Chapter Eighteen

Morag Sinclair came home on a Wednesday, three and a half weeks after Petra had driven her to her sister’s in Inverdrum, and she told herself, packing her small case for the return journey, that she was not being reckless. She was simply, finally, tired of being frightened in someone else’s spare room when her own cottage, with its sea-glass on the windowsill and its view of the asylum ruin she had spent forty years learning to live comfortably alongside, was still sitting there waiting for her, patient and unchanged, three streets from a harbour she had known her entire adult life.