Chapter 23
Heather—Present Day
C laire’s text was waiting when Heather rolled toward the window and the pale Edinburgh drizzle.
Byrdie ate like a queen, then bullied the sunspot by the window.
Zero crimes committed. All’s well here. — C.
The knot in Heather’s chest loosened a notch. “Our girl’s thriving,” she murmured, thumbing a reply:
kiss her silly for me; back soon
—before swinging her legs out of bed.
Flynn was already up, barefoot at the little table with two coffees, a torn croissant, and the day’s plan spread between them like a map of mischief.
“Morning, Campbell.” His eyes traced her face, softening in that way that always made her heart do something embarrassing. “Sleep well?”
“I slept… enough,” She winked, picking up the coffee he nudged toward her. “So, we play sweet, smile pretty, and leave them a breadcrumb pointing the wrong direction.”
“Aye.” He tapped the forged note between them. “You thank Dr. Henderson ever so kindly, pretend you’ve reached your limit, and slip this wee beauty into the Blair Atholl file.”
Heather studied the slip, then uncapped a pencil and added one last arrowed annotation—something that looked exactly like Eilidh might’ve written on a tired afternoon in 2003.
She blew the graphite dust away. “Okay. Ready.”
Flynn leaned back, brow raised. “You sure? Once we do this, we’re committed to the lie.”
She shrugged into her coat. “Lying’s not hard. I’ve been doing it socially since middle school.”
Flynn snorted. “Terrifying skill set you’ve got, lass.”
They didn’t go straight to the museum.
They strolled past it—tourist casual, coffee in hand, Flynn pointing out a stone cornice he’d restored years ago, Heather snapping a photo of a Waterstones display. Anyone watching would see nothing but a couple killing time.
Then they went in.
The atrium’s light rose around her like a tide. Heather approached the desk with the exact smile she used on cashiers when pretending she’d totally remembered her PIN.
“Ms. Campbell,” Flora Henderson greeted when Heather stepped into her office. “Back so soon?”
“I just wanted to say thank you,” Heather said, warm and harmless. “For the access yesterday. I think I reached my limit—I found a lot, but it’s… well, it’s definitely more than I can handle. I should probably step back and sit with what I have. I don’t know how you do it, Ms. Henderson!”
Henderson’s eyes softened barely, just enough to reveal satisfaction. Gatekeeper pleased with her gates.
“Very sensible,” she replied in good humor. “Uncovering historical tidbits isn’t for everyone.”
Then, as if it had only just occurred to her, she added, “Though my family did name me Flora—a mantle, I suppose. To carry forward where others couldn’t!” Her eyes gleamed faintly. “Much like the MacDonald lass they wrote songs about.”
Something tight flickered in Heather’s chest.
She laughed—half a beat too late.
“Well. Big shoes…”
Henderson chuckled softly, clearly pleased. “Oh, quite.”
Heather shifted her weight. “Also, I just realized I still have the archival gloves I borrowed.” She fished them out of her hoodie pocket, sheepish. “Sorry. I’ll return them downstairs.”
Henderson waved a hand. “Erinn will let you in. And Ms. Campbell?” She paused, smile sharpening. “Do let me know if anything relevant to the gold turns up.”
“Of course,” Heather lied so sweetly angels would’ve blushed.
Turning on her heel, she felt Flora Henderson’s gaze still lingering uncomfortably as she swiftly made her way down the hall.
In the holds, the cool, filtered air wrapped around her like a warning. Erinn, the blonde, petite unit secretary, waved her through; a trolley squeaked somewhere in the distance.
Alone, Heather pulled the Blair Atholl box forward, lifted the lid, and slid the forged note into place—front of the bundle, obvious, boring, exactly the sort of thing Kerr would pounce on.
FIELD NOTE — E. CAMPBELL
Date: 12 April 2004
Location: Rannoch Moor perimeter, Bridge of Orchy approach
Subject: H.M. reference (unverified) in local oral account
Summary: Interview w/ crofter (MacN.) mentions “a Mackenzie man” hiding near the old drove road post–Prestonpans, awaiting word “from a prince’s friend” to move “south-by-west toward the Great Moor.”
Notes: Check rental lists (1746) for Orchy/Killin. Cross-ref w/ Blair Atholl household papers. E.M. to confirm archive code for “FS” alias set.
→ Follow-up: Possible rendezvous point at Rannoch—not Arkaig. Requires weather window & escort.
— EC
The false note was perfect. Eilidh’s voice without revealing anything real. A breadcrumb pointing toward Rannoch Moor, not Skye.
She shut the lid.
Done.
As she passed a glass panel on her way to the lift, she caught the faintest smudge of movement on the other side—someone hovering, pretending not to hover.
She didn’t look twice.
Henderson met her at the corridor door. “All set?”
“All set,” Heather echoed. “Thank you again.”
“Sometimes,” Henderson said, smoothing invisible dust from her sleeve, “the wisest thing is to let the past be the past.”
Heather smiled sweetly. “Sometimes.”
The atrium noise washed everything clean. She felt the prickle before she saw him—Kerr, angled by a display case, pretending to examine Victorian silverware while most definitely tracking her movement.
She lifted a bright, harmless tourist smile.
He nodded the kind of nod that meant absolutely nothing.
Perfect.
Outside, Flynn peeled off the wall where he’d been “admiring” a drainpipe.
“How’d our little pantomime go?”
“She bought it,” Heather said in relief. “And he saw me leave.”
Flynn’s mouth curved wolfishly. “Then we did it right.”
They crossed toward the Scotsman, the rain stitching the street into a soft shimmer. At the door, he caught her hand.
“Tonight, we’re visible. We eat someplace obvious. The Witchery maybe? We post something ridiculous on Instagram.”
She laughed. “My specialty.”
He kissed her temple in passing, casual and devastating as her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to check her messages.
Wee madam fell asleep on the sill chasing gulls with her eyes.
Still zero crimes. x — C.
Heather grinned. “Byrdie’s fine. Not a villain in sight.”
“Good,” Flynn said. “Means we can breathe easier knowin’ our wee menace is safe.”
They stepped into the Scotsman’s warm lobby. Heather glanced once over her shoulder toward the museum.
“Let them think I gave up,” she murmured. “Let them chase Rannoch.”
Flynn grinned, all teeth and affection. “Aye, mo chridhe. We’ll be halfway to the sea.”