The Sea House: A BRAND NEW utterly spellbinding mystery from Louise Douglas

By Louise Douglas

The latest unforgettable, atmospheric novel from the Richard and Judy NUMBER ONE bestseller Louise Douglas ✨ Perfect for fans of Kate Morton, Eve Chase and Lucinda Riley! ?

A mysterious bequest and the legacy of a tragic love – only one person can unravel the hidden secrets of the past before it’s too late…

When Elisabeth Quemener dies she leaves a small parcel with the instructions that it must only be opened by Astrid Oake. The trouble is, no one knows who Astrid Oake is…

Elisabeth’s family turn to Touissants detective agency for help but, when Mila Shepherd and Carter Jackson try to track Astrid down, their frustration soon mounts. Their only clue is a photo of two young women holding the hands of a tiny child. The women are smiling but Mila is haunted by the sadness in their eyes. Is this Astrid and Elisabeth and if so, who is the child? And why are there signs everywhere in Elisabeth’s home that the old woman was frightened despite her living a quiet life with no known enemies?

As Elisabeth and Astrid’s story slowly unfolds, Mila feels the walls of her home The Sea House closing in. And as the secrets finally begin to reveal themselves, she is ever more determined to carry out Elisabeth’s final wishes. Because what is inside that unprepossessing parcel might just save a life…

Louise Douglas is back in the Brittany seaside town of Morranez with a heart-stopping, heart-breaking, brilliantly written and utterly compelling mystery!

‘I love the way in which Louise creates such an atmospheric mystery, building the intrigue and suspense brick by brick.’ Nicola Cornick

Readers love Louise Douglas:

‘I love reading Louise Douglas. If I pick it up to read, I need to make sure I have at least an hour of spare time as I just don't want to put it down.’

‘A gripping story, so well told and filled with the unexpected, but with real depth and emotion – I really loved it, and would highly recommend it to others.’

‘Intelligent, beautifully-written story. So tense I couldn't stop reading, this is one of those books that takes you right out of your head.’

‘Douglas's stunning prose lifted this book above others, and the storyline was engaging from the off. Easy to see why this author is a best seller. Loved it.’

Praise for Louise Douglas:

'I loved The Lost Notebook so much! From the opening lines, I was drawn in to a gripping story, beautifully written and so cleverly orchestrated. I rooted for the main character, I held my breath at the denouement and as for the climax of the book - just wow. Highly recommended.' Judy Leigh

'Louise Douglas achieves the impossible and gets better with every book.' Milly Johnson

'A brilliantly written, gripping, clever, compelling story, that I struggled to put down. The vivid descriptions, the evocative plot and the intrigue that Louise created, which had me constantly asking questions, made it a highly enjoyable, absolute treasure of a read.' Kim Nash on The Scarlet Dress

'Another stunning read from the exceptionally talented Louise Douglas! I love the way in which Louise creates such an atmospheric mystery, building the intrigue and suspense brick by brick. Her writing is always beautiful and multi-layered, her characters warm and relatable and the intriguing nature of the mystery makes this unputdownable.’ Nicola Cornick on The Scarlet Dress

'A tender, heart-breaking, page-turning read' Rachel Hore on The House by the Sea

'The perfect combination of page-turning thriller and deeply emotional family story. Superb’ Nicola Cornick on The House by the Sea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Nov 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781837516469

Louise Douglas

Louise Douglas is an RNA award winner and the bestselling author of several brilliantly reviewed novels. These include the number one bestseller The Lost Notebook, and the The Secrets Between Us which was a Richard and Judy Book Club pick. She lives in the West Country.

Book preview

1

BRITTANY – NOVEMBER 2023

It was one of those cold, sunshiny days that Mila Shepherd adored. The sky was a cornflower-blue backdrop to the frosted roofs and chimney pots of the buildings in the old part of the town of Morannez. The doves that lived in the cote at the local chateau were performing a synchronised display above the bare branches of the trees that surrounded the square, and workmen on ladders were calling to one another, trailing wires from building to building, setting up the Christmas lights.

With her breath slipping behind her, Mila cycled through the cobbled streets and alleyways, quiet at this time of year. The Medieval town and its surrounds were inundated with holidaymakers during the summer months, but the winter season had a character of its own. The holiday parks were closed; the AquaSplash water attraction was silent; and shutters covered the windows of the gift and souvenir shops. Car parks were empty; there were no longer queues outside the ice cream parlour; the trampolines and swings had been dismantled and taken away from the grassy area behind the beach. All that was left was the picturesque little town, dotted with standing stones and dolmens, and the people who lived in the buildings nestled amongst these prehistoric monuments; going about their business as they always had.

