The salt in the wind tasted different here, Ailsa thought as she stepped out of the car. It wasn’t clean or sharp anymore; it was muddy, clogged with the damp chill of the sea mingling with the soil of the cliffs. The air was biting, stinging against her cheeks and ears, but she didn’t retreat. She stood on the gravel road leading to her father’s cottage and looked out across the familiar landscape. The town of Craighaven was nestled against the coastline, its gray stone buildings leaning into each other for warmth against the biting cold of winter. It had been ten years; ten years since she’d left… and ten years since she’d swept this place and its memories from her life like dust under a rug. But time didn’t forget, neither did places. Craighaven still bore the scars of its past, and those scars were visible, even now, in its craggy cliffs and weathered cottages. So did Ailsa. It felt as if her own memories had been carved into the granite bones of this place.
She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and turned toward the cottage. Her father’s house had been left mostly unchanged, a lonely structure, its sturdy walls standing strong against the elements. She remembered the nights they’d spent together in that house: her father reading in his armchair, she curled up by the hearth, the fire crackling as a storm raged outside. Those moments, unassuming and quiet, felt more like fiction now. The door swung open before she had a chance to knock. Hamish MacLeod had always been a tall man, but now, stooped slightly with age, he looked smaller. His once fiery red hair was thinned and streaked with gray. His eyes, however, still held the sharpness Ailsa remembered from her childhood.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice brusque, though not unkind. His eyes softened as they roamed her face. “Come on in, then. It’s freezing.”
Ailsa didn’t need to be told twice. Inside, the house smelled of peat and old wood, its warmth seeping into her bones. She set her bag down and peeled off her coat, even as her father busied himself by the stove. He wasn’t one for long greetings or pat exchanges, so she wasn’t surprised when he cut straight to the chase.
“Why now?” he asked, his back to her as he placed the kettle on the stove. “It’s been a long time.”
Ailsa hesitated. She had prepared for this question, but now that it had been asked, none of her rehearsed answers felt right. “Because it was time,” she said finally. “I needed to… face things.”
“Things,” he repeated, turning to look at her. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“Dad.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his hands defensively. “It’s been ten years. People here don’t forget. You know that, don’t you? Coming back, it’s not gonna be easy.”
“I know,” Ailsa said, though the knot in her stomach tightened. She hadn’t let herself think too much about what the townsfolk would say. About the whispers. About the stares. About Eilidh.
The kettle whistled, cutting through the heavy silence. Hamish poured the tea and set a mug in front of her, the action as familiar as breathing. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The weight of what wasn’t being said was heavier than any words could be. The next morning, Ailsa woke to a world blanketed in frost. The fields sparkled like they’d been dipped in glass, and the sea beyond the cliffs churned angrily under a steel-gray sky. She dressed quickly, layering herself against the chill, and ventured out into the town. Craighaven was as she remembered it: small, quiet, and watchful. The market square was nearly empty, save for a few townsfolk bundled up in scarves and heavy coats. As she walked, she caught glimpses of familiar faces—some looking at her with curiosity, others with something heavier, colder. She couldn’t blame them. Eilidh’s disappearance had been the kind of wound that didn’t heal cleanly. It left scars—on the people, on the town, on her.
She passed the bakery where she and Eilidh used to buy scones after school, the park where they’d spent hours talking about nothing and everything, the pier where they’d dared each other to jump into the icy water. Each place was a ghost, a reminder of what had been, and what had been lost. It wasn’t until she reached the police station that she hesitated. The building was unassuming, its stone façade blending into the rest of the town, but inside, she knew, lay the truth she had come back to find. The investigation into Eilidh’s disappearance had been reopened a month ago, sparked by the discovery of new evidence—a shoe, found by hikers in the cliffs. It was a small thing, a detail, but it had been enough to stir the embers of a decade-old mystery.
Ailsa hadn’t planned to get involved. She didn’t want to dig up the past. But something about being here, in this place, made it impossible to ignore. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Detective James Cameron was younger than she had expected, his sharp features softened by an easy smile. He greeted her with a firm handshake and gestured for her to sit.
“I’d say welcome back,” he said, his tone light, “but I get the feeling you’re not thrilled to be here.”
