A profile photo of Loch Lomond for this particular Flynn Talbot glimmered out of the screen. Ok. So, no photo of him. But it was a picture of one of Scotland’s most famous landmarks. Could he be Lily’s Flynn – or perhaps be able to lead me to him?

Come on, Leonie, I chided myself. Don’t get too carried away.

Nevertheless, I took an excited, hopeful breath, prayed I might be onto something, and began to read.

Chapter Seventeen

Flynn Talbot’s profile was sparse.

It consisted of beautiful photographs of landscapes and monuments, rather than pictures of himself, family, friends, or even grandchildren. In fact, his personal details were non-existent too, apart from his place of birth, which said Darroch, a little market town about half an hour’s drive from Silver Ness.

That gave me an injection of optimism, as I sat there in the now empty office. It must be him, seeing as he was born in the area.

I scrolled down his Facebook posts, hoping for some crumb of information or a photo of him, but they were either more artistic Scottish sunsets or comments about books and films. He seemed to be a huge fan of Clint Eastwood and spaghetti westerns.

Was he married? Divorced? Widowed? Did he have a squad of grandchildren? It seemed unlikely given that, again, there were no photos or proud boasts, but perhaps he just wasn’t that type of man?

In his letter to Lily, Flynn Talbot had mentioned a son though.

I sat further back in my desk chair and chewed my lip. What the hell was I going to say to him? “Hi there. I stumbled across a love letter you sent to Lily Cruickshank fifty years ago. Remember her?”

I wound a finger around one of my errant curls. If Flynn Talbot wasn’t interested in dredging up the past, then so be it. No harm done. But the way I caught Lily gazing at Merry Wood, lost in days gone by… She was so protective of that house too. Something told me there was unfinished business there and she needed closure.

Whatever had happened between Lily Cruickshank and Flynn Talbot all those years ago, it wasn’t healthy for someone to be so preoccupied with an abandoned house. I think her heart went to Africa with him. And it was still with him. Even now.

I thought too about the couple of odd turns she had experienced – her skin growing pale and her breathing becoming laboured. What if she was really ill? This might be the only chance she would have to see him again.

My fingers hovered over the mouse. Was I going to do this? She might be furious with me for interfering, but I was doing it with the best of intentions. It felt like the right thing to do.