Mila stopped to buy a crêpe from the vendor who set up her stall each morning at the entrance to the market. The buttermilk pancake, thin as tissue, was spread with chocolate sauce, folded and wrapped in greaseproof paper. Mila ate it while it was still steaming, gazing past the awnings of the stalls to the harbour beyond, feeling part of this place now, as if she’d lived here all her life, and not just for the two-and-a-bit years since she’d come to look after her teenage niece Anaïs – or Ani – after the storm that had claimed the life of her stepsister, Sophie, and, it seemed increasingly likely, Sophie’s husband, Charlie, too, out at sea.

Today, the ocean was flat calm and turquoise in colour; fishing boats dotted around. Mila’s contentment was tainted by the sorrow she always felt when she thought of Sophie who hadn’t only been her stepsister, but also her best friend. She gave into her grief for a moment, but there wasn’t time to dwell on the past, Mila had a meeting to attend. She wiped the butter from her fingers, climbed back onto her bike and began to pedal.

She was en route to meet her stepmother, Sophie’s mother, Cecille Toussaint, at the Town Hall. Ceci owned Toussaints, an agency that specialised in tracking down missing people, heir hunting and other detective work. It was a small business, the only employees being Ceci herself, Mila, who had taken over Sophie’s role, and Carter Jackson, a former friend of Sophie’s. Of the three, Carter was the only trained professional, with a background in the Toronto Drug Squad. Consequently, he was the chief investigator, with a focus on cases with a potentially criminal element, or ones which required his surveillance skills. Mila and Ceci were more usually occupied in tracking down family members who had disappeared after marital breakdowns and reuniting old friends who had lost touch.

Today, the local lawyer, or notaire, Monsieur Chabot, had requested an interview to discuss what he described as a mystery, pertaining to a last will and testament.

Morannez Town Hall was an architecturally fussy, aesthetically confusing building; a mixture of Gothic and neoclassic. In the summer, when it was festooned with window boxes tumbling with pelargoniums, it looked quaint and picturesque and was often photographed by tourists. In winter, the building was more characterful than attractive.

Mila left her bike in the rack beside the entrance and went into the gloomy interior, which smelled of furniture polish and of the dust heating in the crannies of old radiators. The receptionist invited her to go directly up to Monsieur le notaire’s office on the first floor.

Ceci was already there, sitting in a fancy chair, legs crossed, sipping coffee from a China cup. The notary, a small, balding man with a combover and round-rimmed spectacles, was on the other side of a grand desk. Hanging on the wall behind him were framed photographs of himself, pumped up with pride, shaking the hands of various dignitaries who had visited Morannez. On the desk was a parcel, securely wrapped in brown paper and about the size of a honeypot. A tiny brown envelope was attached to the neck of the parcel. It made Mila think of Alice in Wonderland.

Monsieur stood to greet Mila. ‘Welcome!’ he cried. ‘Sit down! Would you care for a coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Mila. She took a seat and smiled at the lawyer. ‘What can we help you with, Monsieur?’

The notary gestured towards the parcel on the desk. ‘This!’ he exclaimed. ‘It was given to me for safe-keeping by a local lady by the name of Elisabeth Quemener.’

‘The tall, quiet woman?’

‘That’s her,’ said Monsieur Chabot. ‘She passed away last month.’

Mila turned to Ceci. ‘She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?’

‘More of an acquaintance than a friend,’ said Ceci. ‘I knew her, but not well.’

Monsieur Chabot continued: ‘Madame Quemener had a fragile heart. She was aware that her health was failing and left a will in my charge before her death.’

‘And there’s a problem with the will?’

‘Not exactly a problem, more of a puzzle. She bequeathed almost everything she owned to her daughter, Manon. The only other beneficiary is someone called Astrid Oake.’ He indicated the parcel on the desk. ‘Elisabeth left this for Astrid, stipulating that it be hand-delivered, in person.’

‘What does the parcel contain?’ Mila asked.

‘I have no idea,’ said the lawyer. ‘I understand it has no financial value. But should it transpire that Astrid Oake has already died, then Madame Quemener specified that her grave be opened, and the parcel be buried with her, on top of her coffin. She left funds to pay the gravedigger for the extra work, if necessary. On no account must the parcel be opened by anyone but the beneficiary.’

