I mean do we mention what happened?’

‘We let them take the lead.’ I cut a peeled potato in half, and drop it into a saucepan of water with a splash. ‘Oh, and I had a call from Rosamund Green this morning. She should be here by dinnertime with her daughter.’

‘Really?’ He glances towards the kitchen window once more, his eyes narrowing. Snow rests on the frame, like a picture on a Christmas card. ‘Do the Taylors know she’s going to be staying here too? I mean Rosamund wasn’t exactly supportive when Lark went missing.’

I shrug. ‘I have no idea.’ I feel a smile stretch across my face. ‘But I can’t wait to see how it all unfolds.’

‘Well I for one am dreading it.’

I curl a tendril of hair behind my ear, noticing how grey I’m getting. ‘It will be fine, Finn,’ I say. ‘I’ll make sure everything is perfect.’

Chapter 5
A Year Ago

Amelia

They tried so hard to hide their sadness the day they arrived at Drummondale House a year ago, the sun warm on their backs as they headed across the cobbled car park.

Amelia clung on to her dad’s arm. To her, he’d always been strong. Her rock. The person she leaned on if her world fell apart: like the night she was dumped at the school prom by Joshua Williams, or the day she didn’t get that weekend job at Blockbuster she’d set her heart on.

Once, when she was little, her dad had appeared in the kitchen wearing green corduroy trousers that were slightly baggy at the knees, and an equally green cardigan. Amelia called him The Incredible Hulk, and her mum couldn’t stop laughing. She could never see what Amelia could see – called him a dusty historian. Maybe that’s why she left him for Jackson.

Today there was no sign of The Incredible Hulk. Her dad was struggling like the rest of them. This was to be her mum’s final holiday, and she’d gathered those she loved most in the Scottish Highlands.

As they strolled across the grass, Amelia released her dad’s arm. Her insides were a knot of sadness and anxiety, her eyes ached from tears she tried to hold back. But she knew, like everyone else on this ridiculous venture, that she had to make it the best holiday ever, for her mum’s sake.

‘You OK?’ she asked, looking up at her dad as they followed the rest of the family – six of them, and Maddie – towards Drummondale House reception.

He fiddled with the binoculars hanging around his neck – always a keen bird watcher – and shrugged, eyes shining. It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t OK. He was losing the only woman he had ever loved to cancer, and he couldn’t even comfort and care for her, because Jackson bloody Cromwell had moved in on her a year ago – taken her from him.

Still, Amelia told herself, her mum must care for her dad. She wanted him to be there. She touched his arm. ‘We’ll get through this,’ she said. ‘For Mum.’

‘Well, it’s a tough one, and no mistaking.’ He rubbed his head with both hands, as though the action would scrub away the pain. ‘And if I’m honest, I don’t feel right being here. I don’t belong with your mum anymore.’

‘But she still loves you, in her own way.’

He shook his head.

‘You were together for over thirty years, Dad. You had three children together.’

‘Yes, but …’ He looked towards the cloudless sky, his brown eyes watery. ‘Bloody disease,’ he muttered, his voice cracking. He’d aged. His dark hair speckled with grey, the creases on his forehead deepened. Amelia leaned into him. Rested her head on his shoulder. Finding out her mum had terminal cancer had taken its toll on them all.

‘It’s crap,’ she said, looking towards Lark sitting cross-legged on the grass brushing a tear from her pale cheek. None of them were doing a good job of hiding their desperation. They needed to sort themselves out.

Lark looked so different to the last time Amelia saw her. Gone were the pale-blue dungarees, the high ponytail, her love of Justin Bieber. Today, she wore a flowing black dress, and black lace-up ankle boots. She was growing up fast, looked older than her seventeen years, her long blonde hair flowing down her back, her freckled cheeks masked by pale foundation, her lips painted red.

‘She’s refusing to go to university next year,’ her dad said, seeming to notice where Amelia’s eyes had landed.

‘Lark?’

He nodded. ‘She’s been so moody lately. I can’t get to the bottom of it.’

‘Mum’s dying,’ Amelia whispered. ‘She isn’t coping.’

Lark looked up, and caught Amelia’s eye across the expanse of grass. Her eyeliner had smudged beneath her eyes, and Amelia felt a pang of guilt that she rarely saw her anymore. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she said, turning back to her dad.

He nodded. ‘Me too.’

The rest of the family reached reception, and Lark got to her feet and shuffled towards them, head down.

‘We should probably go over,’ Amelia said. ‘Try to look happy.’

‘Yes, of course – chin up and all that.’

They rose and linked arms. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Amelia whispered.

As they approached, Jackson – who was only six years older than Amelia at thirty-six – had taken charge, and was in full voice.

‘It looks a bit small in there,’ he said, peering through the bay window into reception, one hand over his eyes to block out the sun. ‘I’ll go in and get the keys, shall I?’ He pushed his sandy-blond hair from his face with an exaggerated flick. ‘Then we can unpack,’ he went on. ‘Have a rest and freshen up before dinner. How does that sound?’

‘Good to see you taking charge,’ Amelia said with a roll of her eyes. This man walked in on my family and changed everything. She bit down on her lip. What right did she have to say anything? Her fleeting visits to the apartment Mum shared with him in Tweedmouth, brandishing huge bunches of flowers that only went some way towards easing her guilt, were hardly the act of a supportive daughter. She’d been a coward hiding in London, hoping a miracle would happen and she would never have to face the loss of her mother.

Her mum, who was holding on to Jackson’s arm, threw her a pleading look. She loved Jackson – Amelia knew that, even if she didn’t understand why. Yes she was still heartbroken that she’d left her dad, but this break wasn’t about Amelia. This was about her mum’s happiness – a happiness that would be cut short long before it should have been.

‘Sounds fine by me,’ Amelia said, and a lump rose in her throat as her mum smiled and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

She let out a sigh, and looked away. How the hell was she – or any of them – going to get through the next few days?

