The corridor was quiet, carpeted and bright. Photographs of dig sites lined the walls, displaying ancient soil, ancient bones, and skies that never quite cleared.
The receptionist knocked on a door. “Ms. Campbell.”
“Ah,” came the familiar voice. “Ms. Campbell.”
Henderson rose—perfectly coiffed hair, precise posture, eyes that missed nothing. The office was curated clutter made of maps, tray labels, and artifacts mid-catalog.
Three things struck Heather at once:
Henderson’s steady gaze.
A flicker of surprise beneath the welcome.
And the man seated by the window.
He looked up when she entered. Recognition hit her hard.
The loch.
The sluice box.
That watchful, unsettling stillness.
Last night’s flashlight beam slicing through the dark.
The same build. The same quietness. A scar along his jaw—thin, pale, familiar. And on his boot: a dusting of Glenoran’s sandy grit.
“Ms. Campbell,” Henderson said warmly, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “A treat to see you.”
Her voice was stiff as she replied, “Thank you for meeting me.”
“This is Mr.David Kerr,” Henderson added. “One of our senior field archaeologists.”
He stood, forcing a smile. “A pleasure.”
Heather matched his politeness. “Likewise.”
Her pulse tripled.
Henderson dismissed him lightly. “David, we’ll continue later.”
He closed his notebook. As he passed Heather, his sleeve brushed hers—barely—but enough. Too deliberate to be accidental. Too calm.
The door shut quietly.
Heather sat before she meant to.
“What brings you to us today?” Henderson asked.
Heather measured her expression. Guarded, polite, calculating. A woman trained to handle artifacts—and people—with gloves.
“I’m researching a family story,” Heather replied carefully. “The Mackenzies of Glenoran. I found some more references to a Harris Mackenzie in my mother’s notes.”
“Ah, yes. Quite the stir from your previous find.”
Heather smiled. “So I’ve gathered.”
“And what draws you back to Harris specifically?”
