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great big weight inside her chest, a pair of sweaty fists closed tight around her lungs. Her own ignominy she could wear, but the shame when she thought of Nancy was crushing. She still felt the pressing need to apologise, to explain that it had all been a terrible lapse in judgement, that she’d never meant to peddle in false hope. Donald knew her well: “And Sparrow—” his parting words before he packed her off to Cornwall—“don’t even think of getting in touch with the grandmother.” He hadn’t added that she should stay the hell away from the little girl; he probably figured he didn’t need to, not after she’d been officially reprimanded when the father lodged his complaint.
    Louder this time: “Ramsay! Where are you, boy?”
    Sadie strained, listening. A startled bird, the beat of heavy wings high in the canopy. Her gaze was drawn up through the lattice of branches to the white speck of a plane unpeeling the pale blue sky behind it. The plane was heading east towards London and she watched its progress with an odd sense of dislocation. Unfathomable to think that the swirl of life, her life, continued there without her.
    She hadn’t heard from Donald since she’d left. She hadn’t expected to, not really, not yet, it had only been a week and he’d insisted she take a full month’s leave. “I can come back earlier if I want to, right?” Sadie had said to the young man in HR, his confusion making it evident this was the first time he’d been asked. “You’d better not,” Donald had growled afterwards. “I see you back here before you’re ready and I kid you not, Sparrow, I’ll go straight to Ashford.” He would, too, she knew. He was heading for retirement and not about to let his unhinged deputy ruin it for him. With no other choice, Sadie had packed a bag, tucked her tail between her legs, and driven down to Cornwall. She’d left Donald with Bertie’s phone number, told him mobile reception was a bit hit and miss, and held out hope he’d summon her back.
    A low rumbling came from beside her and she glanced down. Ash was standing as rigid as a statue, staring into the woods beyond. “What’s the matter, boy? Don’t like the smell of self-pity?” The fur of his neck bristled, his ears swivelled, but his focus didn’t shift. And then Sadie heard it too, far off in the distance. Ramsay, a bark—not of alarm, perhaps, but unusual all the same.
    An uncharacteristic maternal streak, vaguely disturbing, had come over Sadie since the dogs had adopted her, and when Ash gave another deep growl she capped her water bottle. “Come on then,” she said, tapping her thigh. “Let’s go find that brother of yours.”
    Her grandparents hadn’t had dogs when they’d lived in London; Ruth had been allergic. But after Ruth died and Bertie retired to Cornwall, he’d floundered. “I’m doing all right,” he’d told Sadie down the whistling phone line. “I like it here. I keep busy during the day. The nights are quiet, though; I find myself arguing with the telly. Worse, I have a strong suspicion I’m losing.”
    It had been an attempt to make light of things but Sadie had heard the crack in his voice. Her grandparents had fallen in love as teenagers. Ruth’s father had made deliveries to Bertie’s parents’ shop in Hackney, and they’d been inseparable ever since. Her grandfather’s grief was palpable and Sadie had wanted to say the perfect thing, to make it all better. Words had never been her strong suit, though, and so, instead, she’d suggested he might stand a better chance arguing with a labrador. He’d laughed and told her he’d think about it, and next day he’d gone down to the animal shelter. In typical Bertie fashion, he’d come home with not one but two dogs and a cranky cat in tow. From