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 she’ll claim Aaron and I are overprotective. She doesn’t seem to realise it’s an awful world out there and we need to keep her safe.
*
I drive towards Old Welwyn, the sun setting behind the trees. Dusk has settled on the warm day by the time I pull onto the drive at Darlington House.
The grounds are still and quiet and, probably due to my mood, I feel uneasy. Dad and Eleanor have had a few offers over the years from film directors wanting to use the place as a setting for horror or supernatural movies, but they’ve always declined, insisting this is a happy house. And it is. Mostly.
I knock, and Eleanor answers the door within moments. She turned sixty at Christmas, but could easily pass as forty-five.
‘Rose, darling,’ she says, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me – coating me with her expensive perfume. She’s softly spoken, pronounces her vowels. ‘Your father said you wanted to talk to me.’
Once she’s released me, I follow her into the lounge. There’s no sign of Dad, and as though sensing me searching for him, Eleanor says, ‘He’s popped to the Fox and Hound. Said he thought you wanted to see me. Decided to give us space. Drink?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
I spot two cases in the corner, and suddenly remember. ‘Oh, I forgot you’re going away.’
‘Yes.’ She aims the remote control at the TV, muting a wildlife programme. ‘We’re heading for Scotland in the morning. Your dad said we shouldn’t go. That we should be here for Willow.’ She stares deep into my eyes as though asking me what she should do.
‘Dad needs a break,’ I say. He’s been suffering with angina, needs some time out to relax.
‘Yes, and we’re only going for the weekend. We could be back in a flash if needed.’
‘You must go,’ I insist, sitting down on one of the sofas opposite her. ‘Dad’s never been to Scotland. And let’s be honest, if we stopped living every time Willow took off we’d never go anywhere.’ She still looks a little unsure. ‘She’s got me, Eleanor. I’ll keep you both updated.’
‘Yes, of course you will. Thank you, Rose,’ she says.
Photographs in silver frames of the family are everywhere. Expensive ornaments, mostly wild animals, are displayed in an oak cabinet. A bookshelf full of hardbacks – non-fiction mainly: biographies, books about birds, the rainforest – stretches across one of the walls.
‘So what did you want to see me about?’ she says. She cups her chin with her left hand, places her index finger on her cheek. ‘Is everything OK?’
Deciding to come straight to the point, I say, ‘Do you know why Willow took off like she did?’
She moves her hand from her cheek and examines her neat nails for some moments. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Are you her biological mother, Eleanor?’
Tears appear on her lower lashes. ‘You know about that?’
‘That her real mother was murdered? Yes, I know.’
‘I brought her up, Rose. She is my daughter.’
‘You adopted her?’
‘She’s had a far better life with me – us – than she ever would have.’ She sucks in a sigh, as a resting tear zigzags down her cheek. ‘You may as well know how it came about.’
‘Go on.’ I lean back, feeling a tension in my shoulders, and the beginnings of a headache forming.
She presses the heels of her hands against