Chapter 3
ELIZA
Iwake to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and spend several disorienting seconds trying to remember where I am. Then it all comes rushing back: the island, the house, Aunt Maureen's letter with its ominous warning.
If you're reading this, then I'm dead, and you're in terrible danger.
I sit up, reaching automatically for my phone on the nightstand. Still no signal. The isolation of Clifftop House feels more pronounced in daylight than it did during last night's storm. Outside the window, the sea stretches gray and restless beneath a cloudy sky.
My camera sits on the dresser where I left it last night.
I'm supposed to be writing an article about remote Scottish islands—atmospheric pieces about weather-beaten landscapes and tight-knit communities.
That was the assignment I gave myself when I left London, needing distance from James and the career he stole out from under me.
But now I'm sitting on a bigger story. An aunt who died under suspicious circumstances, warnings about danger, and journals hidden throughout the house like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale.
I'm already piecing together angles, potential narratives, ways to investigate without raising too many alarm bells.
First, though, I need coffee and information. And according to the village layout I studied on the ferry, Flynn's Inn is the heart of Stormhaven's social life.
I shower in the ancient bathroom, dress in jeans, boots, and a burgundy henley that's warm without being too heavy.
As I'm grabbing my camera and leather satchel, I catch sight of Maureen's letter on the nightstand.
The final warning echoes in my mind: Don't go near the tide pools at Raven's Point after dark.
Right. Because that's not cryptic and concerning at all.
The walk into the village takes about twenty minutes along a narrow road that hugs the coastline.
The morning air is crisp and smells of salt and seaweed, and despite everything, I find myself appreciating the stark beauty of the landscape.
Steep cliffs plunge into churning water below, and in the distance I can see the distinctive rock formations that probably gave Raven's Point its name.
I pause several times to photograph the scenery—the way the light catches on wet stone, an abandoned fishing boat listing in the harbor, the cluster of cottages that make up the village proper.
Good atmospheric shots that will work for the article I'm supposed to be writing, even if my mind keeps circling back to bigger questions.
Like why my aunt thought I was in danger.
Like what happened to her on these cliffs.
The village is quiet this early, though I spot a few locals eyeing me with the frank curiosity Gerry warned me about.
An elderly woman sweeping her front step pauses to stare.
A man working on a fishing net by the harbor does the same.
I'm used to being anonymous in London crowds; here, I stand out like a red flag.
Flynn's Inn sits on the main street, a three-story stone building with window boxes full of hearty autumn flowers and a hand-painted sign swinging in the breeze.
The front door is propped open despite the chill, and I can smell coffee and something baking that makes my stomach remind me I skipped dinner last night.
The interior is exactly what I expected—exposed stone walls, dark wood beams, a massive fireplace already lit against the morning cold. A handful of early risers occupy tables scattered throughout the dining room, their conversations dropping to curious silence when I enter.
"You must be Miss Warren." The voice comes from behind the bar—a woman in her early thirties with striking red hair pulled into a practical braid and green eyes that seem to see more than they should. "Maureen's niece. I'm Moira Flynn. Welcome to my inn."
There's a weight in the way she says Maureen's name—not quite sadness, not quite wariness, but something in between. I cross to the bar, very aware of the eyes tracking my movement.
"Just Eliza, please. And yes, I'm Maureen's niece." I set my camera bag on a stool. "I'm told your inn is the place to be for breakfast and local information."
Moira's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Both are true enough. Coffee?"
"God, yes."
She pours from a pot that smells like heaven and slides the mug across to me. "I was sorry about your aunt. She was... special. We'll all miss her."
"Did you know her well?"
"As well as anyone did, I suppose. She kept to herself mostly, but she'd come in for tea sometimes. We'd talk." Moira's expression is carefully neutral, but I catch knowledge flickering beneath—secrets she's choosing not to share. "She mentioned you a few times. Said you were a journalist."
"I am. Though right now I'm just here to handle her estate." I sip the coffee, which is exactly as strong as I need it. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask." Moira's smile is wry. "Whether I answer is another matter."
