Chapter 49
Heather—Present Day
F lora Henderson was gone.
Not in a rush.
Not scrambling, but gone in the way people leave when they were never meant to stay.
Heather stood frozen in the middle of the museum room, the echo of boots and shattering glass still ringing in her ears. The display case lay in ruins at her feet, its contents ripped away so cleanly it was almost surgical.
Flynn reached the doorway first.
Outside, gravel spat beneath tires.
Three black museum SUVs tore away from the croft in formation, engines snarling as they cut down the narrow road and vanished into the Skye mist.
Not toward the bridge.
Away from it.
Flynn went very still.
“That’s not right,” he said quietly.
Eleanor staggered up beside him, breath ragged. “What’s not right?”
Flynn didn’t answer her. His gaze followed the empty road like he was watching something already gone too far to stop.
“They’re in no rush headin’ off-island,” he said.
Heather’s stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?”
He turned to her then, and the look on his face stripped the last bit of hope from her chest.
“She said it herself. Her people left Edinburgh an hour ago.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Heather looked back at the empty case. The shattered glass. The absence where the saddle had been.
“This was a delay,” she whispered.
Eleanor sucked in a sharp breath. “Christ.”
Flynn was already moving, phone in his hand, fingers flying. “She didnae just follow us,” he said. “She sent them ahead. Bought herself time.”
Heather’s pulse roared. “To where?”
Flynn’s jaw clenched. “ My house . The coal cupboard.”
The word hit harder than any shout.
Heather spun for the door. “Flynn—Byrdie.”
His head snapped up.
The color drained from his face.
“Get to the truck,” he said, already running. “Now.”
They didn’t speak as they tore down the museum steps. No arguing. No questions. Just movement.
But then Flynn skidded to a stop.
The driver’s door was open. The passenger side, too.
Heather’s stomach dropped.
“What—”
He was already moving, yanking open the glove box.
Empty.
He stared at it for a half-second too long, then slammed it closed.
Heather felt the realization settle like a pit in her stomach.
“They’ve been tracking us,” she said.
Flynn nodded once. “ Fucking hell.”
No more words.
Flynn slammed the driver’s door shut and brought the engine roaring to life before Eleanor had even buckled.
Heather clutched the handle as the tires fishtailed on wet gravel.
“How long?” Eleanor demanded.
Flynn’s eyes flicked to the road, calculating. “Three and a half hours. If we dinnae get stuck behind caravans and lorries.”
Heather’s chest tightened. “And Henderson’s people?”
“They’ve got an hour head start.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Skye blurred past the windows—heather and rock and sea cliffs falling away beneath a sky that looked far too calm for what was happening.
Heather pressed her forehead to the glass.
This was her fault.
She had brought Henderson closer. Trusted her. Let her circle Glenoran like a god-damned Great White shark.
All those careful questions. The interest that felt flattering. The way Henderson had lingered near the artifacts at the museum.
It hadn’t been curiosity.
It had been hunger.
Flynn’s voice cut through her spiral. “We call the police once we’re off the island,” he said. “Break-in. Armed men. No names yet.”
Eleanor nodded grimly. “I’ll handle that.”
Heather swallowed. “And if they’ve already been inside?”
Flynn didn’t look at her. “Then we deal with what’s left.”
The Skye Bridge loomed ahead—steel and concrete and the slow, merciless promise of distance.
Heather watched the island fall away behind them.