Chapter 6
A Year Ago

Ruth

Ruth stood behind an antique reception desk, inquisitive grey eyes, like marbles, fixed on the couple entering. The woman looked familiar, though she couldn’t fathom why, but then Ruth had met so many people over the years – visitors to Drummondale House.

‘Good morning.’ She moulded her face into a welcoming smile, without showing her teeth. She didn’t like her teeth – far too small, her mother always said. ‘Welcome to Drummondale House.’

‘Hey there.’ The man was American, and exceptionally handsome. His face lit up in a smile. ‘I’m Jackson Cromwell, and this is my partner Caroline Taylor.’

Ruth’s guests fascinated her. The anticipation of discovering more about their lives was her only pleasure outside of cooking. They always arrived smiling because they were on holiday, hiding their faults and flaws, their quirks, and deepest troubles. But what was beneath their façades intrigued her. It was like finding hidden treasure when it revealed itself – always a delight to see that they were never quite as happy below their holiday sheen. No happier than she was.

Ruth had been here all her life. Her mother had owned this small part of the Drummondale estate, and her father before her.

‘Your great-grandfather won the land in a poker game from George Collis,’ her mother told her once. And now it was hers – a sizeable piece of land right smack bang in the middle of the Drummondale House estate. Her mother had used the land as a camping retreat until her death thirty-five years ago. She’d been an untrusting woman. ‘Ruth,’ she would say, ‘keep your eye on everyone you meet, and trust no one. Nobody’s really your friend.’ And Ruth followed her mother’s advice always. Apart from that one summer when she was seventeen, when he said he loved her – and she’d believed him.

‘It’s stunning here,’ Jackson continued, looking through the window, forcing Ruth from her memory. She couldn’t help staring at him. There was something about him that drew her in.

‘Aye, it is. A beautiful part of the country,’ she said.

‘He’s been on TV and on the Broadway stage.’ It was Caroline. ‘He did really well in the US.’

‘Sorry?’ Ruth moved her eyes from Jackson to Caroline. The woman was much older than he was, twenty years, probably, and wearing faded blue jeans, a thick jumper, and a powder-blue scarf around her head. Ruth didn’t need to be told this woman had cancer. Her cheeks were slightly bloated from steroids, and chemo had stolen her eyelashes, her eyebrows, the colour from her cheeks.

‘I thought you must have recognised him. You were staring.’

‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Ruth felt wrong-footed – her cheeks burned.

‘Don’t worry,’ Caroline continued with a small laugh. ‘He’s a bit of a head-turner. I’m used to it.’

Ruth held her smile, but desperately wanted to hide her face. She certainly couldn’t recall seeing Jackson on TV, but there was no doubting he had the kind of look people noticed, the kind of eyes – green with flecks of hazel – that could ignite a fire inside you – something that hadn’t happened to Ruth in a very long while.

Caroline picked up a pen. ‘So where do I sign?’ she said, her eyes fixed on Ruth, as though taking her in.

‘If you could write your name in the register please, and the names of your party, and their relationship to you.’ Ruth didn’t need all that information, but it helped her get to know her guests better. She unbuttoned and rebuttoned her cardigan as she watched Caroline write, her handwriting distinctive, flamboyant swirling and curling on the page:

Caroline Taylor

Jackson Cromwell (partner)

Robert Taylor (ex-husband)

Amelia Taylor (daughter)

Lark Taylor (daughter)

Thomas Taylor (son)

Maddie Jenkins (son’s carer)

Ruth couldn’t help but notice what a complicated setup it was, with Caroline’s ex-husband being with them, and a fizz of excitement ran through her. This could get interesting.

Caroline placed the pen on the register, and straightened her back, letting out a little gasp, as though the job had exhausted her.

‘Thank you.’ Ruth picked up the pen, put it in a wooden pot, and closed the register. ‘You have the weather on your side. Eighteen degrees in late November is almost unheard of around these parts. We normally have snow by now.’

‘Yes, it’s beautiful out there,’ Jackson agreed, as Ruth reached behind her and unhooked two sets of keys from a small rack. ‘It’s so peaceful too. I’m sure we’ll have a relaxing stay.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Ruth glanced at Caroline, who had moved towards the window, and now had her back to her.

‘Bluebell Cottage, the largest dwelling, is next to the ruins,’ Ruth continued. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage is on the far side, backing onto the forest. There are some lovely walks down to the sea, with stunning views you’ll love.’ She placed the keys in Jackson’s outstretched hand and smiled. ‘But do be careful if you go into the woods after dark. It’s easy to get lost and end up on the cliff edge.’

‘Thanks,’ Jackson said, once Ruth had told him dinner would be served in the conservatory at seven, and breakfast at eight the following morning.

‘The electric gates are the only way in or out of the site. They open automatically if you want to leave, and there’s a wee code on the key ring to get you back in again after dark.’

‘Great. We saw a quaint little pub about ten miles down the road, didn’t we, Caroline? We might head there one evening.’

‘It all sounds lovely, Ruth,’ Caroline said, turning from the window. ‘I can’t think of a better place to be.’

‘Have a good day,’ Jackson said, and Caroline gripped hold of his arm as they made their way through the door and out into the bright afternoon.

‘Shall I get your wheelchair from the car, darling?’ he asked her.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, as the door closed behind them.

Through the window, Ruth watched as the family met up again. And as they chattered, she studied their faces, wondering who they all were. She suspected the tall man in his fifties was probably the ex-husband as he looked moody and out of place. The young man in the wheelchair was perhaps the son, Thomas Taylor, and the pretty woman with shiny black hair pushing him, was perhaps his carer, Maddie. She studied the pretty teenage girl dressed in black – unsmiling – her arms wrapped around herself, as though if she let go she would fall apart. She reminded Ruth of Kyla, and she wanted to take the girl in her arms and squeeze.

The door leading to the back of the cottage opened, and Ruth startled. She spun round. ‘Finn.’

