Page 4 of A Hellion for the Highland Hawk
Surely not. Nancy had been on a mission to find the missing Clark sisters for a whole year, regaling Emily with every clue, every conundrum, every dead-end, every frustration, every glimmer of hope, every weird twist in the tale. There was no way that her best friend in the entire world, someone she thought of as a sister, knew the missing women and just… did not say anything.
Clearly, someone is screwing with me.
It was a lightbulb flashing in the dark confusion.
But it wasn’t much comfort, her heart suddenly beating faster as she understood the gravity of what that might mean. If someone had put that note there, then they knew she’d planned to come and inspect the apartment, and that meant they might know she was there at that exact moment.Watchingher.
She’d made no secret of what she was investigating. She’d already written three articles that mentioned the Clark sisters, and the fact that no one seemed to notice or care that women all over the country were going missing, and no one was reporting it. A pandemic of vanishing people.
Maybe the wrong peoplehadnoticed her articles, despite her editor telling her that folks were getting a little bored with the same old stories. It wouldn’t be the first time a reporter had gotten a target on their back.
She stuffed the notes into her pocketand put the books back on the top of the bookcase.
So that whoever left it knows I’m onto them, when they find them missing,she told herself as she turned and scanned the room, anxious that someone might leap out at her.
Mumbling a sharp curse under her breath, she hurried out of the room, down the hall, and out of the apartment.
As much as she wanted to turn the place upside down for more clues, she didn’t want to wind up being a third missing person in this investigation. At twenty-seven with a rough start in life, she’d already avoided being a statistic in a lot of ways, and she didn’t feel like changing that today.
Out in the fresh air, she gulped down a lungful of the good stuff… and almost choked on it as she saw the same delivery guy still parked up on the sidewalk. His visor was down, but she sensed he was looking right at her.
A moment later, he revved the engine of his moped and roared off before she could even think to shout after him.
“I’m in North Carolina,” Nancy told her phone, connected to Emily’s voicemail, as a verdant landscape of thick-canopied trees and undulating hills flashed past the windows of the rental she’d picked up at the airport. “And you’d better call me back, since it seems I’m doing your damn research for you.”
Her tone was hard with anger, rather than the worry that simmered beneath the surface. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone so long without talking to her best friend, and maybe everything was just peachy, but until she heard Emily’s voice or got a text back at least, her heart would stay restless.
There hadn’t been much information on the internet about ‘the Hawk,’ but forums had pointed her toward the Scottish Heritage Museum in NC. She’d never known it was the state thatclaimed the largest Celtic heritage in the world, but that was the occasional beauty of the internet—coughing up gems of general knowledge.
“Don’t you dare disappear on me, too,” she added, before swiping to end the call.
For someone who knew her history, it was pretty crappy of Emily to just not reply to any of the texts and calls she’d sent since yesterday.
The town of Franklin looked like something out of a 90s movie, bathed in hazy spring sunshine, all red brick and colorful awnings and quirky shops and kids making trouble on their bikes. Nancy turned the radio down so she could concentrate, frowning at the GPS as it directed her to the museum.
To her relief, there was a parking spot right out front. She pulled in, took a second to paint a fresh swipe of lipstick on for confidence, then grabbed her phone, bag, and trusty notepad, and got out.
But she didn’t enter right away.
Instead, she stood for a moment, observing the displays in the windows: mannequins in various tartans, pictures and paintings of Highland scenes, Scottish flags flying from the side of the building, and storyboards detailing moments in Scottish history.
If they don’t know anything about this Hawk, I might have to go to Scotland myself.
She laughed inwardly, thinking of the measly number in her bank account. There’d barely been enough to get her to North Carolina, but, hey, that’s what credit cards were for.
A bell jingled as she headed inside, scanning the room. She seemed to be the only visitor, the reception desk unmanned, the entire museum eerily silent, aside from the rumbling Scottish brogue of a voiceover telling a story about the Battle of Culloden Moor, as a projected presentation played on a screen.
“Hello?” she called.
When no one answered, she shrugged and began following the signs to the exhibits, passing waxworks depicting scenes of old-timey Scotland, until she reached a room at the back.
There, a huge tapestry took up an entire wall, depicting the kind of thing she doubted anyone should ever have woven into a work of art. It looked like a bloodbath, a terrible fight, yet the setting wasn’t some bleak moor or churned-up battlefield. It appeared to be a wedding, the tapestry showing the story scene by scene.
It began with a couple at the altar, the people smiling, embroidered sunlight shining down upon them. It ended with a mighty figure, the same as the groom in the first, on his knees with a sword through his heart. His expression, though worn with time, was proud and fierce, as if he had been glad to take the hit.
Behind him, in a position that suggested she, too, was about to fall to her knees, was his bride, her pale gown drenched in blood, her mouth open in a terrible, silent cry.
“Beautiful, eh?”
