Chapter 14
Heather—Present Day
T he storm had passed sometime before dawn.
Heather knew it by the hush that lingered: a fragile kind of quiet that felt like the world catching its breath.
Flynn was still asleep beside her, half-buried beneath the tangle of sheets. One arm was draped protectively around Byrdie, who’d somehow claimed his chest as a pillow, tiny paws tucked beneath her chin. The sight stopped Heather in her tracks.
The two creatures who felt most like hers in the world now sprawled across her bed, safe and warm.
She traced a fingertip over Flynn’s shoulder, the muscles shifting faintly beneath her touch.
He murmured something in his sleep, pulling Byrdie closer.
The tortoiseshell cat purred louder, the vibration curling through the quiet room.
Heather smiled, dazed and a little lightheaded from the night before—from his hands, his words, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.
She could’ve stayed like this forever.
But old habits nudged her to move. She slipped from the bed, tugging her blush robe around her shoulders, and padded downstairs as the old floorboards sighed under her bare feet.
She filled the kettle and leaned against the counter, watching gray light spill through the kitchen window. Everything felt softer this morning, the edges dulled by exhaustion and something dangerously close to peace.
And then memory slid in.
Sunlight through thin kitchen curtains in Millhaven. The scrape of a chair. Her father’s quiet breathing before she’d even spoken. She’d been eight, maybe nine.
She padded in wearing her nightgown, hair tangled from sleep.
“Daddy?”
He hadn’t heard her at first. He was sitting at the table, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His shoulders trembled once—just once—before he lifted his face to her.
He looked wrong. Not like her dad who always smelled like coffee and Irish Spring and certainty. Smaller somehow. Emptied out.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” she’d asked, her small voice wobbling.
He swallowed hard, eyes red-rimmed and raw.
“Mom’s been in an accident, sweetheart.”
That was all.
Just the kind of finality a child can’t understand but feels anyway.
Heather blinked, the kettle’s rising hiss snapping her back to the present.
Steam curled upward, ghostlike.
Her fingers tightened on the counter, heart thudding.
A car accident, he’d said. Later, when she’d asked. But now she knew better. Her mother hadn’t died on some back road in Chicago. She’d drowned in Scotland—chasing the same truth Heather was chasing now.
Did he know?
The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Maybe he’d known and lied to protect her. Or maybe he’d buried the truth because it was easier than believing Eilidh had gone chasing legends and never come home.
Either way, the old anger came quick, sharp as a match strike. For all the years he’d left her to grieve alone. For every liquor-fueled tirade that had turned her mother into a ghost before she ever knew the real story.
Heather exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
The kettle screamed softly, its whistle low and mournful. She reached for it, but her hand trembled, the melody of an old tune slipping out before she even realized she was humming.
My mother told me… someday I would buy…
The words barely carried, more breath than sound, but something about them settled deep, like a memory she hadn’t fully lived yet.
Heather caught herself halfway through the second verse, clearing her throat against the lump rising there.
“Didn’t expect to wake up to sea shanties,” a rough voice teased behind her.
She jumped, spinning toward the doorway. Flynn leaned against the frame, barefoot, shirtless, his hair a tousled mess of curls that had no right looking that good this early. Byrdie wove around his ankles, tail flicking like she’d defected to his side completely.
Heather’s heart did a traitorous flip. “You scared me,” she said, though her smile gave her away.
“Sorry, lass.” His grin was lazy, still edged with sleep. “Couldnae help it. You were singin’ about galleys and sailin’ off to who knows where before breakfast.”
She huffed a laugh, setting the kettle down before it whined itself hoarse.
Flynn padded closer, the floor creaking softly beneath his weight.
She murmured. “I used to think it was a lullaby.”
He reached out, brushing his thumb along her jaw, his touch light but steady. “Sounds more like a battle cry to me.”
The comment tugged a small, bittersweet smile from her. “You’d get along with her, I think.”
Flynn’s expression softened. “Aye, maybe I would’ve.”