His light brown hair, parted in the middle, hung limply to his shoulders. His grey tracksuit bottoms were misshapen at the knees, and his black AC/DC sweatshirt stretched too tightly across his chest. She had to admit he’d lost his looks since he returned home. But he was better off without her. Better at home with his mother. Better away from his wicked wife. And now Ruth was dependent on his company again – she could turn to him when black moods invaded – when memories flooded in. It was good to have him home where he belonged.

She glanced back at the window. Jackson and his group were walking across the grass towards the cottages – she wished they would use the path.

‘The big group has just checked in,’ she told Finn. ‘Three more guests are arriving tomorrow from the same party.’ She placed her hands flat on the counter – hands she felt gave her age away. Despite her ritual of applying hand cream night and morning, these hands – her hands – told the world she was in her late fifties. That she’d had a difficult life. Maybe if she kept them tucked in her cardigan pockets she could pass for fifty. She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter how old she was, not really. She could never get back what she’d lost. ‘We’ll meet them all at dinner,’ she said.

Finn opened the door to the back of the house once more, and the aroma of the pork joint sizzling in the oven hit Ruth’s senses. There was only one vegetarian this time, and Ruth had prepared a small broccoli and tomato quiche for her that morning. ‘Talking of dinner,’ she went on, following Finn through the door, ‘let’s peel the veg together, shall we?’

Chapter 7
A Year Ago

Amelia

‘Caroline and I will grab Bluebell Cottage,’ Jackson said, waving the keys above his head like a tour guide, the sun glinting on his hair, making it shine like gold. He flashed Lark a smile, and added, ‘Lark, you can share with us.’

‘I’d rather not,’ she said. Her tone was calm and even, but there was something in the way her sister looked at him that Amelia couldn’t quite put her finger on.

‘Oh please stay with us, darling,’ Caroline said, gripping Lark’s hand. ‘We can have some mother and daughter quality time.’

Jackson placed a set of keys in Amelia’s hand. ‘The rest of you can take Honeysuckle Cottage.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Amelia muttered, and as she turned to head away, first checking her mum wasn’t watching, she saluted him. She knew it was childish, that she should, for her mum’s sake, stop acting the fool.

As they walked away, Maddie was suddenly in step beside Amelia. She linked her arm through her elbow. There was no doubting she was stunning, with glossy raven hair, a clear, olive complexion, and deep brown eyes. She had come over from America and was staying with family when she’d spotted the advertisement for a carer for Thomas a year ago. It was after some awkward interviews, including one with a man in his eighties with arthritis who Robert was certain needed a carer more than Thomas, and one with a woman who insisted she would have to bring her three Labradoodles with her because they couldn’t possibly cross their legs for the four hours she would be away, that twenty-two-year-old Maddie Jenkins turned up, brightening the room.

Thomas liked her from the off, and although he’d never admitted to anyone the emotional pain he’d been under since his accident, closing himself off completely when he returned from the States, the family knew Maddie had pulled him back from the edge.

‘Do you like him?’ Maddie whispered to Amelia now, as they made their way towards Honeysuckle Cottage. It was one of two cottages that backed onto part of the forest that formed a semi-circle around a large expanse of grass.

‘Who?’

‘Jackson.’ She kept darting him looks over her shoulder, a cigarette dangling from her free hand.

‘I barely know him.’ It was true. Amelia had seen him on the odd occasion she visited, and her observations were conflicted. On the one hand, he seemed fond of her mother, but he was also vain and cocksure of himself. She certainly wasn’t his biggest fan. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I like him or not, Maddie,’ she said. ‘As long as my mum’s happy, I’m happy.’

‘He’s great-looking though, don’t you think?’ She almost swooned as they continued across the plush green grass.

Amelia glanced over her shoulder, watching as he headed into the cottage, his arm around her mum’s shoulders, Lark a few steps behind. As though sensing her stare, he bolted her a look, and smiled. Yes, he was good-looking – too good-looking – tall, slender yet muscular. She narrowed her eyes. Didn’t return his smile. What had attracted him to her mother? As lovely as her mum was, Jackson, with his charms and good looks, could have had his pick of women of his own age.

‘Not my type,’ Amelia said, looking forward once more. He wasn’t. She preferred her men a little rough around the edges – and Jackson was a priceless jewel that positively gleamed. She shrugged, unhappy discussing his appearance – or him at all for that matter. Apart from anything else, her dad was only a few steps in front of them pushing Thomas in his wheelchair.

‘So, how are things with you, Maddie?’ It was an attempt to change the subject.

‘Great.’ Maddie released Amelia’s arm, and ran towards the cottage, her floral dress flapping her calves.

Amelia followed and, once they were congregated around the red-painted door of the cottage where they would spend the next few days, she suddenly felt unnerved. The area was too quiet – just the rustle of trees swaying in a light breeze, the caw of a crow. She turned, taking in the ruins, shuddering at the sight of the crumbling walls, the broken statues. Why had her mum picked here and not Spain or Greece? But then she wasn’t fit enough to travel, and Amelia quickly chastised herself for being selfish.

This was where her mum had spent wonderful holidays as a child and as a teenager. It held happy memories for her. This break was all about her mum and nothing about Amelia. Supressing a sense of foreboding, she stepped inside the cottage and closed the door.

Chapter 8
Present Day

Amelia

Dad drives with care, snow crunching under tyres as he heads towards Honeysuckle Cottage, where we’d stayed a year ago.

Together we carry in our luggage, and close the door against the weather.

Ruth has lit the wood burner and the cottage feels warm and cosy, after the freezing conditions outside. We stand for some moments in the semi-darkness, both lost in thought, and I know, like me, the memories of last year are flooding Dad’s thoughts.

I feel that familiar sensation of tears rising. I would give anything to have everyone here with me, for the sun to beam down – for the sky to be clear and blue. ‘What are we doing here, Dad?’ I drop my rucksack to the floor with a thud, and flick on the light, hope of finding anything that could lead to Lark falling away.

‘I’m already wondering that myself, love.’ He runs his fingers through his damp hair. ‘I suppose I thought … well like I said before … that something might come to me. But now we’re here it feels such a ridiculous idea.’

