‘Was…was she alone?’

‘Your stepfather came with her.’

Oh, of course. Which stepfather was this? Tammy bit her lip, anger welling. Isobelle didn’t bother to marry her lovers any more, which was just as well. Tammy’s mother had been up to husband number four when Lara was born.

Lara was dead?

Lara was buried.

And there’d been a funeral. She should have been there, she thought bleakly. She should have been there as she’d been there for Lara since birth. Of all the things her mother had done to her, maybe this was the worst. To bury Lara with only her mother…

‘You were fond of your sister?’ Marc didn’t understand. He was staring at her with the same confusion she was feeling-maybe even more so.

‘Once,’ she said brusquely. ‘A long time ago.’

‘You’ve completely lost contact?’

‘Yes.’

‘And with your mother?’

‘Do you think my mother would admit she has a daughter who was a tree surgeon? That she has a daughter who looks like this?’

His calm gaze raked her from the toes up, but his face stayed impassive and his voice stayed gravely calm. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. ‘I can’t say,’ he told her. ‘Maybe not.’

Maybe definitely. ‘Look, I think I need time to take this in.’ She was glaring at him now. Maybe her anger was misdirected, but she needed space to come to terms with what she’d learned. ‘Have you got a card or something to tell me where I can contact you? I need…’

She hesitated, but she knew what she needed. To be alone. She’d learned early that solitude was the only solution to pain. It didn’t stop anything, but alone she could haul her features back into control, adjust the mask and get herself ready to face the world again. ‘Can you just leave me be? Contact me tomorrow if you must. But for now…’