cardboard box once more, and search inside. Squashed at the bottom is a sealed envelope. I pull it free and rip it open. Inside is a piece of paper. I recognise Willow’s handwriting instantly.
My eyes widen as Becky and I read her words.
Dear Rose,
I’m sending you these photos because one of these men killed my mother eighteen years ago. Her name was Ava Millar. I’ve been asking questions, and now someone is hanging about the cottage. They want me to leave, but I’m not giving up.
I’ll explain everything when you arrive. But Rose – if anything happens to me, please keep digging until you find the truth.
Love, Willow X
My hands shake, and my heart bounces in my chest, as I try to push the letter back in the envelope. I’m in shock that Willow would send me a letter with such potency. That she would worry me that something could happen to her – tell me to take the baton if it did.
‘Christ! What’s going on, Mum?’ Becky says. She’s nibbling her nails, and her eyes look browner and wider than ever.
‘I have no idea,’ I say, the words of the letter jumping around my head, ‘but the sooner I get to Cornwall the better.’
‘This is so freaky.’ Becky pulls her phone from her pocket. ‘I need to tell Tamsyn.’
‘No! Don’t tell anyone.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘OK, Mother.’ A pause. ‘But I just can’t believe we’re going to Cornwall to catch a killer.’
‘You’re not going at all,’ I say. ‘It’s no place for you. You can stay with Grandpa and Eleanor.’
‘But Mum!’
I raise my hand like I’m the traffic police. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
Now
Becky thunders up the stairs and slams her bedroom door. With a deep sigh, I plonk down on the sofa and grab my laptop. Trying to block out her teenage tantrum, I open it up.
I key in ‘murder’ and ‘Cornwall’ into the search engine. There are almost 100,000 hits. As I scroll down the websites: unsolved murders, mysterious murders, frenzied killings, sadistic killings, my stomach turns over – and I pray nobody ever looks at my search history.
I spot an article about a rape and attempted murder of a young woman near Crantock in 2001, but Willow said her mother was murdered.
With determination, I do the same search and include Ava Millar.
Oh God, it’s there in front of me within moments. Ava Millar. Murdered in 2001.
With shaking hands, I press the link. It takes me to a newspaper article:
The Cornwall Journal
December 22nd 2001
The body of nineteen-year-old Ava Millar was discovered early this morning by sixty-year-old Stephen Patterson while he was walking his dog along Beach Road, Bostagel.
Stephen told the Cornwall Journal that the attack on Ava was horrific, and finding her would live with him forever. It has now been confirmed that she was stabbed eight times.
Near the body a bride’s dress, thought to belong to Ava’s sister, Gail Thompson, was found folded neatly with what appeared to be a suicide note.
The last sightings of Ava and Gail were at Bostagel Village Hall yesterday evening. Police are keen to talk to anyone who may have seen Ava or Gail between ten o’clock and midnight last night to get in contact on the numbers below.
Ava leaves behind her two-year-old daughter Willow.
‘Oh God,’ I whisper, covering my face with my hands. Trying to comprehend the terrible tragedy. Imagining Willow doing the same online search. Reading this article. I can’t bear to think of the effect it would have had on her. Why didn’t she turn to me sooner?
I struggle to believe that Eleanor isn’t Willow’s real mother, that she kept it from us all. But as the idea settles, I wonder if there were signs I missed over the years. Mummy is an angel.
Later, as I stir fry chicken and vegetables, I try calling Willow, the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder as the food sizzles and spits in the wok, but her phone rings and rings, finally going to voicemail. I leave a short message. ‘Call me, Willow. Please.’
‘Becky, dinner’s ready,’ I call, as I serve.
She thumps down the stairs. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, disappearing into the lounge. So I sit alone, pushing food around my plate, unable to eat, my mind full of Willow.
Later, I grab my jacket from the rack, and call my dad. ‘Hey! Is Eleanor home?’ I say when he picks up.
‘She’s right beside me, love. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘I thought I might come over, if that’s OK. It’s just I really need to chat with her in person.’
‘Of course, is everything OK? You have that tell-tale wobble in your voice.’
‘Do I?’ He knows me so well. ‘I’m fine, honestly. It’s just … well I’ll tell you when I get there.’
‘OK, love. Drive carefully.’
‘Yes, will do. Love you.’
I end the call and tug on my jacket, slipping the phone into my pocket. ‘I won’t be long,’ I say to Becky, who is sprawled on the sofa, her long legs stretched out in front of her, a throw around her shoulders. She’s watching a dark series on Netflix, and grunts, still sulking.
‘Should you be watching that?’ I say.
She keeps her eyes on the screen. ‘How old do you actually think I am, Mum? No wait – I remember – you think I’m a baby.’
I glance at the TV and catch sight of a blood splattered wall, a decapitated body on a factory floor. I cringe and squeeze my eyes closed. ‘I know how old you are, Becky.’
‘Well stop treating me like a kid then.’
I duck out of the doorway, before we start bickering again, or I see another gruesome scene. I’m sure she shouldn’t be watching disturbing programmes, but if I say anything