"My aunt's death. The official story is she fell from the cliffs during a storm. But was there..." I pause, trying to find the right words. "Did anything seem strange about it to you?"
The silence that follows is weighted. Several of the other diners have stopped pretending not to listen. Moira studies me with those unsettling green eyes, and I have the distinct impression she's measuring something about me.
"Strange things happen on this island," she says finally.
"Always have. Your aunt knew that better than most." She leans closer, lowering her voice.
"My advice? Don't ask too many questions.
Don't go looking for answers you're not ready to find.
And for god's sake, stay away from Raven's Point after sunset. "
It's almost exactly what Maureen's letter said, and the repetition sends a chill down my spine. "Why? What's at Raven's Point?"
"Nothing good." Moira straightens, her innkeeper's smile returning like a mask sliding into place. "Now, what can I get you for breakfast? The full Scottish is popular, or if you prefer lighter fare..."
She's done talking, and I recognize the wall when I hit it. I'm ordering scrambled eggs and toast when the door opens behind me, letting in a gust of cool air and the scent of morning rain.
I glance back.
And my breath catches.
The man standing in the doorway is tall—well over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill out a dark wool coat.
His hair is dark and slightly too long, falling across a face that's all sharp angles and rough edges.
But it's his eyes that pin me in place. Storm-grey and intense, they sweep the room in one assessing glance before landing on me.
The impact is physical. Immediate. Overwhelming.
I've interviewed war criminals and corrupt politicians without flinching. I've maintained my composure in situations that would make most people panic. But this man—this stranger—looks at me and I forget how to think straight.
"Declan." Moira's voice breaks whatever spell just slammed into me. "You're early."
"Couldn't sleep." His voice is low and rough, with the soft burr of a Scottish accent that sends heat through me I don't want to acknowledge. He's still looking at me, and I realize with mortification that I'm staring at him like I've never seen a man before.
Pull yourself together.
"You must be Eliza Warren." He crosses the room in three long strides, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can smell him—something woodsy and clean with an undertone that makes me think of storms and wild places.
"I'm Declan MacRae. I live on the island.
Moira mentioned Maureen's niece had arrived. "
He offers his hand. I take it.
The moment our skin touches, electricity arcs between us—not metaphorical, but actual visible sparks that make me gasp and jerk back. We both stare at our hands, then at each other.
"Static electricity," Declan says, but his voice is rough, and those storm-grey eyes have darkened to near-black. "The wool coat and dry air."
It's a reasonable explanation. It's also nonsense, because the air here is anything but dry, and I've never experienced static shock that felt like touching a live wire.
"Right," I manage. "Static. Of course."
Moira is watching us with an expression I can't read. Several of the other diners have gone very still, their attention focused on Declan and me with an intensity that feels wrong.
"I should..." I grab my coffee cup, needing something to do with my hands. "My breakfast is probably ready."
"Let me help you." Declan reaches for my camera bag before I can stop him.
"I can carry my own bags," I say, but he's already lifting it with one hand like it weighs nothing, his other hand hovering near my elbow in a gesture that's somehow both protective and possessive.
"I know you can." His voice drops lower, and there's something in his eyes—hunger, maybe, or recognition. "But I want to."
It's the strangest interaction I've ever had with a stranger. Every instinct screams that I should step back, maintain distance, not follow this man anywhere. But my body seems to have other ideas, pulled toward him despite every warning bell in my head.
Moira sets a plate on the bar—my breakfast, though I've suddenly lost my appetite.
"Room three upstairs is private if you two want to talk," she says, and there's a pointed edge to the way she emphasizes "private.
" Her eyes flick meaningfully to the other diners, who are watching our interaction with undisguised interest.
Right. Small town, big gossip. Though why I need privacy to talk to a stranger is beyond me.
Declan nods once, sharply, and gestures toward the stairs. "This way."
"I'm not staying here," I point out, even as I pick up my plate. "I have a house."
"I know." His hand hovers near my elbow again. "But you might want breakfast somewhere without an audience."