“Gwen,” she said, turning back to the bed, “do you know who this is?” She tapped the photo.
“Oh, him? That’s Hugo. Reagan is—” Gwen swallowed hard and tried again. “Reagan was going out with him. But I don’t think they’d been seeing each other as much lately.”
“Did she say why?”
“She didn’t say—I mean she didn’t say that they weren’t seeing each other. It’s just that I noticed she didn’t seem to have mentioned him much lately.”
Glancing back at the photo, Gemma asked, “Do you know Hugo’s last name?”
Gwen shook her head. “I should. I know she told me. But I never met him and I—I should have made more effort—” Her face crumpled again.
“Shhh.” Gemma sat down beside her again and gave her a hug. “I only asked because I wondered if anyone had got in touch with her friends.”
“Her mobile,” Gwen said on a rising note of panic. “Where’s her mobile? She would never have left it.” Pulling away from Gemma, she stood and went to the desk, then began rifling through things with a frantic energy.
“Gwen.” Gemma followed and put restraining hands on Gwen’s arms. “Gwen. We shouldn’t touch things. We—”
The door flew open with a bang that made them both jump.
Jess stood in the doorway, breathing hard. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. “This is Reagan’s room. You shouldn’t be—” He stopped, staring at Gemma. “What are you doing here?” In ratty jeans and T-shirt, his face red and swollen from weeping, he was barely recognizable as the confident boy Gemma had seen at ballet the previous day.
“Jess, I’m a friend of MacKenzie’s. It was MacKenzie who got my son a place in the class at the Tabernacle. My name’s Gemma.”
Jess frowned, looking from her to Gwen. Before he could protest further, Gemma added, “This is Gwen, Reagan’s mum. Your mother said we could come up.”
“She didn’t say you could go through her things.”
“No, she didn’t. But we thought we might find her phone so we could get in touch with her friends.”
“It’s not here.”
Gemma studied him with a level gaze. “You already looked.”
Jess ducked his head, his belligerence fading. “I thought . . . I thought she might have . . . left a message.”
“A message?” asked Gemma, but gently.
Jess shifted from one foot to the other and looked away. “I heard my mum talking. She said . . . she said the police thought maybe Reagan had . . . hurt herself. But she wouldn’t. She would never do that.” He looked back at Gemma, his eyes reddening and his fists clenching.
Beside her, Gemma heard the gasp of Gwen’s indrawn breath, but she kept her focus on Jess. “Jess, she could have been ill. And accidents happen, as much as we hate—”
“No.” Jess glared at her. “I heard my mum say how she was . . .” He stopped, pressing his knuckles to his lips and blinking hard. “I heard my mum say how she was found,” he went on, his voice stronger. “Ray didn’t just lie down like that and die. She couldn’t have. She would never, ever have done that.”
“You remember I was working at the café on the corner?” Hazel Cavendish asked, still holding Melody’s arm and looking concerned.
“Of course.” Melody forced a smile. “Of course I do. I was just miles away. You’re working this afternoon?” she added, glancing again at Hazel’s red sundress.
“The thing is, I’m not working there anymore,” Hazel explained. “But I’m baking for them, and for some other cafés as well. I’d just dropped off some pastries here for tonight when I saw you.”
“That’s great news, Hazel,” said Melody with real delight. “You’re quite the entrepreneur.”
Hazel looked pensive for a moment. “I miss the distillery sometimes.” When Hazel had separated from her husband, Tim, she’d moved to a remote village in the Scottish Highlands to run her family’s distillery, taking her daughter, Holly, with her. She’d returned to London after a year, saying that an isolated Scottish moor was no fit place to raise a child. But although she was a licensed therapist, she’d taken a job serving at the café and moved into a little bungalow in Battersea.
As far as Melody knew, Hazel and Tim were still separated, but Hazel looked well and happy.
“But I don’t miss the Scottish winters,” Hazel added with a smile. “But how are you? Were you visiting your parents?”
Melody nodded. “The dreaded Sunday lunch.”
“No wonder you look so peaky. Come on.” Hazel took her by the arm again. “Let me treat you to a cuppa at the café. We can visit—it’s dead as a graveyard this time on a Sunday afternoon.”
Melody’s first instinct was to refuse. But as she started to shake her head, the world tilted again and the edges of her vision went bright and an odd acid yellow. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she could make it to her car unaided.
Giving Hazel a shaky smile, she said, “That would be lovely.”
“Brilliant. Let’s go, then.”
When Hazel tucked her hand in Melody’s arm, Melody didn’t object.
The tiny café on the corner was as deserted as Hazel had predicted. The small, dark-skinned woman at the register in the back looked up from a magazine when they came in. “Hazel,” she said. “What are you doing back? Did you forget something?”
“No. I bumped into my friend and brought her for tea. You can take a break if you like, Mary. I’ll watch the shop.”
“Would you really?” Mary flashed them a blinding smile. “I need to pick up a couple of things at Whole Foods and they’ll be closed by the time I get off.” She whipped off her apron. “Um, half an hour?”
“Go. Take your time.”
When Hazel had waved Mary out the door, she turned to Melody and pulled out a chair near the back. “Here. Sit. Unless you’d rather take one of the outside tables? It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
The café did feel warm, but Melody was still squinting against the bright sunlight. “No, this is fine.” She sat with her back to the door, which always made her uncomfortable, but it was better than facing the glare.
“Tea or coffee?”
Melody couldn’t bear even the thought of coffee. The little food she’d eaten at her parents’ had made her stomach churn. “Tea, please.”
“The kitchen’s downstairs,” said Hazel. “I’ll be back in a tick.”
True to her word, she was back in five minutes with a steaming pot of tea, cups, and a plate of small brown biscuits. “My new specialty,” she explained as she sat across from Melody and filled their cups. “Brownie biscuits. They taste just like brownies but they’re crunchy like a good tea biscuit.”
Feeling better after the brief respite, Melody took a little nibble to please Hazel. “Oh,” she said, pleasantly surprised. “These are fabulous. How did you do that?”
“Trade secret.” Hazel grinned and raised her cup. “Chocolate and tea. Cure for anything.”