Chapter 31
Heather—Present Day
T he ferry’s deck rattled beneath their boots, gulls wheeling overhead in lazy arcs. Flynn leaned on the rail beside her, coffee steaming faintly in the cold, the other hand tucked into his jacket pocket.
“Look at us,” he mused. “A couple of happy tourists headin’ home after a wee island holiday. Henderson’d be thrilled tae know we’re so harmless.”
Heather smiled into her scarf. “Harmless is our new brand. Maybe we’ll start a blog. Two idiots who definitely aren’t hiding eighteenth-century secrets.”
He laughed, low and warm. “First post: How tae blend in while bein’ extraordinarily suspicious.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’d ruin it. You can’t whisper to save your life.”
“Whisperin’s for liars,” he said easily. “I’m just convincing.”
The ferry horn bellowed, and they both flinched before breaking into matching grins. For a moment, it all felt real—the ordinary world, the harmless lie they were wearing like borrowed coats.
By the time they reached the mainland, the clouds had thickened to slate. Flynn’s truck hummed along wet roads, the wipers keeping a steady rhythm. Heather rested her boots on the dash, her mother’s journal balanced on her knees, its familiar weight grounding her.
“We did it,” she murmured. “We fooled them.”
“Aye,” Flynn said. “For now. Kerr’s probably already filed his report sayin’ we’re domestic, dull, and entirely uninteresting.”
“Domestic,” she echoed, glancing at him. “I like being domestic with you.”
He smiled. “I love you.” Then, after a beat, “Even though you snore like a Highland coo with a sinus infection.”
“I do not,” she protested, hurling a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed without taking his eyes off the road.
The radio crackled with an old country song and somehow it made the drive feel slower. Safer.
When the Highlands rose around them again—wet, green, achingly familiar—Heather’s chest loosened. Glenoran waited somewhere ahead, the place that had started all of this.
“Almost home,” she said, softer than she meant to.
Flynn reached over, lacing his fingers briefly through hers. “Aye, mo chridhe. Almost.”
Dusk had folded into night by the time they turned off the main road and followed the long gravel lane toward Glenoran. The last of the light clung to the horizon like a promise that wouldn’t quite keep.
Heather wiped condensation from the window. The house loomed ahead, dark and still, the porch light unlit. Unease threaded through her before she could name it.
Flynn downshifted. “Did you not leave the porch the light on?”
“I guess not…” Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. “And the door…”
The front door stood ajar. Just enough to catch the wind.
Flynn’s hand slid from the gearshift to her knee. “Stay here.”
Her blood ran cold. “Flynn—”
He was already out of the truck, the door slamming far too loud in the quiet. Heather watched him move up the steps before he disappeared into the dark.
The headlights carved the drive in pale gold.
Nothing moved.
She held her breath.
Flynn’s shadow crossed the window once—then didn’t return.
Heather’s fingers closed around her phone in a vice grip. The screen lit her lap too brightly. 999 hovered beneath her thumb. She waited, counting the space between heartbeats.
Something shifted outside.
A shape where there hadn’t been one before.
The passenger door jerked open.
Cold air rushed in. A hand fisted in her hair, hauling her out before she could scream. She hit the gravel hard, palms scraping, the world tilting violently.
“Where is it?” a man hissed.
He was on her in a heartbeat—solid, heavy, smelling of rain and metal. His grip twisted her wrist until pain flared white-hot.
“The journal,” he snarled. “Give me her notes.”
Heather gasped, kicking and clawing. “Let go!”
“What else did you find?” His voice dropped, tight with fury. “What did she leave behind?”
Lightning split the sky, illuminating his face in sharp relief: pale eyes, a familiar scar at the jaw, rain plastering dark hair to his forehead.
“David,” she breathed.
He struck her, quick and open-handed. Stars burst behind her eyes as she fell back onto the gravel, air torn from her lungs.
“I’ll ask again,” he said, crouching over her. “Where are the fucking notes?”
A roar tore through the rain.
“Get off her!”
Flynn hit Kerr like a storm breaking over the ridge, the two of them crashing into the mud near the gate. Heather scrambled backward, heart slamming, rain soaking her coat as fists flew and bodies collided.
“Flynn!” she cried. “Stop—he’s done!”
Flynn froze.
Rain streaked his face. Blood darkened his knuckles. Kerr sagged beneath him, half-conscious and groaning.
Heather staggered closer, ribs aching. “Flynn…”
He turned to her, eyes bright and feral. “He touched you?”
She nodded, shaking. “He wanted my mom’s journal.”
Flynn looked down at Kerr, jaw tightening. “Then we were right. He’s been followin’ us.”
Somewhere inside the house, a door creaked open.
Flynn straightened. “Get in the truck. Lock the doors, and go back to my cottage.”
“What about—”
“Go.”
The command cut clean and sharp.
She obeyed, slamming the door, locking it, hands shaking too badly to start the engine at first. Through the windshield, she watched Flynn crouch, checking Kerr’s breath.
A light flicked on inside the house.
Flynn lifted his head. Looked at the doorway. Then at her.
Through rain-blurred glass, he mouthed one word.
Go.
Her hand closed around the key.
The engine roared to life.
But she couldn’t leave him.
She opened the door.
The storm swallowed her scream.