Page 26 of The Highland Bad Boy

She beams as though I’ve just handed her some kind of golden opportunity. “Great! I’ll see what I can find out. This is actually kind of exciting! Maybe I should buy a cork board, so I can set up something like you always see on those detective programmes, with mugshots and Post-it Notes and red string connecting different ideas . . .”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You realise this is my life we’re talking about? Not a bit of entertainment for you?”

Her smile falters, and she has the decency to look embarrassed. “Oh. Of course. Sorry, when I said it was exciting, I meant⁠—”

“Aye, I know what you meant. It’s fine.” I drain the last of my tea. “It doesn’t matter why you’re helping, I still appreciate it. I’m not sure it’ll come to anything, but what the hell, you might as well see what you can find.” I stand. “Anyway, I best go.”

“Already?” Disappointment is clear in her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer? After everything you’ve been through, maybe you could do with some . . . relief?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I grunt and shake my head. I’ll give it to her, this lass is nothing if not persistent.

“That’s definitely my cue to go,” I say. “See you, Cat.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

CAT

I’m connecting a piece of red string between Samantha Drummond and Possible money problems? when my phone pings. I ignore it and focus on securing the string with a tiny drawing pin.

It’s Friday night, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed in pyjamas with a green clay mask on my face. The cork board I ordered yesterday sits propped against my pillows like some kind of investigative masterpiece. Ideally, I’d be doing this in the living room, but Robbie’s turned it into a plaster-dusted war zone. My bedroom, which has yet to be plastered, offers a small sanctuary from all the dust and chaos.

When I opened the package this afternoon, Robbie shook his head and muttered “Christ” before resuming his battle with the walls.

He doesn’t know it yet—emphasis on yet—but this cork board is going to blow the case wide open. Admittedly, it’s not exactly teeming with evidence. So far, it’s mainly just a few colour-coded note cards listing stolen items and Samantha Drummond’s name underneath Prime suspect. Not quite Netflix docuseries material, but at least I’m getting organised. I’ll just have to wait for Bannock’s gossip mill to churn out some more clues.

When I decided to move back to Bannock, I pictured spending my weekends hanging out with friends and barhopping in Inverness. Instead, here I am, alone, in a glorified building site, playing detective. But honestly? At the end of a busy week in a new job, where I’ve not only had to make cheery small talk with colleagues but get to know and teach a bunch of judgemental teenagers, the last thing I want to do is go out and socialise.

Plus, staying in isn’t so bad. Despite the “under construction” vibes, Robbie’s making impressive progress, and I can already envision how amazing this place will look when he’s done.

Grabbing a fresh Post-it, I scribble: Seeking vengeance following romantic rebuff?

I attach it to the board and connect it to Samantha’s name with another piece of red string, completing my triangle of suspicion. Does the red string serve any real purpose? Probably not. But does it make me feel like a badass detective? One hundred per cent yes.

Today’s fieldwork, sadly, has been far less gratifying than assembling my conspiracy web. At work I casually dropped Samantha’s name into conversations with a few teachers. Then, wandering through town on my way home, I paused to chat with a few folk and slyly fish for clues. But the only whiff of scandal I picked up was to do with her divorce, which raised a few eyebrows at the time.

Apparently, she and her husband had always presented themselves as the perfect couple—matching Christmas jumpers, coordinated social media posts, the works. Other than that wee blip of gossip, most people just described her as polite, though she keeps herself to herself these days. My sweep of the town yielded precisely zero useful intel. So, aye, looks like I’ll need to dig a wee bit deeper if I want to crack this case.

My phone pings again. This time I check it. It’s the Scottish Sirens group chat.