The moor had been waiting.
Three days later, the knock came.
Inside the oilcloth: a photograph. Black and white. A woman in a long coat, standing in front of a stone circle Nicola had never seen. On the back, in her grandmother’s jagged handwriting: nicola ridd
It wasn’t just loose. The latch wasn’t missing. It had been unscrewed . Deliberately. And tucked behind the hinge plate, folded into a tight square, was a piece of oilcloth. The moor had been waiting