“I’m not,” Ailsa admitted. “But I need to know what’s happening. What you’ve found.”
James nodded, his expression turning serious. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss MacLeod. We don’t have much. The shoe we found matches the description of what Eilidh was wearing the night she disappeared, but it’s not definitive. We’re working with what we have, but it’s slow going.”
“And you think you’ll find answers after all this time?”
“I think it’s worth trying,” he said simply. “And I think you want answers as much as anyone.”
Ailsa didn’t respond. Instead, she looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting the edge of her scarf. “Do you have any suspects?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
James hesitated. “We’re looking into a few possibilities,” he said carefully. “But I can’t share too much. Not yet.”
Ailsa nodded, though her mind was racing. She had her own theories, of course. Everyone in the town did. But none of them mattered. Not really. All that mattered was the truth—whatever it turned out to be. Days turned into weeks, and Ailsa found herself becoming more and more involved in the investigation. She spent hours pouring over old case files, revisiting the places where she and Eilidh had spent their childhood, talking to people who had been there the night she disappeared. It wasn’t easy. The memories were sharp, cutting into her like shards of glass, but she couldn’t stop. She owed it to Eilidh. And to herself. It was during one of these conversations that she learned something that stopped her cold. She was speaking to Mrs. Graham, an elderly woman who had lived in Craighaven her entire life, when the woman mentioned seeing Hamish the night of the storm.
“I remember it clear as day,” she said, her voice trembling with age. “He was out there, near the cliffs, shouting. I thought it was strange, him being out in that weather, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
Ailsa’s stomach dropped. Her father had never mentioned being near the cliffs that night. In fact, he had always claimed he had been home, waiting for her to return. That evening, she confronted him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Hamish looked at her, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he spoke.
“I was trying to protect you,” he said quietly. “There are things you don’t understand, Ailsa. Things I didn’t want you to know.”
“What things?” she pressed. “What are you talking about?”
Hamish sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Eilidh wasn’t who you thought she was,” he said. “She had secrets. Dangerous secrets. And the night she disappeared… I think she paid the price for them.”
The room spun. The world tilted. Ailsa felt like she was falling, like the ground had been ripped out from under her. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. But one thing was clear: the truth was closer than she had ever imagined. And it was darker than she had ever feared. Ailsa gripped the edge of the worn wooden table for balance, her father’s words reverberating in her head. “Secrets. Dangerous secrets.” This wasn’t the Eilidh she had known. Or, at least, this wasn’t the Eilidh her childhood self had allowed herself to see.
“What secrets, Dad?” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. “What are you talking about?”
Hamish hesitated. His weathered hands reached for the mug of tea that had long gone cold, cradling it as if grounding himself for the conversation. “It isn’t my story to tell,” he said, his tone uneven, “but you were too young to understand what was happening back then. You and Eilidh… you thought you were invincible. You never noticed the tension in the town or the kind of trouble Eilidh could get herself into.”
“Trouble?” Ailsa repeated, incredulous. The Eilidh she remembered was wild and spirited, yes, but dangerous? In trouble? That wasn’t her. “She was my best friend. I knew her better than anyone.”
Hamish shook his head slowly, his gaze distant. “Ailsa, sometimes we only see what we want to see, especially in people we care about.”
Frustration bubbled to the surface. Ailsa’s voice grew sharp. “You’re telling me you were out by the cliffs that night, the night she disappeared, and you didn’t think to tell anyone? Not the police, not me? Why?”
“Because I didn’t know what I saw!” Hamish snapped, his voice suddenly fierce. His outburst seemed to surprise even himself, and he softened almost immediately. “I didn’t know if… if she had fallen or if someone had pushed her. And there wasn’t any proof. Lord knows, the town had enough gossip about her as it was. I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. I didn’t want your name dragged into it either.”
“My name?” Ailsa’s voice sharpened. “What does this have to do with me?”