Mila frowned. ‘That’s a very odd request.’

Monsieur Chabot nodded. ‘I’ve never heard of anything like it.’

The three of them considered the small, unassuming object before them.

‘Whatever it is,’ said Ceci, ‘it must have been of great importance to poor Elisabeth.’

‘Which is why it’s imperative that we track down Astrid Oake,’ said Monsieur Chabot. ‘I’ve made enquiries myself, but they’ve come to nothing.’

‘Manon doesn’t know who she is?’

‘Manon told me her mother has a single photograph of the three of them, Astrid, Elisabeth and Manon taken many years ago, but she doesn’t remember the picture being taken. Other than that, she has no idea. Her mother hasn’t been in touch with Astrid for as long as she can remember. But…’ the man turned the palms of his hands upwards, ‘Manon works for an insurance company and has been living in Toulouse, with her wife, for some years now so she’s not entirely up to date with her mother’s affairs.’

‘What about Monsieur Quemener?’ Mila asked.

Ceci said: ‘I don’t think there is one.’

‘There is no mention of a husband or ex-husband in the will,’ said Monsieur Chabot. ‘When Madame Quemener came to Morannez she was only accompanied by her daughter. The two of them moved in with an old lady by the name of Clarisse Broussard.’

‘A relative?’ asked Ceci.

‘Perhaps,’ answered the layer. ‘Those of us who grew up in Morannez remember Madame Broussard. Strange woman. Something of an eccentric.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Some even called her a witch! But Elisabeth was certainly very fond of her. She looked after her in her dotage.’

He put his hands flat on the desktop. ‘I am at a loss as to what to do next. As far as I’m aware, Madame Quemener has no other living relatives who we might ask about Astrid. That’s why, with Manon’s consent, I’ve called in the experts; your good selves.’

‘It will be our pleasure to help,’ said Ceci. ‘Perhaps we should begin with a search of Elisabeth’s house, if you and Manon are agreeable?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Monsieur Chabot. He placed a large envelope on the desk, beside the parcel. ‘Here are the keys. The electricity has been disconnected and the burglar alarm disabled. Manon has removed the items she wishes to retain. The remaining furniture, clothing and so on is to be auctioned, with the proceeds donated to charity. Feel free to examine whatever you wish. I only ask that you keep a record of any items you take out of the premises.’

‘Of course.’

The man nodded politely. ‘Do either of you have any further questions?’

Ceci glanced at Mila, who shook her head. ‘For now, no.’

‘Very well,’ said Monsieur Chabot. ‘Then perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch. I always dine at Bistrot Chez Bruno on Fridays; the chef is a personal friend and he’d be devastated if I let him down.’

‘What a civilised tradition,’ said Ceci. ‘I’d be delighted to accept your kind invitation.’

Mila, knowing full well that Friday lunches of this kind might begin at noon, but could easily continue into the late afternoon, thanked Monsieur Chabot, but declined.

‘May I take the keys?’ she asked. ‘I could make a start on searching the house straight away.’

2

Elisabeth Quemener’s house was in the leafy, old part of Morannez town; one of a number of modest, individual properties dating back several hundred years on the Rue Kervégan. Mila found it easily enough and dismounted her bicycle beside a pair of ornate wrought-iron gates. Beyond was a garden that had been planted with a row of high shrubs at the front, to shield the house from the eyes of anyone passing by.

As Mila opened her bag to find the keys, there was a sudden commotion in the garden of the house next door. A huge dog bounded through the shrubbery and set to barking at Mila, ears flat back, teeth bared, tail wagging low between its legs. Mila stepped back in alarm, but almost at once a woman appeared, flapping a tea towel ineffectually at the animal.

‘Bertie!’ she cried, waddling as fast as she could in a pair of house slippers. ‘What’s all that noise for?’ She came to the fence and took hold of his collar. ‘Silly boy. I’m sorry if he startled you.’ She narrowed her eyes to peer through the railings at Mila. ‘You’re Madame Toussaint’s stepdaughter, no?’

‘Yes, that’s me; Mila Shepherd. Good morning, Madame.’

‘Is there something you need? Can I help you? Bertie! Stop carrying on!’

‘I’ve come to search Madame Quemener’s house,’ said Mila. ‘We’re trying to trace a beneficiary of her will. I have a letter of authority if you’d like to see it.’

