Linda sent a series of texts she wasn’t sure would be read.
I’m not the laird. Or the guest. Or the pack.
I’m Hollis Drummond’s daughter. And I’m going to find you.
An hour later, as she sat on a train at Manchester Piccadilly watching travelers race across the platform with their coffee, their luggage, their children, her phone dinged. There were no words, only a picture. A twin image of the one she had seen at the police station. The same people, decades younger, gathered on the couch and smiling up at the camera, arms around one another. Except in the foreground, at her father’s feet, sat a tall young man with ginger-brown hair. And there, in the background, walking into the frame as if by accident, face blank as it recognized the camera, a young woman with long, ginger hair and pale eyes, unnoticed by everyone except this girl sitting on this train. A young woman waiting for her chance to do something very good, or something very bad.