I open the door and look out for a moment, but whoever put this through my front door has gone. I can hear nothing but a vague hum of traffic from the distant main road, and the inscrutable hills across the glen are keeping silent about whatever they have seen. I close the front door again. I have an idea of what I might be about to see, and it’s right there when I open out the paper, circled three times in violent thick red marker pen: an article on my father. No Leads in Case of Missing Jeweler. It’s a large piece on page three; I read it through quickly, then again, slower. The writer has done his level best to underline all the tawdry details without actually accusing my father of theft; professionally I can admire his agility even while despising his gutter journalism. To be fair, the police spokesman is quoted as saying that currently they are pursuing all avenues, but that doesn’t counterbalance the four separate mentions of the diamonds. Karen and I are mentioned, too—“distraught wife and young daughter”—but only once. Abandoned family members are clearly much less interesting than a missing fortune in gemstones.

There’s nothing in the article I didn’t know, of course, but the article itself isn’t the point. The point is that someone kept it: there’s a fury inherent in that which stops my breath. Someone kept it, for over a quarter of a century, and still felt angry enough today to make sure that I saw it. The real message is very clear: I am unwelcome here.

I am unwelcome here. As if Morag hadn’t made that clear already . . . For a moment I entertain the thought that Morag might be the anonymous donor, but then I dismiss it: she didn’t look nearly well enough to drive herself, and I can’t imagine the sensible companion with her allowing this sort of thing. No, there are at least two people who don’t want me here, Morag and someone else. The wayward sister of Mr. Jamie McCue? The hotel manager? Someone else I haven’t even met yet? It occupies my thoughts for all of the drive to Edinburgh, even though there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on it, and gradually resentment takes over from shock. Even though selling the Manse is exactly what I want to do, it irks me that by doing so I will make these awful people happy. One part of me wants to live happily ever after here, metaphorically sticking two fingers up to Morag and her anonymous co-believer every day with my vomit-inducingly perfect husband and children . . . Though I’m hazy on exactly how the husband and kids part might come to pass. And I’m not sure the Manse would want us anyway.