I tug off my boots and coat, and pad towards the window. It’s bright out there, the snow reflecting light, and a full moon hovers above the ruin. It’s beautiful – peaceful yet haunting.

After staring out for some time, I pull the curtains across the window. ‘Was there something specific that drew you back here, Dad?’ I turn to see him perched on the edge of the sofa, tears in his eyes.

‘Only Lark,’ he says, rubbing his face with his hands. And talking through his fingers, adds, ‘I hoped to find Lark.’

I race to his side, drop down next to him, and wrap my arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad.’

‘Where is she, Amelia?’ His tears turn to sobs, and I’m struggling. Yes, I’ve seen him cry – when Lark went missing, and after Mum’s funeral, but it never gets easier seeing your father cry. ‘Where’s my little girl?’

‘I wish I knew.’ I’m crying too, fat tears streaming down my face – not only for his little girl, but for mine too. We’re a mess – a tragic bloody mess.

We finally release each other, and he dries his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Do you still think he took her?’

‘Jackson?’

He nods. ‘What did your mum really know about him? What did any of us know about him?’

It’s true. Mum had known very little. He told her his parents had recently died, and it was only by accident she’d found out they’d been travellers. When he disappeared, she never spoke about him again.

I lean my head on Dad’s shoulder, my eyes growing heavy, and before long the journey catches up with us both, and we drift off to sleep.

*

Someone is knocking at the door. My eyes spring open, and I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven.

‘Dad,’ I say, pulling myself upright, and he stirs. The hammering grows louder. ‘It’s probably Maddie needing help getting Thomas over to the conservatory for dinner.’

I jump up and hurry to open the door. Maddie stubs out a cigarette on the porch, and dashes past me, bringing a flurry of snow and the smell of tobacco with her. She’s togged up against the weather in a furry deerstalker hat and a navy ski suit that I can’t believe she’s had the sense to bring with her.

‘Hey, Robert, are you ready to eat?’ She aims her question at Dad, acts as though I’m not here. ‘I think you’ll need to carry Thomas. We’ll never get his wheelchair through all this white stuff.’

‘Yes, yes of course. I’ll carry him,’ Dad says, his earlier sadness masked with a smile.

‘It’s a good thing you’re strong, Robert,’ she says.

Dad rises and flexes his muscles, and she laughs. He likes her. Mum did too. ‘She makes Thomas happy,’ Mum would say, when I tried to suggest Maddie shouldn’t vlog about us; that I didn’t want a breakdown of our lives online for everyone to hear about.

‘Are you ready, love?’ Dad says to me.

I move across the room to the mirror above the wood burner and comb my fingers through my hair, catching a tangle and yelping. I look a right state, but I don’t care.

‘Yep,’ I say, pulling on my padded jacket, and bending to pull on my fur-lined boots.

We trudge through the snow, and, as promised, Dad carries Thomas. Maddie walks along beside them. I dawdle behind, kicking snow like a sulky child.

Ruth is by the conservatory door, patting warmth into her arms. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, looks greyer than it did this time last year, though I’m sure she’s wearing the same button-through knee-length dress and cardigan.

‘He looks heavy,’ she says, with a smile, as Dad carries Thomas through the door and lowers him down gently onto a chair. Maddie and I file in behind them.

‘Cheers, Dad,’ Thomas says, looking dishevelled, and I wonder if he’s in any pain. He shuffles free of his jacket. ‘Although for the record, next time I’ll get a taxi.’

Dad laughs as he takes his jacket from him and hangs it up.

Once we’re free of our coats the rest of us sit down. The smell of dinner cooking tingles my taste buds, and I realise I’m hungry. But as I sit, surrounded by empty chairs where Mum, Lark, and Jackson sat one short year ago, a painful lump rises in my throat, and I lose my appetite.

Ruth approaches with her notebook and pen. ‘Can I get anyone a wee drink?’ she says. ‘Tap water is included; anything else is extra.’

‘A large white wine, please,’ I say as a sense of déjà vu settles heavily on my shoulders.

Once we’ve received our drinks, and Ruth has vanished to the back of the house, the silence between the four of us is awkward and painful, and I’m almost relieved when the door springs opens. Until I see who it is.

‘Rosamund,’ I whisper. As elegant as ever, she’s wearing the same orange coat she wore a year ago, topped off with a flamboyant fur hat and gloves. I feel a pang of envy when I notice she’s pregnant.

Her eyes meet with Dad’s. And without speaking she takes a seat.

I look over at Dad for an explanation, but he looks as bewildered as I feel, and is blinking rapidly. My body fizzes with adrenalin. Not once did she visit Mum after Lark went missing. Not once did she call to see how Mum was. She never even came to her funeral.

I desperately want to know what she’s doing here. It can’t be a coincidence, surely. I open my mouth, about to fire questions at her, tell her she was nothing more than a fake friend to Mum, but Maddie beats me to it.

‘Hey, Rosamund, how are you?’ she says, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass.

‘I should be asking you that question,’ Rosamund says, her tone soft and caring. She is stroking her stomach as though gaining comfort from her unborn child. I know that feeling. ‘You must have had a dreadful year,’ she goes on. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.’

‘It’s been awful,’ Maddie says. ‘But we’re coming to terms with it all.’

‘Are we?’ I bristle. Maddie is not part of our family. How could she possibly know how we feel? Whether we are coming to terms with things? Which I’m not.

‘When … when did you lose Caroline?’ Rosamund’s voice cracks, her watery eyes glancing at the empty chair where Mum sat a year ago.

‘Five months ago,’ Dad says.

‘I’m so sorry, Robert.’ She leans across the table, and places her gloved hand on his. He snatches his hand away as though burned, leaving hers redundant on the table.

‘It’s not like we didn’t know,’ he says.

‘It doesn’t make it any easier.’ She withdraws her hand too, and removes her gloves, tucking them into her coat pocket, and sits down.

The door from the kitchen opens. It’s Finn. He looks different – slimmer, healthier, his hair short. ‘Can I get you a drink, Rosamund?’ he says, and then smiles at each of us in turn. It’s good to see him.

