Page 5 of Wolf of the Storm
So. Aunt Maureen didn’t want anyone but me to read them. Which means they contain something someone didn't want found. And Mr. Finch is terrified of something—whether it's me asking questions or something else entirely, I'm not sure yet.
I spend the next two hours searching the house methodically, starting with the obvious places—desk drawers, bookcases, wardrobes. I find a lifetime's accumulation of ordinary things: bills, receipts, letters from garden clubs and charitable organizations. But no journals.
I'm checking behind books on a shelf in the sitting room when I notice the pattern. Every tenth book has a small mark onits spine—a tiny symbol that looks like a wave or perhaps a bird. When I pull them out, I find hollowed spaces behind them. Five journals, hidden in plain sight.
I carry them to the kitchen table, make myself tea with the ancient kettle, and begin to read.
The first journal dates back forty-one years, to just after Maureen arrived on Skara. The entries start innocently enough—descriptions of the island's beauty, the kindness of some locals, the satisfaction of solitude. But gradually, a different tone creeps in.
"The locals avoid discussing the Gordon name. When I mentioned my family connection to the island, Mrs. Burns actually crossed herself. As if I'd confessed to witchcraft."
"There are stories about the old Gordon estate, the one that stood where the historical society building is now. It burned down in 1897, they say. Burned with someone inside. They won't tell me who."
"I've started walking to Raven's Point in the evenings. There's something about that place, about the tide pools there. The water is clearer than anywhere else on the island. Sometimes I think I see shapes moving beneath the surface. Not fish. Something else."
I'm so absorbed in reading that I don't notice the light fading until the kitchen grows dim. The afternoon is fading towardevening, and I haven't eaten since the tea and biscuits I found in the cupboard hours ago.
I should stop, make dinner, be practical. But the journals are addictive, Maureen's voice speaking across the years, growing more urgent as she pieces together whatever truth she thought she'd found.
I'm reaching for the fourth journal when I feel it: the prickling sensation of being watched.
I look up slowly. The kitchen window faces the gardens and the woods beyond. In the fading light, I can see the overgrown roses, the collapsed garden gate, the dark line of trees that mark the edge of Clifftop House's property.
And standing just inside the tree line, barely visible in the shadows, a figure.
Too tall to be a child. Too still to be a hiker who stumbled onto the property. Just standing there, facing the house. Facing me.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I stand up slowly, not taking my eyes off the figure. In the moment it takes me to cross to the window, they step back into deeper shadow. I press my face against the glass, searching, but they're gone—if they were ever really there.
I grab the torch from the counter and head for the back door. The rational part of my brain screams that this is stupid, that going outside alone when someone might be watching is exactly how people die in horror films. But I'm not some hapless protagonist. I'm an investigative journalist who's chased stories through war zones and uncovered corruption in places where asking questions could get you killed.
One watcher in the woods? I can handle that.
The back door opens with a creak that probably violated some treaty on noise pollution. I step out into the damp evening, the torch beam cutting through the gloom. The grass is longenough to soak my jeans immediately, and I curse under my breath as I make my way toward the tree line.
"Hello?" I call out, feeling foolish. "I know you're there. This is private property."
Nothing. Just the wind in the trees and the distant sound of waves against the cliffs.
I reach the spot where I saw the figure standing. The ground is soft from last night's rain, and yes—there. Footprints. Boot prints, larger than mine, pressed deep into the mud. They lead into the woods, following what might once have been a path.
I play the torch beam along the trail. The prints continue for several yards, then stop abruptly at a fallen log. Beyond that, nothing. As if whoever made them simply vanished.
My skin prickles with unease. The torch beam sweeps in a wide arc, searching for any sign of movement. The woods are silent except for the wind.
"Miss Warren."
The voice behind me makes me spin around so fast I nearly drop the torch. A man stands at the edge of the garden—tall, maybe forty, with auburn hair going gray at the temples and a face that's all sharp angles. He wears a waxed jacket and carries a walking stick, and something about the way he's watching me suggests he's been there for a while.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he says. His accent is local but educated, the vowels softened by years of Scottish speech. "Not with night coming on."
"Who are you?" I keep the torch pointed at the ground between us, not quite threatening but not friendly either.
"Callum MacKenzie. I live on the next property over." He gestures vaguely toward the north. "I saw your lights on last night, figured Maureen's heir had arrived. Thought I should check you were settling in all right."
"By lurking in the woods?"
His mouth quirks. "I was walking my usual path. It runs along the property line. When I saw you come charging out here with a torch, I thought I should make sure you weren't in trouble."