Hamish hesitated again, and a long silence stretched between them. When he finally spoke, his words were heavy, deliberate. “Because people in this town have long memories. And if they think you knew something, that you were part of whatever trouble Eilidh was in…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I just wanted to protect you, lass. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
But his explanation didn’t sit right with her. The way he avoided her gaze, the way his hands trembled slightly as he spoke—there was something he wasn’t telling her. Something more. And Ailsa intended to find out what it was. The next morning, Ailsa found herself back at the cliffs. The wind howled as it whipped through her scarf and coat, biting through the layers. Below her, the sea hurled itself against the rocks, a frothing, violent thing that showed no mercy to anyone who ventured too close. She stood at the edge of the path, staring out at the horizon, trying to piece together everything she’d learned. So much of it didn’t make sense—her father’s presence here the night of Eilidh’s disappearance, the cryptic warnings about secrets, the new evidence. It all felt fragmented, like a puzzle missing critical pieces.
And then there was the shoe. The single, maddening clue that had reopened the case and drawn her back here. James had told her that the hikers who’d found it had reported seeing something else—something in the distance near the cliffs that they couldn’t quite make out. Their account was vague, but it was enough to give her a sense that this place held more answers than anyone had realized. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until they were right behind her.
“Dangerous place to be standing on a day like this,” came a voice.
Ailsa turned sharply to find Detective James Cameron, his coat buttoned up to his chin against the cold. His expression was neutral, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Didn’t expect to find you out here.”
“I needed to think,” Ailsa admitted, shoving her hands into her pockets. “This place… it feels like it’s taunting me. Like the answers are here, just out of reach.”
James nodded, stepping closer to the edge but keeping a safe distance. His gaze drifted out over the churning water. “Places like this have a way of holding on to things,” he said. “Memories. Secrets. People.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “What did your father say when you asked him about that night?”
Ailsa tensed. “You knew about that?”
“Mrs. Graham mentioned it,” James said carefully. “I didn’t want to press the issue until you were ready to talk about it.”
Ailsa sighed, her breath visible in the cold air. “He said he was trying to protect me. That Eilidh had secrets, that she was in trouble. But I don’t know what to believe anymore. None of this feels real.”
“Secrets,” James repeated, his tone thoughtful. “There were rumors back then. Whispers about Eilidh meeting people at odd hours, taking off without telling anyone. It didn’t amount to much at the time, but… well, it’s starting to make me wonder.”
Ailsa frowned. “Wonder about what?”
James hesitated before answering. “About who she might have been meeting. And what they wanted from her.”
The words hung between them, heavy and ominous. Ailsa felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. Who was Eilidh meeting? And why had she never known this part of her best friend’s life?
The breakthrough came two days later, when James called Ailsa to the station.
“I think we’ve found something,” he said, his voice crackling through the phone. “Something that might explain why Eilidh was out by the cliffs that night.”
When Ailsa arrived, James led her into a small, cluttered office. On the desk was an old journal, its leather cover faded and worn. “We found this while searching an abandoned fishing shack near the cliffs,” he explained. “It belonged to Eilidh.”
Ailsa’s breath caught as she reached for the journal, her hands trembling slightly. She opened it carefully, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. The entries were sporadic, often cryptic, but as she flipped through the pages, a clearer picture began to emerge. Eilidh had been meeting someone—a man whose identity she never revealed. The entries described their conversations in vague terms, but there was an undercurrent of fear in her words, a sense that she was in over her head. One entry in particular stood out: “He says I need to keep quiet, that it’s dangerous for me to tell anyone what I’ve seen. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. That someone knows what I know. If anything happens to me… I need Ailsa to know it wasn’t an accident.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Ailsa clutched the journal tightly, her mind racing. What had Eilidh seen? Who was this man she was meeting? And why had she mentioned Ailsa specifically?
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice breaking. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Maybe she was trying to protect you,” James suggested gently. “Or maybe she didn’t know who she could trust.”
Ailsa shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “She trusted me. She always trusted me.”
James placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, Ailsa. I promise. But this journal—it’s a start. It’s more than we’ve ever had before.”
For the first time in years, Ailsa felt a glimmer of hope. But it was tinged with something darker, something that whispered of danger ahead. The truth was within reach now—but it was a truth that someone, somewhere, had gone to great lengths to bury. And Ailsa wasn’t sure she was ready for what she might uncover. The journal never left Ailsa’s side. She carried it home that night, placing it on the small desk in her childhood bedroom, the familiar smell of old paper filling the room. Sleep didn’t come easily. Each word burned in her mind: “If anything happens to me, I need Ailsa to know it wasn’t an accident.”