‘Please,’ she says, removing her coat and hanging it up. ‘An orange juice will go down a treat.’

‘How were the roads?’ Finn asks, as he pours juice into a crystal-glass tumbler.

‘Horrendous. I skidded twice. Elise got quite panicked and feels a bit sick from the journey. But we got here in one piece, that’s the main thing.’ She glances at the window. ‘I can’t believe the rate it was falling earlier. Thank goodness it’s stopped for now.’ She smiles. ‘Elise wants to build a snowman in the morning. I’m sure there is still a small girl in there somewhere, even though she’s taller than me now.’ She’s babbling. Perhaps it’s us being here. Maybe we make her feel awkward – nervous. Well, she can’t feel any more uncomfortable than I do.

*

‘I’m going to head back to my cottage,’ Dad says as he finishes his last mouthful, and puts down his cutlery. Throughout the meal, the tension was tangible, and I realise now I’ve drunk too much wine.

‘I won’t be long,’ I say, picking up on a slight slur in my voice. ‘I’ll be up at the crack of dawn, I expect, so will need a few hours’ beauty sleep.’ Truth is though: I barely sleep at all anymore.

‘You’re an early riser too, are you?’ Finn says, smiling my way from where he’s propped against the bar, long legs splayed out in front of him. ‘I get up for a run around six – maybe you could join me.’

‘Not if you paid me a million pounds,’ I say with a laugh, and he laughs too.

Dad gets up, and puts on his coat.

‘Well it looks as though that’s my lift,’ Thomas says, smiling. And once Maddie has wrestled into her ski suit, and Thomas has put on his fur-collared jacket, Dad heaves him up, and carries him through the door, Maddie following behind.

I don’t move. Truth is, I’m not ready to leave quite yet. I hope to get more out of Rosamund before the evening is over. Ask her why she never contacted Mum before she died. Why she didn’t come to her funeral. Why she is here now.

‘I normally close the dining room by nine,’ Ruth says coming through the door from the back of the house, her tone spiky. She’s been popping back and forth clearing the table for the last ten minutes, huffing – making it clear we’ve outstayed our welcome. ‘Can’t you take your chatter to one of your cottages?’

‘Or,’ I say, ‘you and Finn could join us.’ I beckon them, take a gulp of my fourth glass of wine, knowing I shouldn’t drink any more.

Finn looks at his mum as though for approval.

‘For Christ’s sake, Finn, you must be in your thirties. Surely you don’t have to ask your mum for permission.’

Ruth narrows her grey eyes.

‘I’m so sorry, we’re holding you up,’ Rosamund says, smiling at Ruth, and goes to rise. I need to strike now. I lean across the table with a jolt, grab the sleeve of her jumper, and stare into her eyes. ‘Why exactly are you here?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Here at Drummondale House on the anniversary of Lark’s disappearance? It’s no coincidence. It can’t be.’

She lowers her head. ‘No, you’re right, Amelia.’

The door that leads to the back of the house slams shut, and I look up to see Finn and Ruth have left.

‘Well?’ I say, eyes back on Rosamund.

‘If you let go of my jumper, I’ll tell you.’

I realise my knuckles have turned white, and unclench my fingers.

‘I heard on Maddie’s vlog that you were all coming here. I wanted to see you. Put things right.’

‘But you never once contacted my mum after Lark vanished. She needed a friend, and you weren’t there for her.’

‘No, and I’m sorry. The truth is I couldn’t cope with watching her die.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I know I was selfish then, and I’m selfish now, but … well … I need closure. Her loss haunts me.’ She dashes a tear from the corner of her eye with her finger. ‘I thought if I was to see you all, ask you to forgive me, it would help. I wasn’t there for her, and I can’t forgive myself.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Oh God, I should get back to Elise,’ she says, grabbing her coat, and putting it on. She fumbles in her pocket and brings out her gloves. She’s about to put them on when I pick up on the low ring of her phone. She pulls it from her pocket, and presses the screen.

‘Hello, darling,’ she says, pinning the phone to her ear. ‘Calm down, sweetheart, talk slowly, the line’s dreadful.’ Another pause, longer this time. ‘Oh, Elise, please, not this again, you know what your father said. You have to stop—’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I say.

Rosamund raises her eyes as though in desperation. ‘OK. Keep the door locked,’ she continues into the phone. ‘I’m on my way.’ She ends the call, and I stare, my curiosity piqued, waiting for her to explain. ‘It’s Elise,’ she says. ‘I need to go.’

‘Is she OK?’ I ask, rising. ‘Is Neil with her?’

‘No, he’s not with us. He’s working in Wales.’ She races towards the door, her coat flapping open. Stops. Glances back. ‘Elise said she saw someone looking in the window.’ She takes a breath. ‘Someone wearing a mask.’

‘Oh God,’ I say, my heartbeat picking up speed.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing; you know what she can be like.’

I nod, recalling Elise – the way she told stories.

But then I’d seen the masks last time we were here – we all had.

‘She hasn’t said anything like this in a long time,’ Rosamund adds. And with that, she flutters her fingers, and heads out into the snowy night.

Chapter 9
Present Day

Ruth

I rarely show my annoyance. Normally I keep it bottled up, out of reach, not for human consumption. In fact, the last time I got angry was when Finn’s wife came looking for him. That woman soon scurried away with her tail between her legs. But all evening Amelia’s been pushing my buttons; talking loud, inhibitions lowered by alcohol. She should take note of her brother Thomas. He remained sober – a decent man.

I remember watching my husband drink too much each night – drowning his sadness, he said. I never needed alcohol to drown mine. The thing is, people spiral out of control when they drink too much. There are no exceptions.

And now, as I enter the conservatory once more, expecting everyone to have gone back to their cottages, Amelia is still here, alone, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, sipping yet more wine as she twiddles her red hair round her fingers.

‘You should leave now,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘The dining room closes at nine, and it’s almost ten-thirty.’

