Chapter One

My bag hits the floor with a hollow smack that ricochets off the dank stone walls of the inn. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?” My pulse kicks. Where the hell is my mother?

The young receptionist doesn’t look up. She just nods at the bill, filing her nails with a bored shrug. “We take cash or card, miss.”

My mother ditched me. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s kind of her thing. Edinburgh was just her latest disappearing act, and here I am, searching for her all over again. Only this time, I’m in a foreign country.

“We’ll go to Scotland,” she told me out of the blue. “Tour that school you like.” We saved up for months, or at least I did. Heaven forbid Janet work a day in her life. But still, this was supposed to be our trip together. Our first anything together. A mother-daughter bonding moment. Just a quick jaunt during midterm break, a long weekend in late October.

I should be home by now, studying for exams. Instead, I’m chasing after her.

My eyes blur, anger threatening to slide into the familiar dejection that defined my childhood. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hard. I will not cry in front of this stranger. Instead, I focus on the peeling sign over her head like I might be quizzed on it. THE MERRY WIDOW INN, ESTABLISHED 1605. Which, judging by the state of this place, is probably the last time anyone dusted.

Why did my mother come here? She hasn’t been back to Scotland since before I was born. She refuses to talk about it.

Is this where she’s from?

Not that I’ve had a chance to ask. Our first morning together, she went to the bathroom and never came back. I’d have called her cell phone, if she had one. She claims she doesn’t believe in them, which is like not believing in the wheel, but whatever.

That was two days ago. I’ve been searching for her ever since…until this place called. “Janet Campbell is racking up a bill she can’t pay.” Four hours, one train, and two buses later, here I am. In the wilds of Scotland.

I missed my college tour, of course.

Just the thought of it makes my head ache. What else did I miss? Was I supposed to have an interview?

I didn’t even get to see the campus. The physics department at the University of Edinburgh is world famous. It’s my dream to transfer there. But instead of exploring the school, I spent two days scouring every pub while staving off panic attacks. More than ever, I need to get away from my mother. Study abroad. Worry about nothing and nobody but myself for once.

But first, I have to find her.

I glance at the invoice. Nausea rolls through me. “Um, okay. This is…okay.” I chew my thumbnail, trying to figure out what to do. “But you said you know where Janet is? Janet Campbell.” I say her name extra slowly, like the problem here is my accent and not basic human decency. “My name’s Rose. You called me? You said she was here.”

The receptionist finally looks up. Expression flat. Unimpressed. “She’s nae here. Not anymore. Just the bill.” She slides the paper forward, tapping the total with a bright red nail. “Cash or card.”

This was supposed to be my moment.

All my old classmates have moved on, but I stayed home to help my grandfather with the farm. Poppa says we can afford for me to go away to school, but there’s always something. Some crisis that drains our savings. And I’ve always—always—put everything aside to help.

But this?

This is next-level Janet. Worse than the time I missed my calc exam to drive three hours and bail her out of jail. (Indecent exposure. A music festival. Don’t ask.) I’m almost twenty. An adult. I need my own life. I don’t even know what that looks like. But I do know it’s not minding my mother or tending Poppa’s animals.

So I’ve done everything I can. Worked my butt off. Taken every possible science and math class at the community college. And this trip? It’d finally felt like Janet was doing something for me. Supporting me.

How wrong I was. It was never about me. It was just another way for her to get what she wants.

She always gets what she wants.

“Um, okay.” I try to buy time, because I have no idea what to do next. “We were supposed to go home yesterday. I already had to change our flights once. It’s not cheap.”

No reaction.

“We came all the way from New York.”

Silence.

“Like…in America?”

The receptionist’s nail file stops mid-stroke. She gives me a slack-jawed scowl. “I ken where New York is.”

I rub my arms. I’m tired and cold, and I swear, it feels like it’s actually wet in here. “Well, Janet’s my mother, and—”

A laugh explodes from her. “Your mum?” Her eyes shine as she scans me, head to toe, like she’s just realizing something. “Well, your mum fair showed our lads a good time. Singing and carrying on in the pub. One too many pints, I hear.”

Heat flares in my cheeks. “Yeah, sorry,” I mumble. If carrying on were an Olympic sport, Janet would be a gold medalist.

“The woman wouldnae even tell us where she lives.” The receptionist leans against the desk, smirking. “We had to look through her things to find your number. That’s how we got you.”

My stomach tightens.

“I thought old Dan—this is his place, aye?—I thought he might have a cardiac when he learned the woman’s from America. Your mum’s accent is as Scottish as a square sausage. The man was besotted. I was beginning to think he might propose.” She stops filing, pins me with a sudden, assessing stare. Then she shakes her head and lets out another explosive laugh. “And she’s your mum.”

