‘I thought I’d take a walk,’ I call, quickening my step, which isn’t easy in the deep snow, and I trip, almost falling over.
‘Good idea, I might do the same later if Elise fancies it. I think I’ll go stir-crazy stuck inside. You can only play so many board games, can’t you?’ She smiles, throws me another flutter of her fingers, and, passing the snowman that still stands proudly, goes into her cottage, calling her stepdaughter’s name.
The snow is soft and crunches like meringue each time I lower my boot, which amuses me far more than it should. There’s no strength to the sun, which peeks out from behind soft, smoky-grey clouds, and the wind, after settling down earlier, has got up again.
I make my way over to Vine Hill and stand at the top, scanning the area. The snowy view – which I didn’t fully appreciate before, far too busy debating whether to slide down or not – is beautiful. The Scottish Highlands are stunning at any time of year, but the unblemished snow stretching for miles over fields, hills and mountains, is breath-taking. My eyes sting from the cold as they travel across the splendour, landing on Michael Collis’s house. It’s large – too big for just him – but being a farmhouse it suits its surroundings. A lonely place to live, I imagine. But then if he travels abroad a lot, perhaps he’s glad of the tranquillity when he returns home. I wonder for a moment whether the disappearance of Jackson and Lark affected him at the time. Whether he was concerned when he returned from his travels to find two people had vanished while staying on the estate.
I set out towards the farmhouse. Trying to recall the route we’d travelled earlier, but in reverse, stepping gingerly, unsure where the path ends and the edge, which falls away to a sheer drop, begins. Eventually I reach the bottom.
After brushing away the snow from the wooden slats, I sit down for a few moments on Kyla’s bench, shivering. It’s isolated here – unnaturally quiet. Not a single bird singing. No animals rustling in the woods behind me. I look at the set of footprints stretching towards the farmhouse. Whoever made them possibly sat here, before walking back. Was it Michael Collis? Was Finn wrong, and he wasn’t abroad? Had he left the footprints leading to Rosamund and Elise’s cottage too? Had he put on a mask and looked in at Elise?
My curiosity about the man deepens. It’s about a five-minute walk to his house, but my toes and fingers are numb, and the clouds are darkening. I sit for a few more minutes, debating if I can manage the walk, when snow starts to fall. I need to get back.
I rise and look up at the sky, letting the flakes land on my face, icy cold, before turning to look up Vine Hill. I squint, trying to make out who is at the top looking down at me. I see a flash of a pink jacket. ‘Elise?’ But she moves away before I can raise my hand in a wave.
It’s almost four o’clock. I’ll come back tomorrow. I have to. Something draws me to the farmhouse – to Michael Collis.
Chapter 18
A Year Ago
Amelia
Rosamund, in her early forties, muscularly slim, her wavy blonde hair shining in the sunlight, climbed from the driver’s seat of a white Mercedes, looking stunning in an orange coat with large lapels.
A teenage girl climbed from the back seat, and a man in his mid-thirties in a red waistcoat and black jacket, got out of the passenger seat and stretched his arms above his head, yawning.
‘Caroline, darling, how are you?’ Rosamund called, waving at Amelia and her mum heading towards her.
Amelia stared at the elegant woman approaching. She’d never met her, but remembered from when she was a teenager how happy her mum had been working in Rosamund’s flower shop, near the River Tweed. Having done a flower arranging evening course at the local college, and finding she had a natural talent, her mum had been thrilled when she got the job. Amelia had loved how happy her mum had been while she worked there, bringing flowers home each day, always smiling. The house always smelt beautiful, looked bright.
But then Rosamund sold the shop – never said where she was going. It had broken the bond between them. Her mum had cried that day, saying she hadn’t only lost a job – she’d lost her best friend too.
‘Your mum has told me so much about you, Amelia,’ Rosamund said, blue eyes shining, after the two older women had embraced. She really was a mesmerising woman. ‘We should play a game of tennis together.’
Amelia raised her eyebrows. She had never been good at tennis. Never been sporty.
‘Ah, no, you’re thinking of Lark,’ her mum chipped in. ‘Lark is my sporty one. Well she was, until recently.’ She looked at Amelia. ‘Rosamund used to be the Northern Indoor Champion.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to play you then.’ Amelia knew she sounded stiff and awkward, and a strange little grunt – meant to be a laugh – was expelled from her mouth.
‘Rosamund’s an amazing swimmer too, aren’t you, Rosamund?’
‘Enough, Caroline,’