Amelia looks up at me. Shows no sign of moving.

‘Finn!’ I call out, and he appears through the door behind me looking flushed. He’s probably been out for a brisk walk; he often goes out in the evening as part of his fitness regime.

Amelia turns and smiles at him. ‘Finn,’ she says, swinging her arm in the air in an exaggerated wave. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

‘Hey, shall I get you back to your cottage?’ he says, walking towards her and, taking hold of her arms, he pulls her to her feet.

‘I’m sure the lass can find her own way,’ I say. ‘Just point her towards the door, son.’

Amelia threads an arm through Finn’s and leans against him. ‘You smell nice,’ she says.

I grind my teeth, turn, and head back into the main house, slamming the door behind me, disgusted by the young woman’s behaviour.

Chapter 10
Present Day

Amelia

Snow swirls and twirls from the night sky, and I stick out my tongue. Try to catch flakes.

‘Are you a bit of a mummy’s boy, Finn?’ I’m clinging to his arm as he guides me through the snow, brandishing a torch to light our way. I’m regretting the amount of wine I’ve drunk, as I’m at that stage where crap falls from my mouth. I shouldn’t use alcohol to drown out real life, but sometimes it’s just too easy. ‘She’s ever so, ever so, much possessive of you.’

‘You think?’ He sounds amused by me.

‘Mmm.’ I screw up my nose, and stare up at him. ‘It’s kind of obvious.’

‘I guess she’s relied on me over the years. She means well.’ He shrugs and avoids my gaze. ‘Just cares a bit too much, I guess. She’s had a hard time of it over the years. What with …’

‘With?’

‘Oh nothing,’ he says, and despite my intoxicated state, something tells me not to pry.

‘Should we check Elise is OK, do you think?’ I say, as we pass Primrose Cottage where Rosamund and Elise are staying.

He shakes his head. ‘It’s in darkness. They’re probably asleep by now.’

‘But Elise saw a masked face peering in her window, Finn. That’s what she told Rosamund. And remember last time?’

‘It’s unlikely anyone peered in at her, Amelia. We’re miles from anywhere, and the weather is awful. Elise probably imagined it.’

‘She’s pretty imaginative,’ I agree, recalling her from the last time I was here.

‘And it’s quite creepy around here; can play tricks with your mind.’

I stop and look about me, my eyes falling on a set of footprints heading from Primrose Cottage towards the forest. ‘Oh God, who made those?’ I clench tighter onto Finn’s arm, my heartbeat picking up speed. ‘Someone else is here, Finn. Oh God, Elise was right.’ I sound a bit manic.

Finn is silent for a while, his eyes on the footprints. It appears that whoever made them walked to Primrose Cottage, and returned the way they came.

‘Do you think Rosamund has seen the footprints? Should we tell her?’ I say.

‘Tomorrow. Whoever it was has gone now.’

I shudder, unsure whether it’s from fear or the freezing conditions. ‘But—’

‘Amelia!’ It’s Dad, hurrying through the snow towards us in his long winter coat, his arms folded around his body.

‘You can head back now,’ I say to Finn, releasing him. ‘My dad will walk me the rest of the way.’

‘Oh. Right. OK.’

‘Thanks for bringing me this far – you’re very kind.’ I rise onto my toes, and kiss his cold cheek.

‘No problem.’ He raises his gloved hand in a wave, before turning and trudging back, his head down.

Dad and I carry on towards our cottage.

‘I was getting worried about you,’ he says. ‘Though I shouldn’t have been. Finn seems a nice guy.’

‘Get that look off your face, Dad. He’s not my type.’ It’s a lie. I like him. But a relationship, or even a brief fling, is the furthest thing from my thoughts right now, especially when a possessive mother looms large. I open my mouth to tell him about the footprints, but he speaks first.

‘Odd that Rosamund is here, don’t you think?’

I nod. ‘She says she needs closure, Dad. Wants us all to forgive her for not being there for Mum.’

‘Oh, I see. Well she won’t be getting any forgiveness from me, that’s for sure.’

I glance over my shoulder at the footprints, and back at Dad. He looks brighter than he did earlier. Any mention of anything odd will bring him tumbling down, and his thoughts will be back with Lark. I need to give him at least the rest of the evening off. I’ll tell him in the morning.

*

I rise at six, and pad towards the bedroom window. My head thuds, my mouth is dry, and regrets fill my head at the things I said to Finn last night.

I pull back the curtains. It’s still dark outside, but the lights on Rosamund’s porch are on, haloing Elise crouched with her back to me in front of a rather splendid-looking snowman. She’s clearly still a fan of pink; the hat she’s wearing is the same one she wore on the beach a year ago, but the pink jacket is paler – more grown-up – and her fair hair is longer, several inches peeking out of the bottom of her woolly hat. As she rises and pushes a carrot into the snowman’s head, I see she’s taller, no longer a child but a young woman.

Unbidden memories flood my head of playing in the snow with Mum and Dad when I was a child, and my throat closes round them. I turn from the window, and shiver. It’s not cold in the cottage. The central heating is on and, if anything, it’s too warm. It’s the simple thought of being here again – where Lark disappeared – where we were all last together.

I close the curtains again. I need water – lots of water – and head downstairs, where I gulp back a tumbler full, and flick on the kettle. I hear Dad’s footfalls on the stairs, and make him some coffee, and myself some tea, and leave the kitchen.

He’s sitting on the sofa, and I place the steaming mug on the table in front of him. ‘Thanks, love,’ he says, as I kiss his head.

I perch on the edge of the armchair, cradling my mug of tea. ‘Rosamund and Elise have built a great snowman,’ I say, before taking a sip.

He smiles. ‘You used to love the snow,’ he says. ‘Lark not so much. She used to cry if her hands got too cold.’ I hear a crack in his voice. ‘And Thomas used to throw snowballs at me when I came home from work.’

I laugh. ‘I remember,’ I say, recalling the small boy who would run like the wind when Dad chased him.

