Traces of Her. Amanda Brittany

       To Liam, Daniel, Luke, Lucy & Janni.

       Prologue

       2001

      She lies on the sand dressed in yellow satin, a ring of sodden flowers clinging to her blonde hair like seaweed. The pendant around her slim neck says ‘Mummy’ – a gift from Willow.

      Grasses stir in the howling wind and a mist rolls in from the Celtic Sea, moving over her lifeless body – ghosts waiting to take her hand and lead her away from this lonely place where seagulls cry.

      A man will come soon. He walks his border collie at the same time each morning along the same sandy path that edges the sea in Bostagel, and today will be no different.

      He will stride with the aid of his stick; grey hair flapping in the wind, calling after his dog. Content with his lot.

      Then he will see her body, and her sister’s wedding dress folded neatly on the rocks. The shock will stay with him forever.

      He will call the police.

      Sirens will pierce the silent air.

      The youngest Millar girl is dead. Stabbed repeatedly.

      ‘Rest in peace, young Millar girls,’ they will say.

       Chapter 1

       ROSE

       Now

      ‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.

      ‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’

      ‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.

      I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.

      ‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Cornwall.’

      ‘Cornwall?’

      ‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.

      ‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.

      ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.

      ‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’

      ‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’

      ‘Someone?’

      ‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’

      ‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’

      ‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’

      ‘Who would be listening?’ I say. My voice cracks. I love her so much, but she has no self-awareness – no sense of self-preservation. ‘Listen come home. We can talk here.’

      ‘I can’t. I’m so close.’

      ‘Close to what?’ My anxiety is rising. ‘Is everything OK?’

      ‘Yes. I’m fine.

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