Traces of Her. Amanda Brittany
stop her, even though I know that much. ‘I knew the Millars from my time as a social worker. In the early Nineties Ava’s older brother was a difficult boy, and her mother couldn’t handle him. There was concern for the safety of Ava and her sister, Gail. They were eight and ten when I was assigned their case.
‘Although things calmed down when the brother took off to Australia, I kept the family on my radar, and heard when Ava got pregnant at seventeen with Willow – the father was a useless article.
‘When Ava was killed, I visited her mother. Jeannette Millar was a mess. Anyone would be after losing two daughters. Gail killed herself you see, after supposedly killing Ava.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘I never quite believed she was capable. She was a self-centred girl but, in my opinion, not a killer. Although the evidence was there – the note – her wedding dress folded neatly – the knife.’
My mind drifts to the photographs I was sent. ‘So if you don’t think she killed her sister, who did?’
She shrugs. ‘There were other theories. Ava’s brother-in-law, Rory, was suspected for a short time, but he had a sound alibi.’
I think back to the photos. ‘So Rory was Gail’s husband?’
She nods. ‘It happened on the night of their wedding.’
I cover my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say into my hand. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It was, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘A terrible tragedy.’
‘And the other theories?’
‘Well … there was Justin, Willow’s father.’
‘Her father?’ My mind is racing. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘I’ve no idea. He was a useless man. I hope Willow never meets him if he is.’ She takes a deep breath, and fiddles with her earring – a simple sleeper, she never wears fancy jewellery. ‘There were so many stories kicking around that part of Cornwall at the time, Rose. But I doubt we’ll ever know the truth, not after all these years.’
‘So when Ava Millar died, you adopted Willow,’ I say, bringing the conversation back to where we began.
‘Not right away – as I said Jeannette Millar couldn’t cope, and Willow’s father was useless. Willow ended up in care. I fostered her, and being part of social services, pushed for a quick adoption.’
It doesn’t seem possible we are talking about my stepsister – the young woman staying in Cornwall hunting for a killer.
I stare at Eleanor for some moments, before reaching over and taking her hand. ‘So why tell Willow now?’
‘I didn’t. Someone contacted her on Facebook. Told her everything.’
‘Who?’
‘Willow didn’t recognise the name, and there was no profile photo. They attached an article about the murder of her mother. Willow didn’t believe it, of course. She came to me, hoping I would tell her it was an elaborate lie.’ She lifts her head, dashes a tear from the corner of her eye, her voice crumbling. ‘But I couldn’t lie to her. I always said I would tell her one day, and it felt like the right time. But she took it so badly.’
I can’t believe I don’t know any of this, that Eleanor kept it a secret all these years. ‘Did Dad know? Does Dad know?’
‘He does now. He wishes I’d told him sooner.’
‘Maybe you should have.’
A silence falls, as she rises to pour a brandy. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’
I shake my head and get up too. ‘I should go,’ I say.
‘You do understand why I didn’t tell Willow, don’t you, Rose?’ she says, ‘Why I kept it quiet for so long. What good would have come of her knowing her mother was murdered?’
It seems vital to her that I understand. ‘Of course,’ I say, and turn to leave.
*
By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. What I’m not up for is a full-on argument with my daughter, who, going by her stance as she stands in the hallway, is ready for one.
‘OK,’ I say, before she can say anything.
‘OK?’
‘You can come,’ I go on, as I tug off my shoes. What I don’t say is her grandpa and Eleanor are going away, so I have no choice but to take her to Cornwall. That the last thing I want is her hanging about at home without supervision. ‘But if things get tough, Becky, we’re coming straight home.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says, lunging at me, and hugging me. ‘Yay!’
At that moment it hits me that I need her with me.
Now
My eyes are closed, but I’ve barely slept, my mind far too busy with thoughts of Willow – the nips of guilt that I should already be in Cornwall waking me on the hour, every hour; the heat of the night making it difficult to drop back off.
I reach across the bed. I know Aaron isn’t here, but I imagine he wraps his hand tightly around mine, and wallow for a few moments thinking of him, before prising open my eyes and pulling myself to a sitting position.
My mouth is dry from the fan whirring on my bedside table. I click it off, knocking a photo of Aaron to the floor. I pick up my phone, and rub sleep from my eyes, trying to focus. It’s 6 a.m.
I grab the glass of water that’s been standing on my bedside table all night and swallow a gulp of the warm liquid before trying to call Willow. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, Willow,’ I say into the phone. ‘Can’t wait to see you later. Call me as soon as you can.’ I end the call, trying not to worry. She’s a late riser. That’s all.
I need coffee, always my go-to first thing in the morning. And then we need to get going as early as possible.
But still I sit, my eyelids drooping.
The sun’s fingers reach in through a gap in my flimsy pale-blue curtains, picking out Becky’s life so far in photos that jostle for space on the far wall. My daughter is beautiful. I wish she could see what I see when she looks in the mirror.
My eyes fall on a study of Willow at sixteen, her naturally curly hair straightened to shiny sheets of gold – the face of an angel.
She was spotted by a scout and picked up by a big modelling agency at sixteen. In no time her beautiful face was bounced from magazine cover to magazine cover. Her tall, slim body shuttled from fashion show to fashion show.
At first she revelled in it. Enjoyed the attention. Her eyes sparkling as cameras flashed. Although thrilled for her, it was strange seeing her face everywhere – from billboard posters to national newspapers – not looking quite like the Willow we knew and loved. We were worried too. Worried about the effect it was having on her.
‘I wish I looked like Willow,’ Becky would say, just nine years old at the time.
Willow was almost seventeen when I took one of my monthly trips by train to London to meet up with her. She was renting a huge apartment with three other models, which looked out over the River Thames.
We met in an Italian restaurant in Leicester Square, and as we hugged hello, I felt how dangerously thin she was, noticed how sallow her cheeks were, how the sparkle had disappeared from her eyes that now rested on dark cushions of flesh.
‘So