‘No need,’ said the woman. ‘I know who you are. Go ahead. Don’t mind Bertie. He was Elisabeth’s dog, and as you can see, he’s still very protective of his old home.’

‘Madame, while you’re here, I don’t suppose Elisabeth ever mentioned someone called Astrid Oake to you?’

‘Astrid Oake? Shhh, Bertie! No, I’ve never heard the name but that’s typical Elisabeth. She was interested in other people, always ready to help anyone with her cures, but she closed up like a clam if you asked her anything about herself.’

‘Her cures?’ Mila asked.

‘Elisabeth used to grow medicinal plants right there, in the garden. Nothing the chemist gave me for my bad stomach was anywhere near as effective as Elisabeth’s ginger tea.’ The woman sighed. ‘I told her she should sell her remedies, but she had no interest in making money from them. Anyway, don’t let me keep you from your work. Come on inside, Bertie. It’s freezing out here.’ She gave a tug on the dog’s collar. ‘It was nice to see you, Ms Shepherd. Tell your stepmother Anne Guillerme sends her regards.’

Mila promised that she would.

Mila unlocked the padlock securing the gates outside Elisabeth Quemener’s house. Once through, she found herself in a garden that, although it had been left untended for some time, had clearly been ordered and carefully planned. Most of the plants in the beds had died back for winter, but she recognised a few of the more robust herbs. Close to the house were cold frames for bringing on tender specimens.

She walked around to the back, everything covered in thick frost, and bitterly cold; the sun not having yet reached beyond the shadow of the building. Here, she found more beds and a greenhouse with a skull and crossbones Danger sign on the door. Perhaps the potted plants on the shelves inside had been toxic; now they had withered and died.

Back at the front of the dwelling, Mila observed the spyhole in the doorway; the camera for monitoring visitors remotely and, fixed to the wall, the burglar alarm that Monsieur Chabot had mentioned.

It took a while to find the keys to open not only the door lock, but also the series of deadbolts, but eventually Mila got inside. The interior of the house was dark and it was cold as a grave.

Mila felt a shudder of fear.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she told herself.

Searching the properties of the deceased was part of Toussaints’ work, and being alone in a dead person’s house had never made Mila feel vulnerable before. She tried to analyse why it was different this time and decided it must be the security features Elisabeth Quemener had installed. Everything pointed towards Elisabeth having been afraid of someone or something. And that, Mila concluded, was what was making her scared now: fear by proxy.

Elisabeth lived in a house that was entirely enclosed by high metal fencing, on one of the quietest roads in one of the safest towns in Europe. Despite the influx of tourists and holidaymakers in the summer months, Morannez rarely suffered any crime worse than the occasional theft of a packet of picnic ham by a dog on the beach, or once, last year, one of the many hundreds of menhirs, or standing stones, in the area being ‘vandalised’ by children. Even Guillaume, the wayward son of the wealthy and influential Girard family that controlled most of the tourist operations in Morannez, even he tended to carry out his dodgy business elsewhere; rather than on his own doorstep.

There was no obvious or logical reason for Elisabeth’s fear. Yet, clearly, she had been deeply, chronically afraid.

Perhaps she was simply paranoid.

Still, it felt to Mila as if Elisabeth’s anxiety, real or imagined, had pervaded the very fabric of the house. It was contagious. Mila was wearing several layers of clothing, yet she could feel the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickling. Her heart was beating more strongly than usual; adrenaline was in her blood, making her jittery. Her fingers, of their own volition, repeatedly sought the reassurance of her phone, in her pocket. She checked that she had a signal and plenty of battery and then replaced it.

Mila left the front door ajar; partly so she would be sure of hearing the dog were he to start barking again, but also because she didn’t want to be entirely shut in alone. It seemed to her that the outside air, cold as it was, was warmer than the air inside Elisabeth Quemener’s empty house.

3

The hall was narrow. A wooden coat stand stood just beyond the door, and hung on this was a scruffy old canvas jacket. Beside the stand was a low stool, a pair of sturdy boots and a trug containing gardening tools – a fork, a trowel, secateurs and a large watering can. Presumably, these items had been brought inside to protect them from the elements after Elisabeth Quemener’s death.

On the wall opposite the door was a pastel portrait of a young girl who Mila recognised as Elisabeth’s daughter, Manon. Mila remembered meeting her once at the Grand Hotel in Bloemel-sur-Mer, the larger and more upmarket neighbouring town to Morannez.

