Chapter 17
Forbes was three pages into revising his chapter on immigrant shipping records when Jessica Platt slid into the seat across from him.
“Mr. MacLeod.” She smiled like they were old friends. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He set down his pen. “Ms. Platt. I’d say the same, but I suspect this isnae coincidence.”
“Sharp as ever.” She flagged down the server, ordered a black coffee, and turned back to him with that bright, calculating look he remembered from the festival. “I’ve been doing some digging since we last spoke.”
“Into Salem’s tourism industry?”
“Into you.” She pulled a folder from her bag and set it on the table between them.
“Forbes MacLeod. Edinburgh. PhD in Scottish history, specializing in Highland diaspora. Three academic papers, moderately cited. Then you pivoted to historical fiction—much to your father’s disappointment, I’m told—and became surprisingly successful.
” She tapped the folder. “Your books are well-researched. Meticulous, even. You’ve built a reputation on getting the details right. ”
“I’m flattered ye’ve done your homework.”
“Meanwhile, Ms. Bishop runs ghost tours.” Jessica’s lip curled slightly. “She’s a performer, not a historian. That must bother you—a man with your standards.”
Forbes said nothing. Let her keep underestimating Gwen. It would make the eventual correction more satisfying.
“Here’s what I can’t figure out.” She leaned forward.
“A man like you—careful, credentialed, invested in accuracy—comes to Salem for research and within three weeks is romantically involved with a woman who runs ghost tours and claims to practice witchcraft. A woman whose family has been at the center of this town’s supernatural theater for generations. ”
Forbes kept his expression neutral. “Is there a question in there?”
“The question is: what’s really going on?” Jessica’s smile sharpened. “Because from where I’m sitting, there are two possibilities. Either you’ve been completely taken in by a very charming con artist, or you’re actively participating in something you know is fraudulent.”
“Those are my only options?”
“Unless you’d like to tell me there’s a third.”
There was, of course. A third option that involved a former ghost who’d been given back his life, genuine magic, and a woman whose power had made an entire clearing glow four days ago.
He considered mentioning that last part—but suspected the nuance would be lost on someone who thought ghost tours were the pinnacle of Salem’s deception.
Forbes couldn’t tell her any of that.
“Ms. Platt,” he said carefully, “I’m not sure what you’re hoping tae accomplish here.”
“I’m giving you a chance.” She pushed the folder toward him. “I’m writing this story whether you cooperate or not. Salem’s supernatural tourism industry is worth millions. The families that run it have been trading on tragedy and superstition for decades. That’s a story people want to read.”
“And where do I fit in?”
“You’re the hook. Respected Scottish author, known for historical accuracy, falls for local witch and suddenly starts defending practices he’d have dismissed as nonsense six months ago.
” Her eyes glittered. “It’s a great angle.
The question is whether you want to be the cautionary tale or the voice of reason. ”
Forbes understood the offer.
For one cold moment, he saw it clearly: Jessica would print her story regardless. And when she did, Gwen would take the blow—her tours, her reputation, her family’s privacy. Not him. He could walk away from Salem tomorrow and rebuild his credibility in Edinburgh. Gwen couldn’t.
That made the choice easier, not harder.
Denounce Gwen. Call the whole thing a lapse in judgment, a temporary madness, an embarrassing mistake he’d since recovered from. Jessica would write him as the skeptic who came to his senses, and his reputation would survive.
All it would cost him was everything that mattered.
“What exactly are ye asking me tae do?”
“Go on record. Tell me you were taken in by a charismatic woman and a community that’s very good at selling fantasy.
Admit you got caught up in something you shouldn’t have.
” She shrugged. “I’ll write it sympathetically.
Intelligent man, lonely, far from home—it happens.
You’ll come out looking human, not foolish. ”
“And Gwen?”
“Ms. Bishop made her choices. She runs a business built on convincing people that magic is real. That has consequences.”