They stood there for a moment, the silence comfortable for once. Heather poured the tea, passing him a mug. His fingers brushed hers, rough and warm and achingly real.
“You slept like a rock,” she said, trying for lightness.
Flynn huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, can’t say I didnae have reason to. Not every night ends like that one.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “You mean with a cat in your arms?”
“Among other things.” His grin curved slow, wicked and fond all at once. “Though Byrdie’s a fierce wee thing. Had to earn my place, ye ken.”
Heather shook her head, fighting another smile. “You really are a cat dad now.”
He took a sip of tea, still watching her over the rim. “Could be worse fates.”
Her chest warmed again, a softer ache this time. She turned toward the window, watching the way the morning light caught on the wet stone outside.
“You were thinkin’ of her again, weren’t you?” Flynn’s voice was quiet behind her.
Heather hesitated. “Always,” she admitted. “I remembered the day my dad told me. I just… I can’t stop wondering if he knew. If he knew she didn’t die in a car crash.”
Flynn set his mug down and came up behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Maybe he thought it was mercy,” he said softly. “Tellin’ a bairn she lost her mum in somethin’ quick instead of—”
“Instead of what really happened?” Her voice thinned. “Instead of her drowning alone?”
His grip tightened, steadying her. “You’re not alone,” he murmured.
Heather closed her eyes, the simple words cutting cleaner than any platitude.
When she turned to face him, his expression said it all.
He wasn’t promising to fix it. Just to stay.
Heather let out a breath and leaned into him, her forehead resting against his chest, the beat of his heart grounding her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Flynn’s chin brushed her hair. “For what?”
“For not telling me to stop feeling things.”
He huffed a soft laugh against her crown. “Wouldn’t dare. I like you fierce. Even when it hurts.”
She smiled faintly and stepped back, swiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “You want breakfast?”
“Aye,” he said with a grin. “If you promise not to burn the place down.”
Heather rolled her eyes but reached for the loaf on the counter anyway. “I can manage toast and eggs, Flynn.”
He leaned beside her, mug cradled in his hands, watching her move around the kitchen like she belonged there. Tea, rain, butter on hot bread. Sunlight pushing through the window in soft, slanted beams. For a moment, it felt almost ordinary.
When the plates hit the table, he reached across and caught her hand.
“You could stop, you know.”
She froze, glancing up. “Stop what?”
“The digging.” His voice stayed gentle, not pushing—just laying the thought between them. “You’ve been runnin’ on grief and questions since you came here. Maybe it’s time to breathe. To let yourself just… rest. A bit.”
Heather stared at him. “You think I should give up?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “your mum would want you whole before you tear yourself apart tryin’ to finish what she started.”
The words were soft, but they stung anyway. Heather dropped her gaze to her plate, appetite fading. For a long moment, the only sound was Byrdie’s soft purr by the stone kitchen hearth.
“She didn’t die for a story,” Heather said finally, voice low. “She died for the truth. If I stop now, then what was all of this for?”
Flynn’s thumb drew slow circles over her knuckles. “And what if the truth hurts worse than not knowin’?”
Her eyes lifted, fiercer now, a glint of steel through the shine of tears. “Then I’ll survive it.”
He held her gaze for a beat, then nodded once, something resembling pride softening his features. “Aye. I believe that.”
Heather swallowed, gripping his hand tighter. “We need to talk to Eleanor.”
Flynn blinked. “Eleanor? Again?”
Heather’s words tumbled faster now, the floodgate cracked open. “If anyone knows what really happened at the loch, if anyone can tell me why she was there, it’s her.”
Flynn leaned back slightly, studying her. “You really think she’ll talk?”
The kettle clicked off, the sound sharp in the hush. Byrdie rose from her place before the hearth, tail brushing against the carved stone. Morning light glinted off the faint thistles etched into every few blocks—details Heather had never noticed before, now clear as a sign.
“She has to.” Heather’s voice steadied. “Because if she doesn’t, I’m not going to stop asking.”