Page 47 of The Clifftop Cottage

“Things don’t just disappear because time passes.”

Leah let out a soft, breathy scoff. “You’re spiritual now?”

Erica stiffened. “No. I’m not. I’ll never be.” Her voice lowered. “I’ll never be like Mum.”

Something passed between them then – a small, brittle silence, weighted with old things. The television hummed in the background. Lucky kneaded Maisie’s jumper, purring, blissfully unaware.

Leah looked away first. After a moment she said, gently, “Is this about her?”

“No.”

Leah didn’t look as if she believed that. She leaned closer. “Then what is it about?”

“It’s about … everything,” Erica said. “I can’t pack it up into neat little boxes the way you can. My brain doesn’t work like that. I just need to follow this, wherever it goes.”

“And if it goes nowhere?” Leah asked.

“Then at least I’ll have tried.”

Leah watched her, her expression softening but also troubled. “And what about your own business? And … him?”

“Please don’t say his name,” Erica said quickly.

Leah sighed. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“I will. Just not yet.” Erica swallowed. “I’m starting to feel okay again, Leah. I don’t want to lose that.”

“Okay?” Leah said.

Erica didn’t answer straight away. She traced her thumb along the rim of her mug, eyes fixed on it.

On the rug, Maisie burst into laughter at something on the screen, completely oblivious.

Leah reached out and nudged Erica’s knee gently. “I just don’t want you running from something without realising it.”

Erica gave a small, crooked smile. “Maybe running is exactly what I need right now.”

17

Erica walked past the tall statue in the park again.

The man in stone gazed heroically into the middle distance, one hand resting on a book, the other folded neatly behind his back. His wig and flowing robes were carved in such loving detail that even the buttons on his cuffs showed crisp definition in the stonework.

He looked as though he might step down from his plinth at any moment and begin reciting something important.

Across the road, the witch-trial marker was barely visible beneath a drift of damp leaves.

A woman pushing a pram struggled past it, her wheels catching on the uneven pavement. She swore softly as she nearly slipped on the slick carpet of fallen leaves.

Erica slowed. The pavement was even more thickly carpeted with leaves than it had been the day before – soggy, slick, gathering in corners no one had cleared.

She pulled her coat tighter around her and turned away from the park, heading uphill.

The town was pretty in a restrained, respectable way. Grey-stone buildings lined the wide high street, their windows framed with neat white paint and hanging baskets that were now past their best, straggly with autumn flowers clinging on out of stubbornness. A clock tower rose from a squat old tolbooth at the centre of town, its weathered face ticking steadily, as though keeping time for generations of small, important decisions.

There was money here. Erica could see it in the polished shopfronts and the tasteful brass plaques, but it felt different from Rock Cove. More curated. Less lived-in. As if the town was always presenting its best side.

A bakery advertised heritage sourdough. A jeweller’s window glittered with silver thistles. A small banner flapped from a lamppost: