her father was to come down with a bout of flu…or even…pneumonia.
‘This wind is getting worse and the light is going. Did you make your way here by yourself?’
‘I got a lift to the road and walked from there,’ she replied, her teeth chattering.
‘My Land Rover’s parked down at the bottom. I’ll run you home.’
For a moment she looked as if she might refuse the offer of a lift, but a second later she briefly inclined her head.
‘Thanks…Just halfway down the lane will do. I can walk the rest of the way from there.’
When Flynn pulled up in the lane that led to what had been Tom Burns’ old cottage, he switched off the ignition and turned in his seat to regard his now silent passenger.
‘We could meet at the house tomorrow at around ten. Do you want me to come and get you?’
‘No, it’s all right. I prefer to walk. Ten it is, then.’
She pushed open the door at her side and stepped down onto the snowy road without another word.
Flynn sat and watched her walk up the lane—a slender, duffle-coated figure with bright hair whipped by the wind—and he gripped the steering wheel as though he would break it, shuddering out a long, slow breath.
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