Read Chapter 23: The Leak

The journalist’s name was Ross. He sat at the kitchen table in the bed-and-breakfast, the small recorder between them still running from breakfast, and Freya had stopped pretending her tea was drinkable. His laptop was open to the Scotsman’s homepage, and the headline above the article already made her stomach fold.

“I received an anonymous tip,” Ross said, his voice almost apologetic. “The source claimed Dr. Macleod had deliberately misled the islanders about the closure to protect his own tenure, and that you, as a documentary filmmaker, had uncovered this and were preparing a feature exposing him. Essentially—that the original story was a cover-up engineered for your benefit.”

Freya’s throat had gone dry. “Who gave you that tip?”

Ross clicked through his inbox. “A male voice, calling from an Edinburgh number. Couldn’t confirm the name, but he had your production credentials, your working title, even a list of interviewees from your earlier footage. This wasn’t a random crank. Whoever sent it had access to your files.”

The words hit her like a wave of ice water. Fingal. It had to be Fingal. The Netflix deal, the desperate calls, the pressure—he was manufacturing a story out of her life to either control the narrative or force her hand. And in the process, he’d handed her to the press as evidence of her own betrayal.

“I didn’t—” Freya started, but Ross shook his head.

“I’m not accusing you. But I’ve already interviewed two islanders this morning, and when I told them about the tip, they seemed less surprised than relieved. Several are convinced you manipulated Alistair from the start to get a scoop.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then you should be the one to correct it. Publicly.” Ross shut the laptop. “The paper will run the story tomorrow, with or without your response. Best case, I quote you denying the cover-up. Worst case, I print what I have and let the island draw its own conclusions.”

Freya pushed away from the table, the chair scraping against the stone floor. She found Alistair outside, at the end of the pier, boots wet from the morning tide, his breath steaming in the cold grey air. She saw the set of his shoulders before he turned, and the distance in his eyes when he did.

“You knew,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I only suspected this morning. Fingal—my producer—he leaked the lie to Orla Saunders, to create this story. I never told him about your original cover-up. I never wanted to use you.”

Alistair’s jaw tightened. “But you didn’t deny it, either. When Morag suggested you could scoop your own story, you didn’t shut her down. You kept the Netflix offer to yourself. You didn’t tell me about the journalist arriving until he was already here.”

“Because I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“You could have asked.”

The words hung between them, cold and final. Freya opened her mouth to explain—about the note in the compass, about the grant proposal, about everything she’d been juggling—but Alistair raised a hand.

“I thought you were staying for the island. For us. Now I wonder if you were staying for material.” His voice cracked at the last word, and he turned away, pulling at his coat collar. “I’ve been hiding for years. I told you I was done hiding. But I’m not about to be the punchline in another man’s story.”

“Alistair, listen to me.”

“I’ve listened enough.” He started walking toward the clinic, and Freya had to break into a jog to keep pace. “The islanders see a journalist on that pier, and they see you next to him. That’s enough.”

“I can tell them the truth.”

“What truth?” He stopped at the clinic door, hand on the handle. “That you found a love note I never gave to my sister’s best friend? That you spent the night writing a grant proposal for a lighthouse that will close in twelve days? That your producer is using me to make your career while you pretend to build one here?”

Freya felt the pieces of her life scatter beneath her like beach glass. “I didn’t tell you about the compass note because I didn’t know how to. And the Netflix offer—I was going to turn it down. I was going to stay.”

“Until the story broke first.”

A shout came from the village green. Morag was striding toward them, her face red with fury, waving a sheet of paper that Freya recognized instantly—her grant application draft, the one she’d left open on the clinic’s desk.

“This what you’ve been up to?” Morag thrust the paper into Freya’s hands. “Writing proposals to make yourself look like the island’s saviour while your producer spins lies to the press about our doctor?”

“That’s not—I was helping.”

“Helping yourself.” Morag’s voice was sharp enough to draw blood. “You came here to film, and you’re leaving with our secrets. The lighthouse, the clinic, Alistair’s past with Eilidh—you’ll have a documentary, a Netflix series, and a scandal to hang your name on. What will we have?”

Freya looked from Morag to Alistair, to the knot of islanders gathering at the far end of the street, their eyes hard and distrustful. Ross appeared behind her, camera in hand, capturing the scene.

“I’m not leaving,” Freya said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Then prove it,” Morag said. “Correct the story. Tell the paper your producer lied. And do it now, before we have to find our own way to silence you.”

Freya turned to face Ross, the journalist’s lens reflecting the grey sky, the cold sea, and the faces of neighbors who had become, in the space of an hour, her judges.

She had a choice. Protect Alistair and the island by exposing Fingal’s leak—sacrificing the Netflix deal, her reputation, and any chance of resuming her career. Or protect herself, let the story run, and become exactly the person they all suspected she was.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Fingal. The screen lit up with his name like an accusation.

Maybe he had planned everything from the start. Maybe she’d been a pawn in a story he was writing without her. But she wasn’t that person anymore. She hadn’t been since she crossed the bridge to this island.

Freya took a breath, squared her shoulders, and raised her voice so the islanders could hear.

“Mr. Ross,” she said, “you’re going to want to record this.”