Had Eilidh known her life was in danger? If so, why hadn’t she come to Ailsa? The questions refused to rest. The next day, Ailsa returned to the station. James was already there, seated at his desk, frowning at a map of Craighaven and its surroundings. He looked up as she entered.
“I’ve been reading through the journal again,” he said without preamble. “There’s something here, near the end.” He picked up the journal and flipped to an entry. “She mentions meeting him—the unnamed man—at Lantern Rock. Do you know it?”
Ailsa nodded. Of course, she knew Lantern Rock. It wasn’t far from the cliffs where Eilidh had disappeared—a jagged outcrop that jutted into the sea like a sentinel. The town’s children told stories about it, claiming it was haunted, cursed. But to Ailsa and Eilidh, it had been just another place to explore. Back then, the world had seemed so much smaller, simpler.
“She says they argued,” James continued, pointing to the page. “Something about her seeing something she shouldn’t have. It must have been important enough to put her in danger.”
“What do we do?” Ailsa asked. Her voice was steady, but her hands had balled into fists at her sides.
James stood, taking his coat from the back of his chair. “We go to Lantern Rock.”
Lantern Rock was just as Ailsa remembered it—sharp and foreboding, the kind of place where the wind always seemed to howl louder and the waves crashed harder. She and James stood at the edge of the narrow path that led to the rock, the sea spray stinging their faces.
“If she was meeting someone here,” James said, “there might still be something—anything—that gives us a clue about who it was or what they were doing.”
Ailsa’s stomach churned as they began the descent toward the rock. The path was slippery with frost, the jagged edges of the cliffs looming dangerously close. When they reached the base, James began to search systematically, scanning the ground for anything unusual. Ailsa wandered closer to the edge, her eyes drawn to the endless churn of the waves below. How had it come to this? Her foot struck something, and she looked down. It was a piece of wood, worn smooth by time and weather, but something about it felt… deliberate. She crouched, turning it over in her hand. There was a faint carving in the surface—a symbol she didn’t recognize.
“James,” she called. “I think I’ve found something.”
He came over quickly, taking the piece of wood from her. His brow furrowed as he studied the carving. “This looks familiar,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s a mark. A sign used by some of the old smuggling rings that operated along the coast.”
“Smugglers?” Ailsa blinked, incredulous. “You think Eilidh got involved with smugglers?”
“It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds,” James said, his tone measured. “Craighaven has a history with these kinds of operations. There are rumors that some of the old families still have ties to the trade, though nothing’s been proven. If Eilidh stumbled onto something she wasn’t supposed to see…”
He trailed off, and Ailsa’s heart sank. It made too much sense. The strange comings and goings, the secrecy, the warnings in her journal. Eilidh had uncovered something—something that had gotten her killed.
“But who?” Ailsa asked. “Who would do this to her?”
James didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth was clear: whoever had lured Eilidh to Lantern Rock that night, whoever she’d trusted enough to meet, had betrayed her. The discovery of the smuggler’s mark was a breakthrough. Over the next few days, James began digging into Craighaven’s history, searching for connections between the symbols and the town’s old families. Meanwhile, Ailsa returned to the journal, combing through every word for clues she might have missed. It was during one of these late-night sessions that something clicked. Eilidh had written about a particular man—a figure who seemed to loom large in her life, though she never named him. She described his voice as “like gravel” and his eyes as “cold as the North Sea.” Eilidh had always been a vivid writer, painting pictures with her words, and Ailsa could almost hear the man’s voice, see his face.
And then she remembered. There was a man in town who fit that description almost perfectly: Malcolm Fraser, the owner of Craighaven’s largest fishing fleet. Malcolm Fraser had always been a powerful presence in Craighaven, his booming voice and broad shoulders making him impossible to ignore. Ailsa had never liked him; there was something about the way he carried himself, the way he looked at people, that set her on edge. And she wasn’t the only one. The next morning, she shared her theory with James.