‘Do you think we should head for home today?’ I say, blowing the steam from my drink.

‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’ He picks up his coffee.

‘There’s nothing here, Dad. We’re chasing shadows.’

He nods. ‘But I’m not sure how the roads will be this morning. It’s been snowing through the night.’ He picks up the remote control and flicks on the TV. ‘Let’s see what’s happening in this area, shall we?’

We wait a while for the local weather forecast, before a chirpy young woman tells us the local roads are blocked until they can get a snowplough out. We’re stuck here, and my heart sinks.

‘Maybe it’s fate.’ Dad flicks off the TV, and puts the remotes on the table. ‘Maybe we are meant to be here. Maybe the fact we can’t leave means we will discover something.’

I can’t find the words I want to say, without extinguishing his hopes further, so I stay silent, biting the inside of my mouth and tasting blood. A crushing foreboding settles on my shoulders.

What if it was a stranger who took Lark?

What if it wasn’t Jackson, after all?

What if whoever took Lark is back, or never left?

What if they made the footprints in the snow last night? Looked in the window at Elise, while wearing a mask?

Dad picks up his Kindle, and I rise, slip on my padded jacket, bobble hat and boots, and take my tea onto the snowy porch at the front of the cottage.

A milky sun is rising, casting a bright light over a shimmering sheet of untouched snow. The footprints we saw on our way home last night have gone – due to last night’s snowfall – though it’s not falling now.

I’m lost in thought, my nose and fingertips tingling as I sip my tea, when I hear someone call my name.

It’s Finn, wearing winter running gear and a beanie hat and scarf. He isn’t exactly running, more stomping through the snow. ‘Morning,’ I call back, raising my hand, hoping he won’t hate me for the way I behaved the night before. ‘Not the best conditions for a run.’

He laughs. ‘You’re right about that, but if I don’t stick to my routine, I’ll give up.’ He glances over his shoulder at the snowman near Rosamund’s cottage. ‘They’ve done a great job, haven’t they?’ He sounds a little out of breath.

I smile. ‘They really have. Oh to be young.’

‘Hey, we’re still young.’ He laughs and picks up speed. ‘See you at breakfast?’

‘Yes, we’ll be over soon.’

‘Great!’ He heads away with another wave, and I take a deep breath and go back inside.

‘Are you ready to eat, Dad?’

‘Sure,’ he says, rising and climbing the stairs. ‘I’ll have a quick shower first, then we can head over.’

*

We pass the snowman on our way to the conservatory, and I notice Rosamund standing in the window in her dressing gown, holding a mug. She lifts her hand in a wave, and I return the gesture. Within seconds she’s gone from the window, and appears at the front door.

‘Morning,’ she calls. ‘Can you tell Ruth we won’t want breakfast this morning. Elise has gone back to bed – she was up at the crack of dawn building our new snowman friend here.’ She smiles. ‘And I’m feeling a bit groggy after the stressful journey here.’

‘OK, we’ll perhaps see you later,’ I call back as we continue to trudge through the snow, trying so hard to forgive her.

Dad makes a grumbling sound. ‘I don’t know why you give her the time of day, Amelia. That woman—’

‘I’m not keen on her myself,’ I cut in. ‘But she is sorry – wants our forgiveness.’

‘Yes, well, she won’t get mine.’

‘I know. You said.’ I’m frustrated by his lack of understanding. ‘I just feel you should give her a chance, that’s all.’

‘Pot. Kettle,’ he says.

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, you’ve never given Maddie a chance. Never tried to forgive her.’

‘That’s different,’ I say, though I’m not sure it is.

I glance back over my shoulder as Rosamund calls after us, ‘Second thoughts, a cooked breakfast does sound rather tempting. I’ll be right over.’ She steps back inside her cottage and closes the door behind her.

‘Robert!’ It’s Maddie, waving from her cottage doorway, dressed in her ski suit. ‘Can we borrow your muscles again, please? Thomas is starving.’

*

‘Did you hear about the footprints?’ Ruth says, topping up Dad’s tea.

‘Footprints?’ everyone says but me.

‘Bit odd really,’ she goes on, her hand on the side of the teapot as though her skin is made of copper. ‘Finn said they seemed to come from the woods and then go back again.’

‘That’s weird,’ Dad says.

‘Aye, it is strange,’ Ruth agrees, eyes searching the ceiling. ‘I can’t think who it could have been. The roads are blocked for miles.’

‘But what if someone’s been here all along?’ Maddie says, her voice cracking under her words. ‘Arrived before us. What if they came before the snow?’

‘What size prints were they?’ Thomas dips a piece of toast into his egg, and as the yellow trickles down the shell, he shoves the toast into his mouth.

‘Finn said they were made by large feet.’ Ruth turns to me. ‘What do you think, Amelia? You saw them, didn’t you?’

All eyes are on me, and Dad’s forehead furrows. ‘You saw them, Amelia? You never said.’

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ It sounds pathetic now I think about it. ‘I was going to mention it this morning. I think we should tell Rosamund.’

‘Tell Rosamund what?’ She’s standing in the doorway, looking stunning in her orange coat, her wavy blonde hair spilling from her fur hat.

‘We were talking about the footprints,’ Ruth says. ‘Tea, coffee?’

‘Tea please, I’ve gone off coffee since I fell pregnant.’ She sits down next to Dad, and he shuffles his chair away. ‘What footprints?’ she asks.

‘There were footprints in the snow last night,’ Ruth says. ‘Whoever made them walked from the woods to your cottage.’

‘Oh God,’ Rosamund says, peeling off her gloves. ‘Maybe Elise did see someone hanging about.’

‘Elise saw someone?’ Dad says. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’

Rosamund shudders and nods. ‘Well she said she did. Said he was wearing a mask, and was looking in at her through the window of our cottage. But she makes things up. Always has done.’

‘It seems odd though, don’t you think?’ I say. ‘Especially after last time.’

‘I’ll talk to her again about it when she wakes up. Anyway, I didn’t notice any footprints this morning.’ She raises a perfect eyebrow.

