“She said it herself. Her people left Edinburgh an hour ago.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Heather looked back at the empty case. The shattered glass. The absence where the saddle had been.
“This was a delay,” she whispered.
Eleanor sucked in a sharp breath. “Christ.”
Flynn was already moving, phone in his hand, fingers flying. “She didnae just follow us,” he said. “She sent them ahead. Bought herself time.”
Heather’s pulse roared. “To where?”
Flynn’s jaw clenched. “Myhouse.The coal cupboard.”
The word hit harder than any shout.
Heather spun for the door. “Flynn—Byrdie.”
His head snapped up.
The color drained from his face.
“Get to the truck,” he said, already running. “Now.”
They didn’t speak as they tore down the museum steps. No arguing. No questions. Just movement.
But then Flynn skidded to a stop.
The driver’s door was open. The passenger side, too.
Heather’s stomach dropped.
“What—”
He was already moving, yanking open the glove box.
Empty.
He stared at it for a half-second too long, then slammed it closed.
Heather felt the realization settle like a pit in her stomach.
“They’ve been tracking us,” she said.
Flynn nodded once. “Fuckinghell.”
No more words.
Flynn slammed the driver’s door shut and brought the engine roaring to life before Eleanor had even buckled.
Heather clutched the handle as the tires fishtailed on wet gravel.
“How long?” Eleanor demanded.
Flynn’s eyes flicked to the road, calculating. “Three and a half hours. If we dinnae get stuck behind caravans and lorries.”
Heather’s chest tightened. “And Henderson’s people?”
