“I heard someone broke in,” she said breathlessly. “The attack—God, Heather, why didn’t you call me?”
“I… there wasn’t time. We’re okay.” Heather stepped back to let her in. “Come inside.”
The warmth of the house seemed to collapse around the three of them. Eleanor set down her bag, eyes scanning the disarray: the scattered papers, the mud, the faint scent of coffee.
“I brought supplies. Thought I could help clean up,” she remarked.
Flynn nodded gratefully. “Appreciated. Police just cleared the place yesterday.”
Eleanor took in their faces, noting the bruises, exhaustion, the edge that hadn’t dulled yet.
“Sit, Heather.” Flynn said, setting plates on the table with a clatter that felt comfortingly ordinary. “Doctor’s orders.”
The smell of bacon and buttered baps filled the kitchen, rich and grounding. Heather hadn’t realized how empty she was until she took the first bite; salt and smoke and warmth chased away the cold that had settled in her chest with a fierceness.
Eleanor wrapped her hands around her mug, eyes softening as she watched them. “You lot are ridiculous,” she said, but her voice carried more fondness than scolding. “Saving each other one minute, feeding each other the next.”
“Breakfast fixes what ails ye,” Flynn said around a mouthful. “Old Scottish proverb.”
Eleanor snorted. “That’s not an actual proverb.”
“Should be,” he said, giving an unapologetic shrug.
For a brief, fragile stretch of time, the house felt almost normal—three people sharing food, the hum of the kettle in the background, the wind brushing at the windows. Heather caught Flynn’s eye over her mug, and something akin to peace flickered between them.
When the plates were empty and the warmth began to fade, Eleanor pushed back her chair.
“All right,” she said briskly. “Now that we’re fed and fortified, let’s see what kind of chaos we’re dealing with.” She looked at them both expectantly.
They worked in quiet companionship—picking up books, righting chairs, sweeping the stone floor. Eleanor insisted on scrubbing the blood from near the door herself. “Closure,” she said when Heather protested.
When the worst of the mess was gone, they collapsed at the kitchen table. Eleanor poured everyone hot cocoa from her thermos.
Heather told her everything.
Kerr’s break-in. The fight. His confession.
When she spoke Eilidh’s name, Eleanor’s hands trembled around the cup.
“He said… he drowned her?” she whispered in horror.
Heather nodded grimly. “Because she found something he wanted.”
Eleanor sat very still, clearing her throat. “That bastard.” she hissed. Then, quieter: “And Flora Henderson—?”
“Claims she knew nothing.” Flynn’s tone was flat.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Flora always knows more than she says. She called me this morning, actually. Wanted me to ‘check on you.’ Haven’t heard from her in years. Asked if you’d recovered any items of historical significance from the property.”
Heather froze. “She knows.”
Eleanor met her eyes. “Then whatever you found, you keep it hidden. Kerr must’ve gotten word to her before you came home.”
Flynn crossed his arms, jaw set. “He’d have called or texted before we got home. She’ll have people watchin’ us already.” he grated out.
Heather’s pulse thudded. She glanced toward the library door, where sunlight spilled across the floorboards in living tendrils. “We found something last night. Under the old floor. Fiona’s box.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Fiona Mackenzie? From Eilidh’s research?”
