She didn’t dress, sitting in her robe with mug after mug of coffee waiting for the clunk of the letterbox. Until then, she’d no interest in doing anything else.

It wasn’t until ten past eleven that she heard what she’d been waiting for. It took another ten minutes to gather enough courage to get up and take the few steps into the hallway where one single envelope sat on the mat.

She picked it up, brought it into the sitting room and sank onto the sofa, her eyes fixed on the logo on the top right corner – an entwined DNA. It would be a helix of grief if the news was what she expected it to be.

There was only one sheet inside the envelope. The company obviously didn’t believe in wasting time: there was no pleasant greeting, no gracious thanks for her custom. Just the results, in stark typescript on the white paper. There was a 99.5% chance that she and Flynn were related.

The page floated to the ground defying the weight of its news. It was ironic: a year ago, had she been told that the handsome, charming Flynn was her son she would have been proud, delighted and relieved. Now she was torn between the feelings for her son and the feelings for a man she’d grown to love, the father of her child.

The house closed in around her, taunting her with glimpses of happy memories, echoes of Flynn’s laugh in every corner. When her eyes kept filling, she knew she had to get out. She pulled on suitable clothes, and ten minutes later was heading for Cliffe Fort, head down, hands jammed into her pockets. Unbrushed hair blew in rat’s tails around her head, blinding her, strands sticking to her tear-stained face.

Walking brought no relief, the view from the headland across the Thames brought no comfort. She started the long walk home, her feet scraping the path.

The day stretched ahead long and lonely with only grief for company. Ringing Rivka wasn’t an option anymore, and the pain of that loss added to all the rest and made her almost choke with heartache.

As she passed a café, the sound of laughter floated out and she stopped and stared through the window. It sounded so like Flynn. She pushed open the door and entered, her eyes scanning, her face falling to see it wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. But it was warm and bustling inside so rather than facing the emptiness of home, she bought a coffee and sat.

43

Victor had continued to follow Jodie despite her threats. It wasn’t difficult, he was an expert at fading into the shadows, his features so neutral as to render him almost invisible.

He’d seen Flynn leave a few days before, a strange look on his face. Victor had waited until midnight, the chill numbing his bones, but Flynn had never returned.