Like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

“Yep.” I force a smile through gritted teeth. “My mom.”

Dan wouldn’t be Janet’s first proposal. She stands out. Always has. She’s movie-star beautiful—fresh-faced, delicate, luminous. Like a porcelain doll.

But, wow, is she ugly on the inside.

My whole life, she’s been consumed by one thing: herself. Her desires. Her beauty. She’s the only star in her personal sky, and that star is a black hole, insatiable for an ever-growing list of esoteric demands. Poppa once said she’s selfish as a fox and twice as sly.

Poor Poppa. My grandfather didn’t know what hit him when Janet showed up on his doorstep, newly married to his son. She and my father met during a whirlwind weekend at some Scottish music festival. They were only supposed to stay at Poppa’s farm while they got on their feet, but then my father died when I was a baby.

And Janet—with no family, no job, no plan—never left. Poppa took her in. Took us in. It’s been just the three of us ever since. I wouldn’t have survived my mother without him.

I mean, it wasn’t all bad. There were times when my mother was pure magic. She was the mom who’d call in sick for me with elaborate stories about exotic diseases so we could spend the day at the zoo instead. She was particularly delighted by the chimps who’d throw their poop at the tourists. Those days, she made me feel important, like her co-conspirator.

By middle school, I knew she wasn’t like other moms. But it was my eleventh birthday when she stopped being Mom and became Janet. She promised a massive party—balloons, a sundae bar, pony rides. She invited my whole class.

And then…nothing.

No party. No presents. Just me, standing in our empty yard, apologizing to twenty confused kids.

But I still have to track her down. I mean, she is my mother. I need to find her before she gets into real trouble. Or bankrupts Poppa.

“So,” I say, scanning the receptionist’s name tag, “Annie. What do you think I should do? I have to find her.” On a hunch, I add, “We’re running out of money.”

That sure gets her attention.

She starts ranting at me—something about a damaged room, an unpaid bar tab—but I’ve stopped listening. A strange click, followed by an eerie moan, echoes around me. There’s a moment’s whirring. Then—bells.

My breath catches. I turn. A hulking grandfather clock looms in the corner, carved from wood so dark it’s nearly black.

Bong. The sound is slow, deep, rolling through the inn like the groan of some slumbering beast.

I gaze at the clock’s ancient face. It’s mottled yellow-brown, the roman numerals faded but legible. A small dial in the center tracks the sun and moon. Four o’clock. Not quite day. Not quite night. The sun, poised to sink, grins at me. A broad, toothy leer, like a cartoon villain about to twirl his mustache.

Bong. The second toll thrums in my ribs. Something about this moment feels wrong. Familiar, but wrong.

Bong. A strange, bewildering grief wells up, sudden and unshakable.

Bong. The last chime stretches long, lazily fading into silence. The hour hand clicks into place with a decisive snick.

Annie’s voice yanks me back. “Hae you got it?”

I blink hard, shaking my head as I force myself to look away from the clock. “Sorry, yeah. I’ll pay for her room. Or whatever.”

I just need to hold it together a little longer. I’ve been running on anxiety, adrenaline, and Diet Coke, and I’m beyond exhausted. I shake out my ice-cold hands, then scoop up my bag. “I’d like one, too. A room, I mean. Please.”

Annie narrows her eyes. Mascara clumps her lashes into thick, blue-black spikes. “You’ll need to pay for both.”

“Yeah, of course.”

I swing my backpack around, dig for my wallet, and hand her my debit card. I’m genuinely astounded when it works.

Thank you, Poppa.

He must’ve put money in my account. Even though we don’t have a penny to spare, he always looks out for me.

I take my key and head down a dark-paneled hallway, the air instantly growing cooler. Shadows press close as I climb the narrow staircase. Every step groans, ancient floorboards creaking beneath my weight. By the time I enter my room, dread sits heavy on my shoulders.

I lock my door. Jiggle the handle. Check it again.

Just in case.

The decor doesn’t exactly put me at ease. It’s like a Scottish tourist shop exploded, vomiting plaid everywhere. Red plaid carpet, blue plaid blankets, yellow-and-brown plaid curtains. The room is small, musty. But I guess it’s clean enough. And yet…there’s a sensation I can’t quite place.

Like something is watching me.

Listening.

I shake it off. I’m being ridiculous.

