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. Gareth is here.’

      ‘Who’s Gareth?’

      ‘He’s been helping me.’ A pause. ‘Please come to Cornwall, Rose. Please. I’ll explain absolutely everything once you’re here.’

      A lump rises in my throat, blocking my efforts to say no, and a sudden strangling fear she could be in some sort of danger grabs me. I rise and pace the lounge, raking my fingers through my hair. The sun beating on the windowpane hurts my eyes. I drag the curtains hard across the glass, and the room plunges into a depressive grey haze.

      ‘Rose?’

      ‘Yes. I’m still here.’

      ‘Well? Will you come?’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I need you right now. Please.’

      ‘Come back home then,’ I try once more, but I know I’m losing.

      ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I just can’t, Rose. And I know I don’t deserve you – that I drive you all crazy. But I can barely sleep at night for all the stuff going on in my head.’

      ‘I’ve Becky to think of.’

      ‘Becky,’ she says, a whimsical ring to her voice at the mention of my teenage daughter. ‘Bring her too.’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘Please, Rose,’ she says again. ‘Come. I’m begging you.’ I hear tears in her words and feel myself weakening. She has a childlike quality, often seeming younger than Becky. I’ve felt protective of her from the day I arrived at Darlington House eighteen years ago, when she was all curls and big eyes. She needed me then, and she needs me now.

      It’s over five hours from Old Stevenage to Cornwall, but I love driving. It won’t be a problem. And I know I could battle with her for ages, tell her ‘no’ over and over, but, in spite of myself, I will go. It’s impossible to ignore her cry for help – she’s always had that power over me. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I say.

      She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks. You’re amazing, Rose. I’ll explain everything when you get here. There’s so much to tell you.’

      ‘I can’t come until Saturday, Willow. I don’t break up for the summer until Friday. Will you be OK until then?’

      ‘Yes. That’s fine … brilliant. I’m so grateful. I can show you the note.’

      ‘What note?’

      There’s a loud knock in the background. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and drags in a breath. ‘I’ll email you my address, and see you