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shade of steel, she opened the door wide.
    A little tabby, with stripes to match her owner in colour, ran out from the living room. He stopped to stretch, mid-bound. He took off again, then flopped onto Izzy’s feet.
    “Hi, big guy.” She crouched and rubbed his belly. “Where’re you off to this time?” she asked Mrs Grey.
    “Frankfurt for ten days with my friend Dora. Bit of a long journey – longest we’ve ever travelled in a coach.” Two keys hung from her fingers. “I’ll give these to you now, so I don’t forget. Oh, and I’ve moved the kitchen around a bit, so I’d better show you where everything is.”
    Izzy followed her, passing dark wooden furniture, photographs documenting almost a century crowding the surfaces, and vases full of dried flowers that reached out to snag her clothes as she moved past. The house smelled musty, of old books and mildewed corners.
    In the kitchen, Mrs Grey opened up the cupboards and showed Izzy locations of cat biscuits and tins of wet food.
    “Before you go, Izzy, I hope you don’t mind me saying.” She fiddled with the hem of her cardigan. “I understand you’re using the old Coombe Lane to drive here.”
    Izzy clung onto the keys, so as not to drop them. Her lips pursed into a miniature ‘O’ expression.
    “I’m sorry if this is a little uncomfortable, and perhaps unexpected. But I’m asking, please don’t use the lane. Will you promise me?”
    “Why shouldn’t I drive there?”
    A stifling silence filled the kitchen. Mrs Grey, unable to maintain eye contact, grabbed the dishcloth and cleaned nonexistent dirt from the counter.
    Izzy forced back an unexpected anger as it grew inside her. Heat crept up her neck, surely colouring her face bright red. Her hands clamped into white-knuckled fists. The hand holding the keys pinched against the sharp metal edges. Izzy squeezed harder.
    Mrs Grey cleared her throat, and said, “Many accidents occur out there. The route twists and turns, quite unexpectedly. We’ve lost dozens of locals over the years to that road. A group petitioned to close off the woods, but the council refused. They never seem to know what’s actually best for us residents.” She flicked a brief smile at Izzy, and left the kitchen. The old lady stopped at the front door. “You won’t use the lane, will you?”
    Izzy stretched her mouth into the semblance of a smile and shook her head.
    “Here are the dates.” She pulled a scrap of notepaper from her pocket and handed it to Izzy. “I realise you’ve probably got them in your diary, but you know me, can’t help myself.”
    “Have a fabulous trip. Hope the weather’s sunny for you.” Izzy backed away, bumping against a basket of trailing lobelia and rubbing against a fuchsia with enormous purple flowers. She couldn’t keep her balance, her gait was almost drunken.
    “Don’t go down that lane,” Mrs Grey called out.
    Izzy nodded, and then collided with a prickly rose bush covered with perfect pale pink buds. They’d probably open while she visited Smidgen. She rubbed at the scratches from the thorns, and pulled her keys from her pocket. With a sigh of relief, she fell into the drivers seat. Mrs Grey waved good-bye and receded from view.
    Inside her car, Izzy watched the front door click closed. She started the car, and before driving away, with some apprehension, locked the door.
    Two roads later, she indicated for the turn into Coombe’s Lane. At the last moment, she changed her course, and kept going straight.
     

Chapter 9
     

 
     

    22 nd July
     

 
     

    “I was at old Mrs Grey’s house the other day, picking up keys,” Izzy said as they walked down the lane to the pub. “And you’ll never guess what she said.” Izzy rolled her eyes, and added nonchalantly to Feathers, “‘Don’t cut through the woods,’ she said. ‘Don’t use that old Coombe Lane, when you come here.’ Really, can you believe the nerve?”  
    Connor looked back from the hedgerow he was