Flynn’s expression softened, but his eyes were shadowed. “It’s mighty sore, but I’ll be alright.”
Heather sighed, trying and failing to push away the guilt she felt.
Patting her knee, he changed the subject. “The police called early. Kerr and his pal are both in custody in Inverness. You’ll need to give another statement later today.”
“Right.” Heather set her mug aside, the familiar dread settling back in. “Did they say anything else?”
“Only that Henderson’s already reached out to ‘express her shock and concern.’ ” His voice hardened around the words. “Apparently, she ‘had no idea David had gone rogue.’ ”
Heather snorted. “Of course she didn’t. That woman could script a scandal out of a massacre.”
Flynn’s brow furrowed. “You think she’s coverin’ her arse?”
“I think she’s been doing that for years,” Heather said. “And now she’s pretending she didn’t know her own second-in-command was hunting my mother before he came for me.”
He studied her for a long moment. “So what do we do?”
She pulled the quilt tighter, staring out the window. Rain streaked the glass, the world outside gray and quiet. “We go to Inverness. Tell them everything—about Eilidh, the hymn, the journal. Let them think we’ve given them all we have.”
Flynn’s voice dropped, cautious. “And what do we really do?”
She turned back to him, eyes steady now. “We finish what she started.”
Flynn exhaled, slow and certain. “Aye. Then we’ll start with what’s left of the ‘map.’”
Heather’s gaze drifted to the satchel near the bed, Eilidh’s journal was still inside, wrapped in a scarf. The edges of the old leather peeked through, worn and familiar. Outside, the rain eased to a mist.
The world looked clean again, but Heather knew better.
By the time they reached Inverness, the rain had cleared, but the weight in Heather’s chest hadn’t. Every mile closer to the city felt like stepping back into a lie.
The police station smelled of paper and stale coffee. Heather’s second statement sat open in front of her, the words swimming. Assault. Confession. Attempted murder. They didn’t sound like her life, but they were.
Across the desk, Dr. Henderson looked immaculate—hair pinned, voice smooth, sympathy polished to a mirror’s shine. Her pen tapped once against the folder before she smiled.
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Ms. Campbell. Mr. Kerr’s actions were… unforeseeable. The museum will, of course, cooperate fully.”
Heather met her gaze and saw the lie glittering just behind the pity.
“I’m sure you will.”
Flynn’s hand brushed the small of her back. He signed the last page, closed the folder, and murmured, “I think we’re done here.”
They stepped into thin Highland sunlight and he opened the truck door for her, the gesture rough and protective.
“We’ll go back to mine again,” he said. “Need quiet. No mess to clean up yet. And you need more rest.”
“So do you.” She added, sucking her teeth at the bruising peeking from beneath his shirt collar.
The road wound North through damp hills. Heather’s head thudded dully against the window, her reflection ghost-pale in the glass. For a while, they didn’t speak.
Then, rounding a bend, Flynn slowed and pointed toward a fenced field where a massive Highland cow stood knee-deep in buttercups, ginger hair tangled over its eyes, horns like polished driftwood.
“He looks… familiar.”
“That’s Angus,” Flynn said. “Mean look, heart of gold—gentle enough—so long as ye belong. But he doesnae suffer strangers lightly.”
Heather blinked. “You’re kidding. The guy who stared me down last year in the rain?”