“I know it’s just a hunch,” she admitted, “but it lines up, doesn’t it? He has the means, the connections, and the reputation for keeping his hands dirty.”
James considered her words carefully. “It’s worth looking into,” he said finally. “But we’ll need more than a hunch if we’re going to tie him to this.”
The investigation took a dangerous turn when James and Ailsa found themselves cornered near Fraser’s warehouse late one evening. They’d been searching for evidence—anything to link Malcolm Fraser to Eilidh’s disappearance—when the man himself appeared, flanked by two of his workers.
“Well, well,” Fraser said, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. “What have we here? A nosy detective and an even nosier writer.”
Ailsa’s heart raced. James stepped in front of her, his posture protective. “We’re just following up on some questions,” he said evenly. “Care to answer them?”
Fraser’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Questions are dangerous things, Detective. People might not like what you find.”
The air was thick with unspoken threats. Ailsa felt the weight of Fraser’s gaze on her, cold and unrelenting. But she refused to look away.
“Eilidh knew,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension. “She knew what you were doing.”
Fraser’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—a brief hesitation, a crack in his calm façade. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” Ailsa pressed. “She found out about the smuggling. She tried to stop you, and you killed her.”
Fraser took a step closer, his presence looming. “You should be careful, Miss MacLeod. Accusations like that can get you into trouble.”
But James wasn’t backing down. “And threats like that can get you arrested,” he said, his voice sharp. He held Fraser’s gaze, unflinching. “I suggest you cooperate, or we’ll come back with more than words.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then Fraser nodded to one of his men, and the two workers stepped aside, clearing the path. “You’ve got nothing,” Fraser said, his voice low. “But keep digging, if you want. Just don’t be surprised if you don’t like what you find.”
As James and Ailsa walked away, the tension finally easing, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over. Fraser was hiding something—that much was clear. And she wouldn’t stop until she uncovered the truth about what had happened to Eilidh. The confrontation with Malcolm Fraser left Ailsa shaken but more determined than ever. Fraser’s thinly veiled threats only confirmed her suspicions: he was hiding something. Whether it was his involvement in Eilidh’s disappearance or something darker, Ailsa couldn’t walk away now. The truth felt closer than it had in years, and the weight of ten years of unanswered questions demanded resolution. James didn’t waste time. The following day, he filed for a warrant to search Fraser’s warehouse. It wasn’t easy; Fraser’s influence in the town ran deep. But James had a knack for persuasion, and by the end of the week, they had the clearance they needed.
The search began early in the morning. Ailsa wasn’t supposed to accompany the investigative team, but James had relented after she insisted. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have gotten this far,” he admitted. “But stay close to me. If something happens, I need you out of there.”
When they arrived at the warehouse, Fraser’s workers pretended to act oblivious, though Ailsa could see wariness in their eyes as police officers marched into the steel building. The warehouse smelled of salt, fish, and oil. Towering crates lined the walls, and the sound of waves crashing against the nearby docks filtered through the open doors.
“Fan out,” James instructed the team. “We’re looking for anything unusual—documents, compartments, hidden areas in the crates. Let me know the moment you find something.”
For the first hour, the search yielded nothing but shipping manifests and the usual detritus of a working fishery. Ailsa’s hope flickered. What if Fraser had already covered his tracks? What if the only evidence had been buried with Eilidh?
But then one of the officers called out sharply: “Detective! Over here!”
James and Ailsa hurried to the far corner of the warehouse, where a false panel in the floor had been uncovered. Beneath it was a small hidden compartment filled with boxes. Inside the boxes were unmarked packages—evidence of smuggling. But it was what they found beneath the packages that stole Ailsa’s breath. There, wrapped in a torn tarpaulin, was a satchel Ailsa recognized instantly. It had belonged to Eilidh. She knelt by it, her hands trembling as she slowly opened it. Inside was more than just the familiar notebook Eilidh had carried everywhere. There was also a map, marked with a series of locations along the coastline, and a bundle of letters.
James frowned as he picked one up and examined it. “These are meeting instructions,” he said. “Dates, times, coordinates. Whoever sent these was using Eilidh to move information—or possibly goods. My guess is, once she realized what was happening, she tried to pull out. That’s when things went wrong.”
