During my spring clean, I find an unopened letter at the back of the wardrobe. I’ve lived here for three years – it must have been well hidden. The letter’s addressed to Muriel Mallory. My name, but I was named after Gran. Both handwriting and envelope look old.
Gran’s words begin to make sense. ’I’ve secrets hidden in this house. I only trust you with them.’ She died that week. She’d left me the house.
The letter tempts me. But I know I’ll hide it again when I’m done. I’m not ready to find out who my grandfather is. Not yet.