Page 44 of The Clifftop Cottage

She’d lost track of time.

She should go home.

She should feed Lucky.

She should eat something herself.

And yet …

She couldn’t let it go. Isobel’s story was still buried, still ignored, as if it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Erica stared out into the dark and felt her resolve settle, calm and unshakeable.

One failed internet search wasn’t the end of this.

She was going to find out the truth.

Erica left early the next morning, making sure Lucky had plenty of milk and the heating was turned up before she locked the door behind her.

One of her late-night searches had mentioned a nearby town, just some miles west. Something vague about witch trials. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pull at her.

The road dipped gently as she drove, mist still clinging to the fields. Soon the houses appeared – a broad, elegant street lined with tall autumn trees, their gold and russet leaves drifting down in slow, lazy spirals.

Beyond them stood grand old mansions of weathered grey stone, each showing off their own distinct character. Some had turrets like miniature castles; others, sweeping bay windows and pillared entrances. The remnants of old money. Some were still immaculate – clipped hedges, neat gravel drives, wrought-iron gates. Others had softened with age, ivy creeping up their walls, slate roofs darkened by years of rain.

Further down, the street changed. Squatter, practical bungalows from the 1980s huddled in the shadows of the older houses, their small gardens tidy but unremarkable. The contrast was impossible to miss.

Erica glanced at her phone.

According to the map, she had already passed what she was looking for.

That couldn’t be right.

She slowed the car and drove back up the street, eyes scanning the pavements, the walls, the edges of the park. The GPS insisted she was right on top of it, and yet there was nothing obvious. No sign. No marker.

She turned again and crept along once more. A few curtains twitched. Someone let a dog out into a frost-damp garden. The morning still felt hushed, as if the town hadn’t quite woken yet.

Her wipers brushed away the fine mist as she checked her phone.

She’d passed it again.

With a frustrated sigh, she pulled over beside a small park. At its centre stood a tall stone statue of a man in a curly wig and long robes, gazing out over neatly tended flower beds. A few stubborn blue and pink blooms clung on, defying the cold. Erica imagined how it must blaze with colour in summer.

She grabbed her jacket and stepped out into the chill, walking slowly now, really looking.

And then she saw it.

Right at the edge of the road.

A small, low stone, almost hidden beneath fallen leaves.

Her heart gave a small, sharp beat as she crossed the street.

It was so easy to miss. That was the worst part of it.

She knelt and brushed the damp leaves aside. The writing was faint and worn, as if it had been trying not to draw attention to itself. How many people had walked past it every day without ever knowing?