Mila’s father, Patrick, had, for almost a decade, been married to Ceci and the young Mila had spent her teenage summers with her father, stepmother and stepsister, Sophie, in Brittany. The girls were only a few weeks apart in age, and they had been as close as if they were blood sisters.

Because Sophie didn’t know Mila in any other context, Mila felt liberated when they were together. Sophie had no idea that Mila felt isolated at school, or that her life at home, with her embittered mother, Lydia, was painful and difficult. She didn’t know that Mila could never invite a friend home, because that friend would almost certainly witness Lydia’s tears, and have to listen to the story of how she’d been betrayed by Patrick. Sophie assumed Mila was as popular as she was and this empowered Mila to act as if she really was one of the cool crowd.

While she was in Morannez, sharing Sophie’s bedroom, and her life, Mila could shrug off her old self. She could be carefree and happy. Sophie wanted Mila to shine. She taught her about pop music and feminism and fashion. She showed her how to jump off the floating diving board anchored off Morannez beach without belly-flopping; persuaded her out of her regulation black school swimming suit and into a bright orange bikini; shared her clothes, jewellery, nail varnish and make-up; demonstrated how to talk to other teenagers; how to sneak out of the house at night; how to drink Lambig without wincing; how to play the guitar; how to have fun. Those six glorious weeks from the end of July to the beginning of September were the happiest times of Mila’s teenage life.

Back home in Maidenhead, Lydia was wrapped up in self-pity and resentment. She was jealous of Ceci, blaming her for the collapse of her marriage and for her loneliness. Although she complained constantly about the constraints of single motherhood, she hated Mila going to stay with Ceci and Patrick and in the weeks prior to her daughter’s departure became increasingly miserable and needy.

Ceci was the opposite: bright, warm, attentive and funny. Guiltily, Mila fantasised about coming to live with her stepmother and Sophie in France permanently. As soon as she arrived in Morannez each summer, she felt as if a joy clock had started ticking, counting off the time she had left in Brittany. She dreaded the date of her return home.

On the day that Mila was remembering, the day she had encountered Manon Quemener, Ceci had taken Sophie and Mila into Bloemel on a rescue mission. Before leaving for France, Lydia had cut Mila’s hair. She’d told Mila she couldn’t afford for her to go to the hairdresser’s and was perfectly capable of doing the job herself.

The result was a disaster.

Mila, fifteen, shy and sensitive, had never felt so ugly. Ceci had sussed out the situation in a heartbeat. She never said a word against Lydia, but, the next day, treated Sophie and Mila to a restyle at the hairdressing salon in Bloemel. Mila had been transformed from a girl with something resembling a bird’s nest on her head into a young woman with a pixie cut that made her eyes look huge and her face prettier than it had ever looked before. To celebrate, Ceci had treated the girls to coffee and cake in the Grand Hotel, an establishment owned by the Girard family.

It was Sophie who had spotted Manon drinking lemon tea on the terrace with her mother. They went to the same school, although Manon was a couple of years older than Sophie.

‘Come and say hi,’ Sophie had told Mila.

Mila had no memory of Elisabeth Quemener, but even twenty years later, she could recall that Manon was the epitome of charisma. She was wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts with frayed hems and a white cheesecloth shirt with an embroidered yoke. She had beaded bracelets on her wrists and a necklace made of tiny shells – the kind that were sold in all the tourist shops around the millennium. Her skin was tanned, her eyes pale blue, her fair hair mostly long and straight, but with a tiny plait on one side of her face. She had been friendly. She’d told Mila that she liked her English accent. ‘The boys will go mad for you,’ she’d said. ‘English accents are so adorable.’

It was the first time in Mila’s life that she had ever been called ‘adorable’ by anyone – let alone an uber-cool girl like Manon.

It had also been Mila’s first visit to the Grand Hotel, and she had been dizzy with the bliss of being in the hotel’s glorious tea lounge. A woman in white tie and tails was playing music at a grand piano, the waiters looked like film stars, the gateaux and pastries were works of art and the customers were chattering and laughing. It had been the antithesis to The Rookery – the dismal hotel in Maidenhead where Mila’s mother took her for ‘treats’ and where the clientele were uniformly middle-aged or old and had faces that Mila’s father had once described as looking like ‘slapped arses’. All of it – the haircut, the hotel, being with Sophie and Ceci, and Manon paying her compliments – were rolled into a memory that would always remain special to Mila.

She brought herself back to the present. It was so easy to be distracted by thoughts of the past, but she needed to start searching for Astrid Oake before she froze to death.

