I sat up straighter in the driver’s seat. I wasn’t expecting this at all. I thought he had vanished down some photography black hole. “Oh hi. Hello.”

“I wondered if we could meet up to talk.”

Kerry, sitting beside me, was scanning her own phone.

I blinked in surprise. “Yes. Sure.” Talk about a shock. Had he had a crisis of conscience? “Can I ask what this is about?”

Flynn Talbot made a clicking noise with his tongue, as though it were helping him make sense of something. “It’s about my grandfather,” he managed after a few seconds of pensive silence.

“Your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

Another loaded pause.

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

There was a breath of irritation. “He’s Flynn Talbot too,” he revealed. “I’m named after him.”

The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to align in front of my eyes., but it took a few moments for my brain to catch up. So, this Flynn Talbot was related to the Flynn Talbot I had been searching for after all. He shared the same name as his grandfather. Oh God. Flynn’s grandfather must therefore be the one who wrote the letter to Lily. But why had he been so adamant and quick to deny any connection between them? Why had he lied about the man I was looking for being his grandfather?

My stomach performed an optimistic but stunned cartwheel as Flynn Talbot moved to speak again, cutting through my reeling thoughts. “I think we need to talk.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Flynn Talbot sat opposite me the next morning in Scoops.

Saturday had brought with it drizzly silver rain that still failed to deter the hardened day-trippers to Silver Ness. Some were still quite happy to take in the grey rolling sea and brave the stiff wind, whilst others ducked and dived into the local shops, availing themselves of the opportunity to snap up dinky Christmas gifts, like pirate snow globes embossed with the words Silver Ness and jigsaws of the lighthouse depicted with snow swirling around it. The air was a concoction of seaweed and hazelnut hot chocolate.

Flynn had surprised me with his suggestion to meet up, almost as much as his revelation that the Flynn Talbot who had written the letter to Lily was his grandfather.

He had even insisted our rendezvous be local to me, which had taken me aback too. Perhaps he wanted to see a bit of the area his grandfather frequented?

There was a small café area in Scoops which consisted of four tables and a few chairs at the rear of the shop decked out in multicoloured cushions and tie-backs. Christmas lights in a variety of colours flashed around the window frames.

“So, this is the famous Silver Ness?”

“You don’t know the area then?”

Flynn Talbot held me to my seat with his unreadable silver gaze. He didn’t answer. He could make brooding an Olympic sport.