“She slipped,” he snapped. “She lost her footing.”
“You grabbed her,” Heather grated out as her heart sunk.
“I tried to save the notes.”
“Yougrabbedher.”
His jaw tightened.
“She wouldn’t let go,” he said. “She dragged me in.”
“And you surfaced… she didn’t,” Heather whispered.
Silence.
Flynn moved. Heather caught his sleeve without looking.
Kerr leaned forward, eyes bright now. Almost fevered.
“She wouldn’t let go,” he repeated. “So I held her under.”
The words hit the room like a dropped blade. All the air rushed from her lungs in a pained gasp. The world spun, zeroing in on him, on his words, on her mother.
“You drowned her,” Heather hissed.
Kerr shrugged, correcting a technicality. “No time for heroics. We staged it. The car. The story.” His mouth twisted. “People prefer accidents. They sleep better.”
The slap landed before Kerr finished blinking.
The sound cracked through the room.
Heather stood there breathing hard, her hand stinging, her voice steady as stone.
“You killed my mother,” she sneered. “and you came back to take what she died protecting.”
Kerr wiped blood from his lip with a scowl, “You think you’re stopping anything? This is bigger than you. Bigger than me. The museum. The money. The gold—it’s restitution.”
Heather laughed once. No humor in it.
“You’re not historians,” she said. “You’re grave robbers with credentials.”
For the first time, Kerr’s smile faltered.
“You don’t have it,” he said. “If you did, you’d already be bargaining.”
Heather met his gaze.
“You weren’t thorough enough,” she said. “You left things behind.”
Hatred flared hot and naked in his eyes.
Flynn growled as he grabbed the intruder by his collar. “That’s enough.”
Police sirens cut through the rain—close now.
Heather turned from Kerr and placed her palm against the hearthstone. Beneath soot and centuries, the faint thistle carving caught the firelight.
“If the thistle endures,” she whispered, “follow it home.”
