She straightens slowly, key cool and solid in her palm, and fits it into the bottom-right drawer.The lock turns with a soft, reluctant click.
Inside is order.
Not the chaotic sprawl she half expected, but careful, almost meticulous organization.Folders labeled in Keir MacLaren’s handwriting.Personal correspondence set apart from business.A battered leather notebook with a strap worn soft from use, the edges darkened by years of handling.
And beneath it all?—
A photograph.
Isla’s breath leaves her in a rush she can’t stop.
She lifts it slowly, as if the image might vanish if she moves too fast.
It’s her.
Alone.
Six, maybe seven.Sitting on the steps of her mother’s old house, knees pulled to her chest, hair tangled and wild, eyes bright but guarded in a way that twists something deep in Isla’s chest.There’s a scrape on her elbow.
She remembers that fall.She’d been chasing the neighbor’s dog and tripped on the cracked concrete, furious more at herself than the pain.Her mother was angry that she’d risked an injury to her wrist.
Her mother had taken that picture.
Isla knows it instantly.
Her fingers tremble.
“Where did he get this?”she whispers.
A guitar string vibrates softly behind her.
Not loud.Not dramatic.
Just a quiet, deliberate sound that slides into the room like a breath.
Isla doesn’t turn right away.She doesn’t need to.The presence settles around her, solid and unmistakable.
Callum.
“You move quietly for someone carrying an instrument,” she says.
“You move loudly for someone trying not to be found,” he replies.
She turns.
He stands just inside the door, guitar slung over his shoulder, posture easy in a way that immediately puts her on edge.He isn’t here to confront her.He isn’t here to stop her.
That somehow feels worse.
“I didn’t ask for help,” Isla says.
“No,” Callum agrees.“You didn’t.”
He closes the door behind him without ceremony and leans the guitar case against the wall.The movement is casual, practiced.He’s done this before, in rooms like this, with people who didn’t know what they were about to hear.
“Why are you here?”she asks.
He shrugs.“You weren’t playing.”
