Heather—Present Day
Heather didn’t wait for her tea to cool. She left her mug half-full on the counter and crossed into the study, the echo of her own words still pulsing through her mind.
Because if she doesn’t, I’ll never stop asking.
The room smelled of dust and rain—old wood, old ink, old ghosts. Morning light angled through high windows, striping the floor in thin gold. Her mother’s papers were still strewn across the desk from the night before, a chaos she hadn’t yet had the heart—or stomach—to tame.
Flynn leaned in the doorway, arms crossed but not closed off. “What’re ye lookin’ for, exactly?”
“Anything,” she murmured, flipping through a stack of notebooks. “A name. An address. Something I missed.”
“You could call the university again,” he offered. “Maybe if—”
“I already tried,” she said too sharply. Then softer, “Sorry. They said she retired. No forwarding.”
Flynn lifted his palms. “Just thinkin’ out loud, lass.”
She nodded, swallowing guilt. “I’m sorry, Flynn. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
With an understanding smile, he tucked a rouge curl behind her ear as if to say she was forgiven.
She shifted a box of old photos—her parents at Glenoran, her mother laughing beside a wind-beaten dig site—and a yellowed envelope slid loose, skidding across the desk.
Her mother’s handwriting marked the front.
E.M. — Personal.
Heather froze. Opened it with careful fingers.
Inside was a letter. Neat loops, sharper pen strokes. Not her mother’s.
Eleanor McRae’s.
Eilidh,
If you’re coming north again, you know where to find me. The cottage is the same. Bring your notes on the Glenoran account—we’ll need them.
— E.M.
Cranachan Cottage, Dingwall
Heather’s breath stuttered. “She was here,” she whispered.
Flynn came closer, scanning the address. “Dingwall… that’s twenty minutes away, maybe less.”
Heather folded the letter with hands that wouldn’t stay steady. “We’re going.”
Flynn didn’t argue, just nodded once and said, “I’ll get the keys.”
She paused, fingers brushing her mother’s looping initials. Something in her chest shifted.
Not grief this time.
Resolve.
The clouds were breaking when they departed Glenoran.
Flynn’s truck rumbled along the narrow Highland road, pebbles kicking up behind them. Heather sat stiffly, fingers worrying the paper in her lap. Outside, the hills stretched wide and rinsed clean—streams overflowing, everything smelling faintly of pine and rain.