It’s my mother’s fault. Or rather, the song she used to sing me. I haven’t thought about it in years, but ever since I saw signs for Loch Lomond, it’s been looping in my head. “O ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye, but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond…”

The tiny me had adored it. A story of true love, like a prince and princess in a fairy tale. Until the day Janet announced its true meaning.

She was good at that. Ruining things.

“It was sung by a prisoner,” she said. Even now, I remember her voice—low, strangely gleeful. The way it scared me.

“Captured by his enemies, he was. The lad knew he was to die in the morning. So he sang a song to his love.” Janet leaned in close, watching me. “He’d take the low road. And only then could he meet her again.”

I didn’t understand at first.

“The low road,” she whispered. “The one the ghosties travel.” She waited, watched my face, let it sink in. Then burst into peals of laughter when it did.

I never let her sing it again after that.

And now it’s back in my head, spooking me. “Relax,” I say, extra loud, and shattering the silence makes me feel better.

I’m just overtired. It’s making me dramatic.

I toss my phone onto the side table and drop onto the bed. The mattress is thin. Feels almost slightly damp. But I’m too beat to care. I don’t even bother changing. Just kick off my shoes, crawl under the yellowed sheets, pull the scratchy wool blanket to my chin, and pass out.

My eyes flick open into darkness.

Something has woken me.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. It lights up at my touch. 2:19 a.m.

There’s a voicemail from Poppa. I tap it.

And the battery dies. Because of course.

With a groan, I stretch over the edge of the bed, flailing my arm blindly until my fingers graze my backpack. I drag it closer. Dig around. And it hits me: I must’ve left my power adapter at the hostel in Edinburgh. I raced out of there so fast when I got the call about Janet.

I grab the cord instead and wriggle it into the USB outlet on the lamp, and why does that never work until the third try? I finally get it, and…nothing. I wait a minute, but the little charging symbol never appears. No surprise, this ancient building probably has sketchy wiring to go with its creaky stairs.

I flop back onto the mattress and try to make my body relax, but it’s no good. I’m wide awake now.

With a sigh, I swing my feet onto the floor. I forgot to shut the curtains before passing out, and the glassy black rectangle of window draws me toward it.

Pressing my forehead to the cool glass, I peer outside. The night is still. Heavy. It wraps around the inn, thick and silent. Somehow, it comforts me. Reminds me of home.

This land, as lush and remote as Poppa’s farm, fills me with a deep, familiar peace. The similarities steady me. Make me feel less alone.

Outside, the moon hangs pale in the darkness.

A new moon.

I learned about them in astronomy class. It’s when you see the side of the moon that’s not lit by the sun. Faint and gray, it hovers in the sky like the ghost of itself.

A knot in my chest begins to loosen. I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. It feels so good, I do it again. Deeper. Slower.

Cheek pressing against the glass, I crane my neck, searching till I find Loch Lomond. It gleams in the distance like a bead of mercury. I pull back, soothed.

And then—a man. In the window.

I shriek, stumble back. He’s young, maybe a few years older than me, his silhouette stark against the night sky.

But I’m on the second floor. He can’t be outside. Which means it’s his reflection. He’s behind me.

Pulse slamming, I spin and stumble back, knocking my head on the glass as my eyes dart around the room. It’s empty. Holding my breath, I brace a hand on the sill and force myself to look back at the window.

He’s still there.

Impossible.

Outside, there’s nothing but a two-story drop.

Which means…a ghost? No. That’s ridiculous. Right? But he feels like a ghost. And he’s looking at me. Watching me.

An unexpected sense of peace washes over me. I should be terrified—screaming, running, calling for help.

But I’m not.

There’s something about his presence that feels familiar somehow. Safe. The only thing that scares me is that he might look away. Somehow, in his gaze, I feel known. Seen. Down to my soul.

I don’t want him to disappear.

We study each other. Who was he? When was he?

His shirt is old-fashioned—laced at the neck and smudged with dirt, like he wiped his hand down the front. Dark hair falls messily to his collar. Even in the foggy reflection, I can tell he’s strong. Tough. Like he’s got bigger things to worry about than clothing and hair.

“Who are you?” My voice is barely a whisper.

And yet, his eyes snap to mine, corners narrowing with intensity. His gaze is a force, a weight, like it might bore through time to reach me. Charisma rolls off him, an invisible thread pulled tight between us.

He mouths something, but all I hear is silence.

“What?”

He tries again, frustration creasing his brow. Shaking his head, his lips form words he needs me to understand.

A surge of heat prickles my chest as his anguish pierces me, sharp and insistent. His need becomes my own. I press my palms to the cold glass, like I could reach through time itself to touch him.

It’s too much. I squeeze my eyes shut.

When I open them again, he’s gone.