By the time Heather washed her mug, secured each latch on the windows, and texted Flynn a simple:
Morning, love. Heading to Edinburgh. Will text when I’m there xx
—the sky had settled into its familiar Highland gray. The kind that didn’t look gloomy so much as honest.
She locked the door, slid the brass key into her pocket, and carried Byrdie down the steps. She told herself not to check the gate again.
But of course she did.
The tracks were still there, faint yet undeniable.
The inn smelled like butter and wood polish and the steady comfort of someplace that refused to rush. Ivy climbed thewhitewashed stone. Smoke curled from the chimney as naturally as breath.
“Look what the mist blew in,” Claire MacKinney said with a grin from behind the counter. “And you’ve brought our favorite guest. Come here, Your Grace.”
Byrdie mewed imperiously from her carrier.
“Couple nights, like I said on the phone.” Heather said wryly. “I’ve got to be in Edinburgh. Thanks again for watching my girl.”
Claire’s eyebrows lifted—not nosy, just perceptive. “Chasing answers again?”
She shrugged. “Trying to.”
Claire crouched to release Byrdie. “Well, we’ll spoil her rotten. You go do what you need.”
Heather hesitated. “If anyone asks—”
“Who would be asking?” Claire cut her off, though her tone softened. “You all right, love?”
Heather nodded once. “Just being careful.”
“Good. Edinburgh’s a fine place to be careful and clever.”
Outside, Heather paused beside her car. The inn sign creaked lightly. The hills breathed around her.
She drove South.
Miles unwound beneath her, rain slicked and steady. The Highlands softened into lowlands; traffic thickened like morning fog.
Her phone buzzed near Perth.
Flynn:
Running late, Campbell. Crew found rot in a beam. I’ll meet you at the museum as soon as I can. Promise.
She typed back:
Don’t rush. I’m fine. See you there.
A small heart blinked beside the message before she could overthink it.
Edinburgh rose in confident layers—castle, spires, and tight passageways. She loved it differently today: not as a wanderer, but as someone on a mission.
She parked near Chambers Street. The museum swathed her in its bright, echoing atrium. Children’s laughter bounced off marble. A docent recited dates with ritual precision. Through a gallery she glimpsed the tartan display—the one that had first pulled the thread of everything she now carried.
At reception, she asked for Dr. Flora Henderson.
“Of course,” the woman said. “She can see you just now.”