Forbes thought about Gwen in the clearing, glowing with power she’d spent her whole life believing she didn’t have.
He pictured Alan’s memories—the frozen moor, the falling brothers, two hundred and seventy years of trapped grief.
His mind went to Kinloch seeing colors around people’s hearts, and Sinclair pointing at shadows that moved wrong, and Lilith’s quiet fierce love for a man who’d died in 1746.
He considered what it would mean to betray them. To hand Jessica Platt a story that would bring scrutiny crashing down on people who’d trusted him with impossible truths.
“No,” he said.
Jessica blinked. “No?”
“No, I won’t go on record. No, I won’t denounce Gwen or her family or this community.” He pushed the folder back toward her. “And no, I don’t particularly care how that affects your article.”
“Mr. MacLeod—”
“Forbes.” His voice hardened. “My name is Forbes. And I’m going tae be very clear with ye, Ms. Platt, so there’s no misunderstanding.”
He leaned forward, holding her gaze.
“I’ve spent eight years building a career that my parents considered a disappointment and my academic colleagues considered a betrayal.
I’ve been told I sold out, that I wasted my potential, that I chose commercial success over intellectual integrity.
I’ve heard it all, and I kept writing anyway, because the stories mattered more than the opinions of people who didnae understand what I was trying tae do. ”
Her expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or reassessment.
“Gwen Bishop is the most genuine person I’ve ever met,” Forbes continued.
“She cares about history—real history, the kind that lives in families and communities, not just archives. She cares about the people who died here and the people who live here now. She’s not running a con.
She’s preserving something that matters. ”
“You can’t actually believe—”
“What I believe is none of your concern.” His voice was quiet now, but firm. “What I know is that I’m not going tae help ye tear down good people tae sell a story. If that makes me a cautionary tale, so be it. I’ve been called worse by people whose opinions I valued more.”
Jessica sat back, studying him. Something shifted in her expression—not quite doubt, but close to it. Then her jaw tightened and the mask slid back into place.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“No. I’m making a choice.” Forbes gathered his papers, tucking them into his bag. “There’s a difference.”
“Your reputation—”
“Will survive or it won’t.” He stood, looking down at her. “But I’ll know I didnae sell out the people who trusted me. That matters more.”
He left money on the table for his coffee and walked out without looking back.
The October wind hit him like a slap, cold and bracing. Somewhere down the block, a streetlight flickered and went dark.
Forbes walked without direction, letting his feet carry him through Salem’s familiar streets while his heart rate slowly settled.
He’d just torched whatever chance he had at controlling this narrative. Jessica would write her story, and he’d be in it—the foolish academic who fell for a witch and couldn’t see reason. His publisher might have questions. His agent definitely would. And his father...
Forbes almost laughed. His father would be appalled. Again. Still.
Somehow, that bothered him less than it should have.
His phone buzzed. Gwen.
Coffee later? I want to try something with the protection wards and I need moral support.
He stared at the message, thinking about everything he hadn’t told her. The folder on Jessica’s table. The choice he’d just made. The consequences that were probably already rolling toward them.
He should warn her. Should explain what was coming.
But right now, all he wanted was to see her face. To be in her presence. To remember why he’d made the choice he’d made.
On my way, he typed back. And I have something to tell you.
Her response came immediately: That sounds ominous.
Not ominous. Just... important.
A pause. Then: Okay. I’ll put the kettle on.
Forbes pocketed his phone and turned toward Bishop House, the wind at his back, the weight of his choice settling into something that felt less like sacrifice and more like freedom.
He’d been afraid of this—of caring about something enough to risk his reputation for it. Of letting someone matter more than the careful walls he’d built.
But the walls had been a prison, hadn’t they? A comfortable one, well-furnished with professional success and critical respect, but a prison nonetheless.
Gwen Bishop had picked the lock. And Forbes MacLeod was done pretending he wanted to stay inside.
Whatever came next, he’d face it with her.
That was more than enough. That was the only thing that mattered.