I glanced down at the most startling painting I’d ever seen. The colours were magical. It was almost a cross between abstract art and traditional portraiture. It took my breath away and I couldn’t draw my eyes from the man in the image. He was incredibly good-looking in a rugged kind of way, with sandy, scruffy hair, olive skin and a smile that was neither happy nor sad. I’d only ever seen him before in photos, but I felt I knew him. Although he looked totally smitten with whoever was painting him, the expression on his face also hid deep pain.

Goosebumps skittered across my skin.

Dan remained silent while I soaked it all in, only speaking when I looked back up into his eyes. ‘That’s Bill,’ he said, unnecessarily.

‘And your mum painted this?’ I whispered, thinking of Gail and Cassie’s conversation at the trivia night and already knowing it to be true.

He nodded. ‘It’s her style all over. Come look.’

I followed him out of the kitchen and back to the entrance hall, where he pointed to a painting of a toddler done in exactly the same style as the postcard one. I’d been so nervous when I’d arrived, I’d not registered it among all the other paintings on the wall.

‘Mum did that when I was two,’ Dan said. ‘There’s a couple more of me at Dad’s place, along with loads more of him, Gemma and Benjamin. Half the town have portraits she did hanging on their walls.’

‘She was very talented,’ I said, and he looked at me like I was crazy—Bonnie’s talent wasn’t what was up for debate. ‘Okay, I’ll admit, there’s no chance anyone else did that, but it still doesn’t mean … Maybe she simply painted him. You said yourself she painted half the locals.’

‘Yes, but all those paintings were much bigger, and people were proud of them—they hang them in pride of place in their homes and show them off. You’d think if Bill didn’t have anything to hide, he’d have framed this painting and hung it on his wall of fame.’

I nodded. ‘So, you think your mum had an affair with Bill and that the baby she writes about is either your brother, your sister or you.’

‘It’s gotta be me—she writes about her two older children in the letters. And this would explain a lot about my childhood.’

I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’