Echo(14)

“Water?” the woman asks, hair the same shade of red as my own, piled up in a bun on top of her head.

“Please.”

“Flat, sparkling, or tap?”

“Flat,” I answer and then watch as she walks away, dazed in my unfamiliar surroundings.

These people are clueless to the world I just left behind, to the people I destroyed, to the beast I am. They sit, chatting quietly, very different from the loud and boisterous American manners, and I settle in the hushed atmosphere, looking over the menu.

“Here you go,” the waitress says in her thick Scottish accent as she sets the carafe of water on the table after pouring a glass for me. “What can I get for you, lassie?”

Unsure of the menu choices, I tell her, “Something warm and savory.”

“You’re American?”

I smile and nod, and she then suggests, “Rumbledthumps.”

“What?”

“Traditional Scottish dish. Will warm you up from the cold weather.”

It takes a few extra seconds to decipher her words through her accent. I never had difficulty understanding Declan, but this woman’s native tongue is coated much heavier than what I’m used to hearing.

“Thank you,” I respond, handing her the menu, and after I take a long drink of water, I pull out my phone to attempt to get a game plan together.

Once I gain access to the internet, I type in the name of the estate Declan told me about. I remember him telling me it was outside of Edinburgh, but I can’t remember where exactly. All I know is, I need to see the house. I need to know it’s real. I need to see what could have been mine if only I’d run with him when he asked me to.

Pulling up the search engine, I type in:

Brunswickhill Estate Edinburgh Scotland

It takes only a few seconds for the property to pop up on several different realty websites. I click on the first link, and when a picture of the estate pops up, my stomach sinks. Sitting here, I don’t breathe as I stare at the home Declan begged me to live in with him. I swipe the screen with my finger to view the other pictures. One by one, I see what was so close to being my life—my fairytale. It’s just as he described: a Victorian mansion set within immaculate grounds covered in lush greens, flowers, trees, and the grotto. I recall Declan telling me how much I would love the grotto that’s built from clinker.

Why didn’t I run with him when he asked?

Scrolling down the page, I note the realtor as being Knight Frank.

After taking a few minutes to read the online brochure of the estate and looking through the rest of the photos, my food arrives. I take small bites of the potato dish, trying to find comfort in the richness, but my knotted stomach makes it difficult to enjoy. Beneath my skin, wounds slowly split.

Setting the fork down, I start searching online for the public records on the house. It takes a little while, but I finally find what I’ve been trying so hard to hide from. But it’s here in black and white, right under my fingertips. The words informing that the bank seized the estate, and the date this occurred was only a few short weeks after Pike killed Declan. I can still taste his blood from when I took my last kiss.

I read further to find that it didn’t take long for the place to resell to a private buyer using an undisclosed trust. I’ve come to know through Bennett that this isn’t an uncommon occurrence among the wealthy. But regardless of the new ownership, I still want to see it. I mark the address and pull up the directions to find it’s located about an hour away in Galashiels. Taking one last bite of food, I get the attention of the waitress so that I can pay and be on my way.





“SLEEP WELL?”

“Yes,” I reply to Isla, the innkeeper, as I pour myself a cup of hot water from the kettle sitting out in the main dining room.

As I was driving through town last night, I came across this little bed and breakfast and figured it would be a nice place for me to stay while I’m here. Isla greeted me when I arrived, and despite being halfway across the world in a foreign country, something about her demeanor set me at ease. She welcomed me, settled me into my modest room, and quickly excused herself, which I was grateful for. I was beyond exhausted and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

“So what brings you to Gala?” she asks.

Dipping a teabag into the mug of water, I’m not sure how to answer. I’m so used to lying and hiding my real self that honesty seems alien. Truth is, I’m not even sure I remember the real me anymore. And then I wonder if I ever truly did. I’ve been faking it for so long. The last time I remember really feeling in place within this world was when I was five years old. It’s like the second my father was stolen from me, so was my identity. And when he died, that identity did too, and all I was left with was a shell of what used to be me. I tried filling the emptiness with hopes and dreams, but that was a waste of time. Then I turned to Pike, using him to fill me with voidance and comfort.