But I still have to track her down. I mean, sheismy mother. I need to find her before she gets into real trouble. Or bankrupts Poppa.
“So,” I say, scanning the receptionist’s name tag, “Annie. What do you think I should do? I have to find her.” On a hunch, I add, “We’re running out of money.”
That sure gets her attention.
She starts ranting at me—something about a damaged room, an unpaid bar tab—but I’ve stopped listening. A strange click, followed by an eerie moan, echoes around me. There’s a moment’s whirring. Then—bells.
My breath catches. I turn. A hulking grandfather clock looms in the corner, carved from wood so dark it’s nearly black.
Bong.The sound is slow, deep, rolling through the inn like the groan of some slumbering beast.
I gaze at the clock’s ancient face. It’s mottled yellow-brown, the Roman numerals faded but legible. A small dial in the center tracks the sun and moon. Four o’clock. Not quite day. Not quite night. The sun, poised to sink, grins at me. A broad, toothy leer, like a cartoon villain about to twirl his mustache.
Bong.The second toll thrums in my ribs. Something about this moment feels wrong. Familiar, but wrong.
Bong.A strange, bewildering grief wells up, sudden and unshakable.
Bong.The last chime stretches long, lazily fading into silence. The hour hand clicks into place with a decisivesnick.
Annie’s voice yanksme back. “Hae you got it?”
I blink hard, shaking my head as I force myself to look away from the clock. “Sorry, yeah. I’ll pay for her room. Or whatever.”
I just need to hold it together a little longer. I’ve been running on anxiety, adrenaline, and Diet Coke, and I’m beyond exhausted. I shake out my ice-cold hands, then scoop up my bag. “I’d like one, too. A room, I mean. Please.”
Annie narrows her eyes. Mascara clumps her lashes into thick, blue-black spikes. “You’ll need to pay for both.”
“Yeah, of course.”
I swing my backpack around, dig for my wallet, and hand her my debit card. I’m genuinely astounded when it works.
Thank you, Poppa.
He must’ve put money in my account. Even though we don’t have a penny to spare, he always looks out for me.
I take my key and head down a dark-paneled hallway, the air instantly growing cooler. Shadows press close as I climb the narrow staircase. Every step groans, ancient floorboards creaking beneath my weight. By the time I enter my room, dread sits heavy on my shoulders.
I lock my door. Jiggle the handle. Check it again.
Just in case.
The decor doesn’t exactly put me at ease. It’s like a Scottish tourist shop exploded, vomiting plaid everywhere. Red plaid carpet, blue plaid blankets, yellow-and-brown plaid curtains. The room is small, musty. But I guess it’s clean enough. And yet…there’s a sensation I can’t quite place.
Like something is watching me.
Listening.
I shake it off. I’m being ridiculous.
It’s my mother’s fault. Or rather, the song she used tosing me. I haven’t thought about it in years, but ever since I saw signs for Loch Lomond, it’s been looping in my head. “O ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye, but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond…”
The tiny me had adored it. A story of true love, like a prince and princess in a fairy tale. Until the day Janet announced its true meaning.
She was good at that. Ruining things.
“It was sung by a prisoner,” she said. Even now, I remember her voice—low, strangely gleeful. The way it scared me.
“Captured by his enemies, he was. The lad knew he was to die in the morning. So he sang a song to his love.” Janet leaned in close, watching me. “He’d take the low road. And only then could he meet her again.”
