Excerpt from Letters to the Lost by Iona Grey, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She took it out, turning it around between her fingers for a moment before taking off the lid and twisting the base. It was red. Bright, vibrant scarlet: the color of poppies and pillar-boxes and old-fashioned movie-star glamor. An indentation had been worn into the top, where it had molded to fit the shape of the lips of the user. She tried to imagine her, whoever she was, standing here in this bathroom with the black-and-white tiles and the mold-patterned walls; an old woman, painting on this brave daub of color for a trip to the shops or an evening at the bingo, and she felt a burst of admiration and curiosity.

There was a roll of yellowing crepe bandage on the top shelf of the cupboard, and she took this and a packet of soluble aspirin into the kitchen. She unhooked a teacup and filled it with water, then dropped in two of the tablets. Waiting for them to dissolve she looked around. In the grimy morning light the place looked bleak, but there was something poignantly homely about the row of canisters on the shelf, labeled "TEA," "RICE," "SUGAR," the scarred chopping board propped against the wall and the scorched oven gloves hanging from a hook beside the cooker. The cup in her hand was green, but sort of shiny; iridescent like the delicate rainbows in oily puddles. She rubbed her finger over it. She'd never seen anything like it before, and she liked it. It couldn't have been more different from the assortment of cheap stained mugs in the flat in Elephant and Castle.

She drank the aspirin mixture in two big grimacing gulps, her throat closing in protest at the salty-sweetness, then took the bandage into the front room where she applied herself to the task of binding up her ankle. Midway through she heard whistling outside, and stopped, her heart thudding. Footsteps came closer. Dropping the bandage she got to her feet, tensed for the knock on the door or, worse, a key turning—

With a rusty, reluctant creak the letterbox opened. A single, cream-colored envelope landed on top of the heap of garish junk mail and takeaway menus.

Mrs. S. Thorne

4 Greenfields Lane

Church End

London

UNITED KINGDOM.

It was written in black ink. Proper ink, not biro. The writing was bold and elegant but unmistakably shaky, as if the person who had written it was old or sick or in a rush. The paper was creamy, faintly ridged, like bone or ivory.

She turned it over. Spiked black capitals grabbed her attention.

PERSONAL and URGENT. If necessary and possible PLEASE FORWARD.

She put it on the mantelpiece, propped against a chipped jug bearing the slogan "A Present from Margate." Against the faded furnishings the envelope looked clean and crisp and opulent.

Outside the world got on with its weekday business, but in the little house time faltered and the day dragged. The initial euphoria of having got away from Dodge was quickly eroded by hunger and the savage cold. In a cupboard in the kitchen she discovered a little stash of supplies, among which was a packet of fig rolls. They were almost two years past their sell-by date but she devoured half of them, and made herself save the rest for later. She kept trying to think of where to go from here, what to do next, but her thoughts went round in futile circles, like a drowsy bluebottle bashing senselessly against a closed window.

She slept again, deeply, only surfacing when the short February day was fading and the shadows in the corners of the room had thickened on the nets of cobwebs. The envelope on the mantelpiece seemed to have absorbed all the remaining light. It gleamed palely, like the moon.

Mrs. S. Thorne must have been the lady who had lived here, but what did she need to know that was "Personal and Urgent?" With some effort she levered herself up from the sofa and scooped up the landslide of mail from beneath the letterbox. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders she began to go through it, looking for clues. Maybe there would be something there to hint at where she'd gone, this mysterious Mrs. Thorne.

Excerpted from Letters to the Lost by Iona Grey. Copyright © 2015 by Iona Grey. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Dunne Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.