Mark’s voice gentled. “Okay. You asked about Ivy. Your turn now. What happened?”
Heather stared at the dark corner of her room. And then the dam broke.
Everything spilled out.
The attic.
The book.
The flag.
Culloden.
Loch Arkaig.
Her mother.
How the truth felt like a punch she never saw coming.
She spoke until her voice cracked. Until she couldn’t breathe without shaking.
Mark didn’t interrupt. Only released a soft inhale every now and then, like he was bracing himself for her.
When she finally stopped, small and hollow, he spoke.
And his voice was nothing like before.
No brightness.
No theatrics.
Just quiet heartbreak.
“Oh, Heather,” he whispered. “Honey. I’m so sorry.”
Her lip trembled, a sob threatening to break free. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”
“I’m not sorryforyou,” Mark corrected gently. “I’m sorrywithyou. That’s different. You were lied to about the most important person in your life. You found out in the cruelest possible way. And then you stood on the very shore where she died.”
A beat passed.
“That’s not something a human being just… shrugs off.”
Tears burned. She pressed her palm to her eyes.
To stop herself from sobbing, to stop him from hearing it—she blurted the next shield she could grab:
“And to make matters worse… I pulled aHeather.”
Mark sighed knowingly. “Oh no. What kind of Heather? Classic Heather? Runner Heather? Or my personal favorite, push-kindness-away-like-it’s-on-fire Heather?”
She made a strangled noise. “The… last one.”
“What did you do?”
She swallowed, shame thick in her throat. “After Dr. Henderson told me about my mom… I shoved Flynn away. I told him I was done. That I wanted to go home. I—” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t breathe, Mark.”
“And what did Flynn do?”
