I know what I’m really doing. I’m procrastinating because, despite everything, I’m happy. I came here with a purpose – but it was a purpose that was prepared to entertain only one answer. And because I didn’t like the one I was getting, the truth that every day I was closer to discovering, I’ve stopped. It all amounts to the same thing: happiness has always made me a coward.

The money from Mum’s bank accounts now sits in mine; enough that I don’t need to worry about work – or life – for a while, at least. I look at the photo of Robert still propped up against the wall next to my laptop. Think of Charlie’s You got your questions, you got your answers. I haven’t spoken to him since then, hate that he might still be angry with me. Because every morning I sit down at this table and I pretend to research Robert’s life, his death. I pretend that tomorrow I’m going to go down to the village to try to call Gordon Cameron again. I pretend not to be glad that no one’s trying to scare me any more – if they ever were. I pretend that I still believe I can somehow prove that Robert was murdered and that Mum was right about us, about me. I pretend that I still want to know. Because if I don’t, the guilt comes rushing back in like a tsunami.

When Charlie and his dog, Bonny, pass the blackhouse just a few hours later, it seems like a sign. I look at the picture of Robert again, standing in his meadow; folded arms, stoic frown.

‘I know,’ I say, getting up from the table. ‘I need to say sorry.’

I glance towards the coat rack in the mudroom. And I need to ask him one last question.

Outside, the day is calm, and the island is quiet; I can’t even hear the familiar sounds of the dig. I see no one on the short walk from Ardcraig to Big Beach. Even the Laird’s Lodge looks deserted. When I crest the hill above Lovely Place, I stop. Overnight, the meadow’s grass has been covered in a blanket of short, dense flowers. Pink and purple and yellow, as far as I can see. Will’s machair. The sun turns the flowers brighter, the lochans dazzling. Rabbits are running and jumping all around the bluffs. The breeze smells of the sea, warm and westerly, tickling my skin. After the rain and cold and dark, it’s magical. It makes me think of lying in bed while Mum read about Hobbiton and the Shire. Another moment to live in.

I skirt the meadow and climb the bluff. The dunes are just as white and deep as before; by the time I make it far enough along the beach to attract Charlie’s attention, I’m so out of breath I can hardly muster a shout.

When he sees me, he doesn’t do anything for a few seconds, and then gives a brief wave. The way gets easier the closer I get to the shore. I glance up once, towards the long headland of Roeness, and although I realise it’s because I’m looking for the solitary figure who watched Will and me, I’m still startled when I see him again, standing on that high cliff edge. Watching. I flinch at a sudden flash, and then another. He isn’t just watching. He’s watching through binoculars.