Read Chapter 22: The Reporter

The visitor came in on the Tuesday ferry, and the first Freya knew of it was when she looked up from the clinic's reception desk to see a woman in a waxed jacket standing in the doorway, holding a camera bag like a shield.

"Afternoon," the woman said, with the unmistakable polish of someone who'd spent too long in city newsrooms. "I'm looking for Dr. MacRae."

Freya's fingers stalled over the keyboard. "He's out on a home visit. Can I take a message?"

"Orla Saunders." The woman stepped inside and set her bag on the chair opposite the desk. "_Scotsman_. I'm doing a piece on the lighthouse closure."

The words landed like cold water. Freya kept her face neutral but felt her pulse tick up. "The closure's been well documented already. The board issued a statement last month."

Saunders smiled, too wide, too practiced. "The board's version, sure. But I hear there's been a last-minute push to keep the light going. And that the local doctor has been sitting on the true closure date. That's a different story entirely."

Freya's throat tightened. All the hours she'd spent filming the island, the faces of the islanders, the meetings she'd attended with her camera running—any of it could be twisted. One clip of Alistair evading a direct question, one shot of the clinic's failing equipment, and the narrative would write itself.

"I think you'll find the doctor's been very transparent with the community," Freya said carefully. "He called a meeting himself, told the islanders everything."

"Did he now." Saunders pulled out a small notebook, flipped it open. "And he told them before or after the Lighthouse Authority's official notice went out?"

Freya said nothing.

"Has anyone else spoken to you about this?" Saunders pressed.

"I'm just helping out at the clinic." Freya's voice came out steadier than she felt. "I'm not involved in the operational side."

Saunders studied her for a long moment, then her eyes flicked to the corner of the room where Freya's camera bag sat propped against the wall. "You're the filmmaker, aren't you? Freya MacLeod. I've seen your name attached to some decent work. Environment pieces, communities under threat."

The recognition made Freya's stomach drop. "I'm not granting an interview."

"I'm not after one. I'm after the doctor." Saunders closed her notebook. "But I'd love to see the rushes you've shot on the island. Must be quite a portrait of a community facing extinction."

Freya stood, putting the desk between them. "That footage belongs to me and my production company. It's not a public record."

Saunders raised a hand, palms out. "No need to get defensive. I'm simply building a picture." She pulled a business card from her jacket and laid it on the desk. "If you hear anything, give me a ring. Off the record or on. I pay for good information."

She turned and left, and the door swung shut with a soft click that felt far louder than it was.

Freya sat back down and stared at the card. _Orla Saunders, Features. The Scotsman._ Underneath, a mobile number. That was her life—her old life—the one where a source like this was an opportunity. The kind of journalist she'd have loved to dig into a story like this, expose the board's neglect, the state of the medical infrastructure on remote islands.

Only now, the story came with Alistair's face attached.

She pocketed the card and went to find her phone. Three missed calls from Morag, her producer. Four. The Netflix offer murmured in the background of every decision she made now, a constant hum she'd been carefully ignoring.

She called Morag back, bracing herself.

"Freya." Morag's voice crackled through the speaker. "I've been trying to reach you for a week."

"I've been busy."

"With the grant proposal. I know. But listen—I've had to make some calls about your timeline. The Shetland production needs an answer by Friday."

Friday. Three days away.

"Morag, I'm in the middle of something here."

"You're always in the middle of something. That's why I love you. But this is the offer, Freya. A proper series, real funding, your name above the title. If you walk away from this, you walk away from the next five years of your career."

Freya pressed two fingers to her temple. "I'm aware."

"So what do I tell them?"

"I don't know yet."

A pause, then Morag's voice shifted, dropping to something conspiratorial. "Listen. I heard from a contact at the _Scotsman_ that they're sending someone out to the island to dig into the closure story. You're on the ground. If you can get footage of the doctor stonewalling the community, the cover-up angle, you could make a name for yourself. And it would make the Shetland pitch impossible to turn down."

The words hit Freya like a slap. "Cover-up?"

"All I'm saying is, a story like that has legs. But it has to come from you first. Beats the _Scotsman_ scooping your own material."

Freya gripped the phone. "There's no cover-up, Morag. Alistair told them the truth."

"Then why is the _Scotsman_ sniffing around? Fingal pressed send on that story tip warm—"

Fingal. Her producer. The man who'd sent her here. The man who'd given her the assignment to document the final year of the light.

"Morag," Freya said slowly. "Did Fingal leak the story to the press?"

Silence. Then Morag laughed, too brightly. "I'm not saying any of that. I'm just saying—don't make this harder on yourself than it needs to be. You have a career to protect. A woman our age, the industry wants to see you as a success story, not someone who buried herself in a remote island clinic writing grant applications for free."

Freya's hand tightened. "I have to go."

"Friday, Freya. That's the deadline. Don't make me call you again."

The line went dead.

Freya stood in the empty reception room, the card burning in her pocket and her phone still warm in her palm. She thought about the compass on her nightstand, the love note hidden inside, Alistair's eyes when he'd told her the truth about Eilidh. She thought about the footage in her camera bag: the islanders' faces, the wind-scoured streets, the lighthouse casting its beam into the dark.

She also thought about what Orla Saunders would do with the truth if Freya didn't get to it first.

The sound of the clinic door opening pulled her up. Alistair came in, shrugging off his coat, the rain darkening his shoulders. He looked tired but lighter than he had weeks ago, the bones of a future finally beginning to knit together.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, catching her expression.

Freya forced a smile. "Long morning."

"You want to run through the proposal again? I've got the survey figures from the funder—"

"Alistair." She said his name carefully, testing how it felt. "There's a journalist on the island. From the _Scotsman_. She's asking about the closure."

His face changed, the ease draining out of it. "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing." Freya held his gaze. "But she knows who I am. She asked about my footage."

Alistair's jaw tightened. "And does she know about the meeting? The true date?"

"She knows enough to make trouble."

He exhaled slowly, set his coat down on the back of a chair. "I should talk to her. Set the record straight."

"She's not interested in the record, Alistair. She's interested in a story." Freya hesitated, then pulled the card from her pocket. "And I think my producer might have tipped her off."

Alistair stared at her. The silence in the room turned sharp.

"To hurt me?" he asked quietly. "Or to hurt you?"

Freya looked down at the floorboards, at the scuffed paint, at the small, hard world they'd been building together. "I don't know anymore." She lifted her eyes to his. "But if she digs deep enough, she'll find the compass. She'll find the note to Eilidh. She'll find everything you've been trying to let go of—and she'll turn it into a headline."

Alistair stepped forward, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. "Then let her dig. I'm done hiding." He reached out and took her hand, his palm rough and certain. "Whatever she finds, it's the truth. And the truth is that this island, your footage, you and me—it's all part of something I'm finally willing to fight for."

Freya's chest ached. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to put the card in the bin and the phone on silent and never look at either again.

But she hadn't told him about the Netflix offer. And now Orla Saunders was here, circling, ready to pull them both apart.

She squeezed his fingers once, then let go. "I need to think."

She walked out of the clinic into the cold wind, the lighthouse beam sweeping steady across the grey sky, and she thought about all the lights she'd filmed going dark—and how the hardest one to turn off was inside herself.