She opened the door to the left of Manon’s portrait. Beyond was the dining room, unlikely to contain anything that might help in the search. Beside it was the kitchen, and the third door revealed a living room. It was in almost total darkness, the only light delivered in thin slivers through the narrow slats of the shutters beyond the window.

Mila stepped forward. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she noticed desiccated flowers hanging their papery heads over the rims of vases from which the water had long since evaporated, and, everywhere, plants that were dead in their pots.

She picked up a folded copy of Le Monde and squinted at the date.

‘The fourteenth of October,’ she said aloud.

That must have been the day Elisabeth Quemener died.

4

The living room had two windows, long and narrow, one overlooking the front garden, one to the side. Both were protected by vertical metal bars. Mila opened the shutters via a pulley mechanism. The windows were grimy and the light that came into the room was greenish and pale.

A single, upholstered chair had been pulled close to the front window. There was no television, but a music system with a heap of dusty CDs. A bureau in the corner had a fold-down front that converted into a writing desk. On top were photographs of Manon in various stages of growing up, including one of Elisabeth beside her daughter, looking at her with absolute love in her eyes.

In addition to the bureau, there was a bookcase that contained tomes about the medicinal power of herbs and other plants and recipe books for remedies. Mila picked out one titled Natural Cures for Natural Diseases. Someone had written: Use your knowledge wisely beneath an illustrated nameplate glued to the endpaper, inscribed with the name: Clarisse Broussard.

The book fell open in Mila’s hands at a recipe for reducing blood pressure using, amongst other ingredients, garlic and hibiscus.

Next, she looked inside the bureau, which was neatly ordered. A box of pencils; a row of notebooks. Mila looked inside the first book. It contained recipes of cures for conditions affecting infants. There was an apple cider vinegar concoction for clearing cradle cap and a chamomile gum rub to help with teething. The other notebooks were also full of themed, natural remedies.

One by one, Mila opened the drawers. They were tidy, packed with catalogues from seed companies and nurseries, articles about naturopathy and herbalism and adverts from various security companies promoting different systems for deterring intruders and raising the alarm should they break in.

Mila could find no passport or driving licence, no identity card, no bundles of letters from friends or lovers. Nothing to do with Elisabeth Quemener herself. She had, however, kept all of Manon’s achievement certificates, inoculation records, school reports and other bits and pieces documenting her daughter’s life.

Did Elisabeth Quemener have a computer? Mila wondered. Or a tablet? A smartphone? If she did, these items might already have been removed from the house – her daughter could well have taken them. But Mila couldn’t see any chargers plugged into the sockets; no evidence that Elisabeth had used technology except as a security measure. In one way, this was useful – it meant Mila wouldn’t have to spend ages searching for Astrid Oake amongst the dead woman’s online contacts. In another, it was frustrating. Social media was the means by which Toussaints managed to locate the majority of the ‘lost’ people they were employed to find.

After she’d gone through the living

Reviews for The Sea House

[kmartin802_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

THE SEA HOUSE was an interesting mystery. Mila Shepherd works for the Touissants detective agency. It is run by a former stepmother of hers since her father is prone to marriage. She was mostly raised in England by her very bitter mother who revels in holding on to the bitterness of a long-ago marriage. She lived for the six weeks she spent every summer in Brittany with her stepmother and stepsister Sophie who became her best friend.

Two years before this story begins, Sophie and her husband Charlie were lost at sea in a storm leaving a fourteen-year-old daughter Ani. Mila drops everything in England including her police detective fiance to move to France to take care of Ani. While Sophie's body was found after the accident, Charlie's was not until the events of the current time period.

While dealing with her own and Ani's uncertainty and grief, the detective agency is hired to find a woman who was mentioned in the will of Elisabeth Quemener. She left a sealed package to be delivered to Astrid Oake. The only problem is that no one knows who Astrid Oake is or where she might be found. The only clue is a photo likely taken in the 1980s that shows Elisabeth, Astrid, and a small child presumed to be Elisabeth's daughter Manon.

The investigation starts on Facebook as Mila tries to find someone who might know Astrid and proceeds through newspaper clippings to a family tragedy. A trip to England's midlands brings Mila to more secrets at Astrid's family home.

This was an entertaining story with complex characters and situations. I enjoyed the mysteries. Astrid's story is complete. However, Charlie's and Sophie's are left unresolved in a cliffhanger ending and a rather abrupt ending to the book.