Her attention returned to Heather, assessing, almost sharp. “Do be careful, Miss Campbell. We’d hate to lose another Campbell to the loch.”
Heather blinked. “Another?” She tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. “My mom died in a car accident. In Chicago.”
Henderson’s brows lifted, faint and polite. “Is that what Charles told you?”
The air seemed to drop out of Heather’s lungs as the blood left her face. “What?”
Henderson hesitated, then sighed—less dramatic, more academic regret. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Your mother drowned here. At Loch Arkaig. She was conducting field research for us. There was an incident on the water.” Her voice stayed matter-of-fact, but her eyes softened. “We received the call ourselves. It was… a dreadful shock.”
Heather shook her head once, then again, sharper. “No. My dad—he said…” Her throat closed around the word. “He said it was a car accident. He said—”
She broke off. The loch sat a few yards away, black and flat and suddenly unbearable.
Henderson’s voice gentled even further. “You were a child. Perhaps he thought it would be easier. But I can assure you, I was there when the news came. Eilidh was brave, brilliant. We lost more than a colleague that day.”
Her gaze swept over the trucks, the loch, the hills, then back to Heather. “Her work isn’t forgotten, you know. In many ways, you’re walking exactly where she meant to go,” the woman said, voice reverent.
The words landed like stones. Heather couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. Her ribs felt locked.
“I—” She swallowed hard. “Excuse me.”
She turned away before Henderson could answer. The bank tilted under her feet, gravel sliding. Her vision tunneled: loch to mud, mud to boots, boots to nothing.
She barely registered Flynn falling into step beside her until his hand brushed her arm. “Heather—”
“Don’t.” It came out sharper than she meant, but she couldn’t pull it back. Her voice felt wrong in her own ears. Flat. Hollow. “Just… don’t.”
She kept walking, arms wrapping tight around herself like that might hold everything in.
Here.
She drowned here.
Not in a city half a world away. Not on a road.
Her stomach rolled.
“Take me home,” she said, still staring straight ahead. “Take me to Glenoran. I’m done.”
Flynn’s hand closed around her elbow, insistent enough to make her stop. “Heather—”
“I said I’m done.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the water. “I can’t stand here and pretend this is some… fun little hunt when my mother—” Her throat snapped shut.
She swallowed, but nausea surged. “God, I’m gonna be sick.”
She pulled free and stumbled up toward the pull-off. The truck loomed through the mist. She barely made it to the bumper before her body gave up, doubling over as her breakfast came back in miserable heaves.
Flynn was there in seconds. One hand gathered her hair, the other braced warm and solid against her spine. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch when she retched again. Just stayed.
When the worst passed, she sagged against the fender, shaking. Flynn pressed a handkerchief into her hand.
“Easy,” he said quietly. “Breathe, lass.”
Heather wiped her mouth, blinking against the hot blur in her eyes. “Don’t you dare pity me,” she rasped. It came out raw, more reflex than intent.
Flynn’s gaze didn’t waver. “This isn’t pity,” he said. “It’s me. Stayin’.”
That undid something she couldn’t afford to have undone. She turned her face away, choking down the sob that pushed at her chest.
