Chapter 9 #2
“There wasn’t,” Henderson said, lips quirking. “Not until your discovery. The flag, the note—it gave us grounds to push for funding. Your mother would’ve been thrilled.”
Heather froze. “My… what?”
“Eilidh.” Henderson said it gently, as if the name should sit lightly. “We pulled out her research for this survey. She left extensive notes with the department after her field visits. Didn’t your father ever mention?”
Heather’s mind stuttered. “I was a kid,” she said. “She died when I was nine. Dad didn’t… talk about her work.”
Or anything.
“My dad never mentioned it,” she added thickly, the words smaller than she wanted.
Flynn’s fingers found hers. He didn’t speak, but the pressure of his hand steadied her.
Henderson’s expression softened. “A shame. She was on the brink of something remarkable. We all were. Then those… mysterious circumstances.” She gave a small, almost careless shrug, like she’d said too much. “Such a loss. For you. For the field.”
The phrase snagged. Heather’s thoughts scrambled to catch up. “Mysterious—?”
Henderson glanced toward the loch, as if remembering herself.
“Well. Accidents in this landscape never are simple, are they?” She smoothed a hand over her clipboard, mask slipping neatly back into place.
“In any case, your mother’s work laid a foundation we’re still building on. Seeing you here feels… fitting.”
Heather’s skin felt too tight. Her tongue felt thick. The questions crowded up, but none of them made it out.
On the shore, the man with the sluice box looked up again, eyes flicking from Heather to Flynn to Henderson. He said something to the man with the map; the others turned in unison.
Henderson followed Heather’s gaze. “They’re contractors,” she explained. “And a few… independent enthusiasts.” Her smile thinned. “The Jacobite gold tends to bring people out of the woodwork.”
Her attention returned to Heather, assessing, almost sharp. “Do be careful, Miss Campbell. We’d hate to lose another Campbell to the loch.”
Heather blinked. “Another?” She tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. “My mom died in a car accident. In Chicago.”
Henderson’s brows lifted, faint and polite. “Is that what Charles told you?”
The air seemed to drop out of Heather’s lungs as the blood left her face. “What?”
Henderson hesitated, then sighed—less dramatic, more academic regret.
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Your mother drowned here.
At Loch Arkaig. She was conducting field research for us.
There was an incident on the water.” Her voice stayed matter-of-fact, but her eyes softened.
“We received the call ourselves. It was… a dreadful shock.”
Heather shook her head once, then again, sharper. “No. My dad—he said…” Her throat closed around the word. “He said it was a car accident. He said—”
She broke off. The loch sat a few yards away, black and flat and suddenly unbearable.
Henderson’s voice gentled even further. “You were a child. Perhaps he thought it would be easier. But I can assure you, I was there when the news came. Eilidh was brave, brilliant. We lost more than a colleague that day.”
Her gaze swept over the trucks, the loch, the hills, then back to Heather. “Her work isn’t forgotten, you know. In many ways, you’re walking exactly where she meant to go,” the woman said, voice reverent.
The words landed like stones. Heather couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. Her ribs felt locked.
“I—” She swallowed hard. “Excuse me.”
She turned away before Henderson could answer. The bank tilted under her feet, gravel sliding. Her vision tunneled: loch to mud, mud to boots, boots to nothing.
She barely registered Flynn falling into step beside her until his hand brushed her arm. “Heather—”
“Don’t.” It came out sharper than she meant, but she couldn’t pull it back. Her voice felt wrong in her own ears. Flat. Hollow. “Just… don’t.”
She kept walking, arms wrapping tight around herself like that might hold everything in.
Here.
She drowned here.
Not in a city half a world away. Not on a road.
Her stomach rolled.
“Take me home,” she said, still staring straight ahead. “Take me to Glenoran. I’m done.”
Flynn’s hand closed around her elbow, insistent enough to make her stop. “Heather—”
“I said I’m done.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the water. “I can’t stand here and pretend this is some… fun little hunt when my mother—” Her throat snapped shut.
She swallowed, but nausea surged. “God, I’m gonna be sick.”
She pulled free and stumbled up toward the pull-off. The truck loomed through the mist. She barely made it to the bumper before her body gave up, doubling over as her breakfast came back in miserable heaves.
Flynn was there in seconds. One hand gathered her hair, the other braced warm and solid against her spine. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch when she retched again. Just stayed.
When the worst passed, she sagged against the fender, shaking. Flynn pressed a handkerchief into her hand.
“Easy,” he said quietly. “Breathe, lass.”
Heather wiped her mouth, blinking against the hot blur in her eyes. “Don’t you dare pity me,” she rasped. It came out raw, more reflex than intent.
Flynn’s gaze didn’t waver. “This isn’t pity,” he said. “It’s me. Stayin’.”
That undid something she couldn’t afford to have undone. She turned her face away, choking down the sob that pushed at her chest.
“Just take me home,” she pleaded again, smaller now. “Please, Flynn. I can’t do this right now. I can’t… think about her in that water and still stand here.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to talk her out of it. He just opened the passenger door and guided her in, tucking her coat around her like she might shatter from the cold.
The engine turned over, a low, familiar rumble. Flynn pulled them back onto the road, the loch sliding away behind them, swallowed by fog.
Heather pressed her forehead to the window. Trees slipped past in wet green smears. Her chest hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her head hurt. Thinking hurt most of all.
Flynn kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, hands steady. He didn’t reach for her this time. Didn’t fill the silence with jokes or comfort. He just drove, solid as bedrock beneath everything shifting in her.
“I’ll take ye home, mo chridhe,” he said at last, voice low and certain.
“Just drive,” Heather said, her voice barely above a whisper.
She shut her eyes, but the image wouldn’t leave her: black water, gray sky, and the thought that she’d been standing on the shore of where her mother perished without even knowing.
Her father hadn’t just lied about how Eilidh died.
He’d moved the story to another continent and expected her never to find her way back.