Page 82 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Twenty-Five

I was still full after Mitch’s delicious cooked breakfast, so I decided to take a rain check on lunch.

I’d start researching Ruth Mangan now, I decided with a frisson of determination. I wanted to stop thinking about this morning and what had just happened – Mitch ploughing into the stormy sea, not considering his own safety or the risky situation he was putting himself in, Rhea thrashing around in the water, her stricken, tear-riddled face when she spoke about Freddie, my feelings of panic when I couldn’t spot Mitch in the water and I thought something had happened to him.

I knew I was being a coward, trying to keep my distance from people in case I lost them. It was inevitable. It would happen one day. But to me, it seemed far more sensible not to risk it in the first place. Joe had proved that. Damage limitation.

I gave my head a wobble and refocused on Ruth Mangan. Would I discover much about her? Well, there was only one way to find out and that was to try and do a bit of detective work. Some people still seemed to have very little social media footprint, although I think they were in the minority.

I just hoped Ruth wasn’t one of them.

Bronte gazed up at me from the sitting room rug.

I frowned.

Bugger. Of course. I hadn’t brought my laptop with me. Memories of me dashing around our apartment, grabbing what I could in a whirlwind of tears reared up again.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, so pig-headed about not bringing my laptop. Okay, so I’d decided my writing career was over, but still, it wouldn’t have hurt to bring it just the same. I hadn’t been thinking straight. In fact, I hadn’t been thinking at all.

I crinkled my nose. I’d just have to use my phone to look up information about Ruth.

Then an idea popped in my head. Hold on. Grandma had her own Lenovo laptop.

I remembered her saying she’d bought it in an online sale last Christmas and that she’d been using it to look up art exhibition information and tips and tricks for her paintings. She’d used it to log onto Facebook to chat to me, too.

Right. Where might it be? Where would she have kept it? And even if I found it, would I be able to guess her password and gain access to it?

Bronte followed me down the hallway with interest as I made my way into my grandma’s art studio and took a look around in the cupboards. I wasn’t holding out much hope that it would be in there. I’m sure I would’ve spotted it when I’d started sorting out some of her clutter and papers.

Once I was satisfied that I’d checked everywhere in there, I headed back up the hallway, the sights and smells of her smudges of paints and her ornamental butterflies lingering at my back.

Bronte was at my heels as I proceeded to check the chest of drawers and wardrobe in my grandparents’ bedroom.

Glimpses of her long-fringed skirts and embroidered tops and of Grandpa’s favourite white trilby, the one he wore to the local bowling green, poked out of the wardrobe.

Nope. Her laptop wasn’t in there either.

With a growing feeling of frustration, I headed back to the sitting room to check in there.

I clicked open the heavy, maple and glass cabinet by the back wall and crouched down to peer inside. I was beginning to run out of ideas as to where she might’ve kept it. Grandma Tilda hadn’t been the most methodical of people, so it could be stashed anywhere.

There was a pile of creamy lace tablecloths folded up on the left inside the cabinet. On the right-hand side was a stack of green and gold placemats. I was about to close the double cabinet doors when I caught a glimpse of what looked like a sugar-pink leather laptop case. I reached in and angled it out. Yes. This was it.

I took it over to the sofa, slid it out of the zipped-up case and plugged it in at the nearest socket. The screen shimmered into life. It had seventy percent power.

Then it winked at me, demanding I enter in my grandma’s password.

I sighed, before tapping in my late grandfather’s Christian name, Howard. Nope. Wasn’t that. I entered my name. It wasn’t that either. I typed in my mum’s name, Tessa. No. That wasn’t her password. I tried Dad’s name next. No, it wasn’t Jack. Then I tried the name of Grandma’s favourite Van Gogh painting, Almond Blossoms, but that wasn’t it either.

Frustration gripped me. What the hell could it be?

I tried to slip into my grandma’s shoes as I sat there, studying the laptop screen. It must be something that meant a lot to her. But what could that be? The make of one of her favourite paint brushes? The name of one of her favourite artists? Or might it be her favourite species of butterfly? I had no idea but it was worth a try.

My fingers danced over the keys as I typed in ‘Swallow tail’.

I held my breath.

The screen winked and then it took me to her home page. It worked!