Ailsa’s throat tightened as she sifted through the letters, her hands brushing against the words her best friend had left behind. Then, she stopped, her eyes locking on the signature of one particular letter.
It wasn’t Malcolm Fraser’s.
“James,” she said, her voice trembling, “this—this isn’t Fraser’s handwriting. It’s…”
She couldn’t bring herself to say it. But James understood immediately. He snatched the letter from her hands, his eyes narrowing as he read the name scrawled at the bottom: Hamish MacLeod. Ailsa could hardly feel her legs as she followed James out of the warehouse. The air was freezing, but her face burned as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, the edges cutting painfully into her mind. Her father. Her steady, quiet, dependable father. His words from weeks ago came rushing back to her now: “I just wanted to protect you.” Was this what his protection had meant? When they arrived at the cottage, Hamish was sitting by the fireplace, a cup of tea in his hand. He didn’t seem surprised to see them.
“I thought it might come to this,” he said quietly, not looking up.
James stepped forward, his tone sharp. “Hamish MacLeod, we need to talk. Now.”
Hamish looked at his daughter, his weathered face lined with an expression Ailsa couldn’t read. It wasn’t guilt, exactly. It was something heavier, something resigned.
“Let him speak,” Ailsa said, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “Tell me what you’ve done.”
Hamish sighed and set the mug down. “I didn’t kill her,” he said at last. “But I didn’t do enough to save her either.”
“Start at the beginning,” James demanded.
Hamish nodded but didn’t rush. His words came slowly, deliberately, as if he were unburdening himself of an unbearable weight.
“Eilidh was a smart lass,” he began. “Too smart for her own good sometimes. She figured out more than she should have about the shipments coming through Craighaven, about the things Fraser and his men were moving through Lantern Rock. What she didn’t realize was that some of us—folk in the town—were caught in their web.”
Ailsa’s heart sank. “Some of us.”
“I got involved years ago,” Hamish admitted, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in the room. “I didn’t have a choice. They threatened to ruin everything—my business, my family. So I helped them, kept my head down, didn’t ask too many questions. But when Eilidh showed up that night, saying she was going to expose them…” His voice cracked, and for the first time, Ailsa saw tears streaking his face.
“They told me to stop her. To talk some sense into her. I thought I could. I thought I could make her see reason, make her understand how dangerous it was.”
James took a step closer. “And what happened?”
Hamish looked away, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. “She wouldn’t listen. She was so headstrong. So sure that she could fight them on her own. She ran toward the cliffs, and I followed her, trying to stop her. But…”
“But what?” Ailsa demanded, her voice breaking.
“But Fraser was already there.”
The room fell silent. Hamish’s next words felt like a knife to Ailsa’s chest.
“I didn’t see exactly what happened. I got there too late. But I heard her scream.” His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands. “I saw her fall.”
Ailsa staggered back as if struck. The image Hamish painted, the sound of her father’s voice breaking—it was too much. It was everything she hadn’t wanted to hear.
“You should have told me,” she whispered, her voice shaking with anger and pain. “You should have told me the truth.”
“I wanted to,” Hamish said, his voice barely audible. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”
James stepped in, his tone hard and unyielding. “Hamish MacLeod, you’re under arrest for your involvement in the smuggling operation and your role in obstructing justice. You have the right to remain silent—”
Hamish didn’t resist as the cuffs clicked around his wrists. He looked at Ailsa as they led him out, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry, lass,” he said. “For everything.”
But Ailsa couldn’t speak. She stood frozen, her hands trembling, as the door closed behind them. The weeks that followed were a blur. Malcolm Fraser and his men were arrested, their smuggling operation dismantled. Hamish cooperated with the investigation, providing evidence that led to Fraser’s conviction for Eilidh’s death. But for Ailsa, there was no real justice. Eilidh was gone, and the person she’d trusted most in the world had betrayed her trust. One gray morning, Ailsa stood at the edge of the cliffs, a bouquet of wildflowers in her hands. She placed them on the rock where she and Eilidh had spent so many afternoons, watching the sea.
“I hope you found peace,” she whispered.
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