‘Well we saw them last night, Rosamund.’ I bite into a croissant and chew. Crumbs fall onto the table. ‘It’s snowed since then. Covered them over.’

She shudders again. ‘Don’t, please, you’re giving me the creeps.’

Ruth hands her a mug of tea. ‘Get that down you, lass. It’ll make you feel better.’

After taking several sips, Rosamund puts the mug on the table. ‘Anyway, we’re going to head for home today,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’m not sure what I was thinking.’ She’s talking too fast, and her hands are trembling. ‘The weather’s getting worse, more snow expected later with winds of up to seventy miles per hour.’

‘I think you may be out of luck, Rosamund,’ Dad says, as though he’s getting pleasure from his words. ‘All the roads are blocked around here.’

‘But we desperately need to get back to the comfort of our own home.’

Ruth rests her hand on Rosamund’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry. I’m cooking a nice beef Wellington later.’

Finn appears from the back of the house. ‘What you lads and lassies need is a bit of fun,’ he says. ‘There’s a hill on the other side of the ruin—’

Ruth spins round to look at him, her eyes wide. ‘Vine Hill?’

‘And I’ve got a couple of sledges,’ Finn goes on as though his mother hasn’t spoken. ‘Does anyone fancy a bit of tobogganing?’

Ruth storms from the room, and within seconds Dad’s on his feet.

‘Not for me,’ he says. ‘I’m not here to have fun.’ He heads out of the conservatory without a word, but I can’t bring myself to call him back.

I think how odd his words sounded. From the moment Mum became ill, having fun or enjoying ourselves felt wrong somehow – that if I should laugh or feel happy, then I was being disloyal to her, to Lark, then to my lost baby. Yet at this moment, a part of me wants to whizz down a snowy slope on a sledge and yell and squeal and laugh at the top of my voice.

‘I’m up for it,’ Thomas says. His spinal injury affects his motor skills in his legs, though his sensory functions have always been OK. But I’m still concerned.

‘Do you think you should, Thomas? Dad won’t be happy.’

He glares my way. ‘Life is pretty crap right now, Amelia. I’m going down that slope whether you and Dad like it or not.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Who’s going to ride with me?’

‘Me!’ says Maddie, and I control an urge to thump her. ‘Let’s do it!’

‘Great!’ Finn says, his cheeks glowing.

Rosamund takes another sip of her drink, and shakes her head. ‘I’m not quite sure how you can all get so excited, after just saying we may have a prowler about, and we’re stranded in this awful place. No offence meant, Finn.’

My mind swirls with all the bad things that have happened, and it’s as though I’m punching them to the back of my mind. ‘Count me in,’ I say, desperately needing to feel the freezing wind on my face – in my hair.

*

It’s snowing again, and the wind is getting up, whipping the snow off the ground so it whirls and twirls in the air, stinging my cheeks.

Finn is ahead of us on his quad bike, Thomas on the back of it, clinging to him. Maddie is pulling one sledge and I’m pulling the other. They’re old, handmade out of wood, sturdy.

‘Almost there,’ calls Finn, over his shoulder, as we make our way past the ruins, his words muffled by the wind.

Drummondale House looks like a scene from a Dickens novel, snow lying inches thick on every crumbling window-ledge, every decaying doorway – and my stomach knots, and grief floods my veins. What am I thinking being out here, about to sled down a hill in abandonment?

It’s getting difficult to walk, my boots sinking deeper and deeper with every step I make. I can barely see in front of me for the falling snow. I glance back, but the view is no clearer. I’m glad we’re with Finn – he knows this place so well.

‘We’re here,’ he calls, cutting the power on his bike, and climbing off. He lifts Thomas off, and lowers him onto the snow.

‘Cool,’ Thomas says, flopping backwards, making the wings of a snow-angel with his arms. And for the first time in a long time, I urge his legs to work. I stare at him for a moment, and it’s as he pulls himself to a sitting position I think I see his foot move. I look straight at his face, but his eyes are on Maddie who is jumping up and down as though trying to warm her feet, her scarf blowing in the wind.

‘Thomas,’ I say, and he turns to look at me with enquiring eyes.

‘What’s up, sis?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ I go on; deciding the movement must have been my imagination – wishful thinking.

Vine Hill is steep. I work out it heads in the opposite direction to the sea, and the foot of the slope is in walking distance of the estate owner Michael Collis’s farmhouse.

Finn stomps his feet. ‘So, who wants to go first? Amelia?’

‘No, let Thomas and Maddie go down first,’ I say. Then it occurs to me. ‘Wait though, how the hell is Thomas going to get back up?’

‘I’ll take the bike the long way, and meet you at the bottom,’ Finn obliges. ‘No worries.’

‘I’m still not sure you should go down, Thomas,’ I say.

‘Hey, stop that,’ Thomas says, his cheeks glowing. ‘I’m going down. I’m all psyched up.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘On your head be it.’

‘You get on the sled first, Maddie,’ Finn says.

She looks into his eyes and grimaces, and he puts his arm around her shoulder. ‘You can trust me, Maddie,’ he says. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

She smiles up at him – is that adoration on her face? – and lowers herself onto the sledge.

‘Right!’ Finn continues, lifting Thomas onto the sledge in front of Maddie, and she grabs him round the waist, rests her face against his back.

Within seconds, Finn pushes the sledge and it hurtles down the hill, and Thomas and Maddie squeal with excitement as they zigzag through the snow, until I can’t see them anymore.

‘Your turn,’ Finn says, smiling my way.

‘Oh, I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ll stay right here.’

‘You need a bit of fun in your life, Amelia,’ he says. ‘You’ve been through hell. Get on the sledge.’

‘Fine,’ I say, sitting down and grabbing the rough rope with my gloved hands. Suddenly I’m whizzing down the slope, snow bombarding my face. Halfway down, tears spill from my eyes, but they are not happy tears, they are desperate tears, and I wonder, as the sled hits the bottom and I fall out into deep snow, whether I’ll ever be truly happy again.

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