Chapter 53
Heather—Present Day
B lue lights washed over the stone walls of Flynn’s cottage, rhythmic and impersonal.
Two police vehicles remained in the drive. Another idled at the gate. Angus stood just beyond the fence line, massive and unmoved, as if he’d decided this was no longer his concern.
Heather stood on the porch, wrapped in Flynn’s jacket, the cold finally settling into her bones now that everything else had stopped moving.
Eleanor leaned against the doorframe behind her. Silent. Watchful.
A black SUV appeared at the far bend in the lane.
It didn’t rush.
It didn’t hesitate.
It rolled forward with irritating confidence and came to a neat stop beside the cruisers.
Dr. Flora Henderson stepped out alone.
She took in the scene in a single, efficient glance—the police, the pasture, the cottage windows lit from within. Her mouth tightened, not in fear, but annoyance. Like a woman who’d arrived late to a meeting she considered beneath her.
She locked her car.
Straightened her coat.
And walked forward.
An officer intercepted her halfway up the drive.
“Dr. Henderson?”
She paused, surprised—but only briefly.
“Yes?” Her tone was polite. Measured. Academic. “I came as soon—”
“We have several individuals detained on this property who arrived in vehicles registered to your research foundation.”
Henderson’s brows lifted a fraction. “That’s impossible. My team is in Edinburgh.”
Another officer stepped closer. “Ma’am, we have your authorization on file. And recorded communication tying you to their presence here.”
Henderson exhaled slowly through her nose.
“Ah,” she said. “I see.”
Heather felt Flynn’s shoulder tense beside her, but Henderson hadn’t noticed her yet. She was already adjusting the narrative in her head—turning facts, testing angles.
“These men were conducting preliminary retrieval on my behalf,” Henderson said calmly. “No harm was intended. There’s been a misunderstanding regarding property jurisdiction.”
“Private land,” the officer replied. “With intent to burglarize.”
Henderson waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly burglary. Historical reclamation is often rife with… misunderstandings.”
Heather stepped forward then. Just one step.
Henderson’s eyes flicked up.
Locked.
Recognition bloomed, sharp and calculating.
“Oh,” Henderson said softly. “Ms. Campbell.”
Flynn moved to block her, but Heather stopped him with a touch.
“No,” she said quietly. “It’s fine.”
She descended the steps slowly, her boots crunching on gravel. She didn’t raise her voice or accuse.
She simply stood.
Henderson tilted her head, studying her like a thesis that had grown inconveniently sentient.
“I hoped you’d have more perspective by now,” Henderson said. “This,” —she gestured vaguely to the scene— “is how progress happens. History doesn’t surface gently.”
An officer interrupted. “Dr. Henderson, we also have evidence connecting you to surveillance equipment installed at Glenoran House without consent.”
Henderson blinked once, then recovered.
“Observation on a historic estate,” she corrected. “Not surveillance. An academic safeguard.”
Heather felt something settle inside her.
Clarity .
“You listened in on my life,” Heather asserted.
Henderson’s gaze didn’t waver. “I listened to momentum.”
Flynn swore under his breath.
The officer stiffened. “Ma’am, you’re admitting—”
“I’m contextualizing,” Henderson snapped, irritation finally cracking her polish. “You cannot study something of this magnitude without proximity. Eilidh understood that.”
Heather’s breath left her in a sharp, silent rush.
“You used my mother,” she said.
Henderson’s mouth tightened. “Your mother was brilliant. And reckless. She crossed lines.”
“She was protecting something,” Heather said. “You were trying to own it.”
Henderson scoffed. “Ownership is a childish word. Stewardship—”
“That’s enough,” the officer cut in.
Henderson turned, incredulous. “You’re interrupting me?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “And you are being detained.”
The word seemed to finally register.
Henderson laughed incredulously. “Detained? For scholarship?”
“For conspiracy,” another officer said. “Breaking and entering. Harassment. And obstruction in a reopened mysterious homicide investigation.”
Henderson’s gaze snapped back to Heather, sharp with betrayal.
“You don’t even understand what you’re giving up,” she hissed. “Do you know what that gold represents? What it could have funded? Proven?”
Heather held her gaze.
“I know exactly what it represents,” she said. “And it was never yours to prove.”
The officers took Henderson by the arms.
She stiffened, affronted to the end. “This is a mistake,” she said coldly. “History will correct it. It always does.”
Heather didn’t respond.
Didn’t follow her with her eyes as she was led to the cruiser.
Didn’t need the last word.
Flynn’s hand slid into hers as Eleanor exhaled behind them—long and unsteady.
“Slimy wee bitch,” she murmured.
Heather huffed a laugh.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Slimy, indeed.”
The cruiser door closed.
The lights dimmed.
And for the first time in centuries, the story was no longer hiding from anyone.
Heather turned back toward the cottage.
“Come on,” she said quietly.
“We’ve got something to return.”