My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I force myself to loosen my grip. The Honda’s engine whines as I push it harder than I should on the narrow Highland road, but I can’t slow down. Not yet. Not until I’m certain he hasn’t followed.
I check the rearview mirror again. Nothing but darkness and the hypnotic swirl of sleet in my tail lights.
He’s not there. He can’t be there.
But my body doesn’t believe it. My shoulders stay rigid, my breath comes too fast, and every set of headlights in the distance makes my heart slam against my ribs. Three hours since I left Aberdeen. Three hours since I grabbed my emergency bag and ran. Three hours since Marcus put his hands on me for the last time.
The bruises on my throat throb with each pulse.
I pass a sign: Glencoe 10 miles. Something loosens in my chest. Glencoe. Where Gran used to take me every summer before she died. Where the mountains felt like fortress walls and the whole world narrowed down to just sky and stone and the smell of peat fires. Where a wee girl could believe she was safe.
The sleet turns to proper snow as I climb higher into the glen. Fat flakes splatter against the windscreen, and the wipers struggle to keep up. The temperature gauge on the dashboard shows it’s dropped to minus four. I should have stopped in Fort William for petrol, but the thought of being stationary, exposed, made my skin crawl.
Keep moving. Keep running.
The A82 narrows as it snakes between the mountains, and I slow despite myself. Ice gleams on the tarmac where the gritters haven’t reached. My summer tyres weren’t made for this. Neither was I, probably. A financial advisor from Aberdeen, running into a Highland winter with nothing but stolen cash and shaking hands.
Another check in the mirror. Still nothing.
The radio crackles with static before the signal cuts out entirely. No phone signal either, according to the dead screen of my mobile. Good. If I can’t use it, neither can he. I learned that lesson the hard way after the first time I tried to leave. Marcus always knew exactly where to find me. It took a while for me to find the tracking app he’d installed on my phone. Now I check for it every time I unlock my screen. Just in case.
The snow thickens, driving horizontal now as the wind picks up. I can barely see twenty feet ahead. The road curves sharply, and I tap the brakes.
Wrong move.
The Honda slides sideways like it’s floating. Time stretches as I fight the wheel, trying to remember what Dad taught me about driving in snow. Turn into the skid, don’t brake, don’t panic. But my body’s already flooded with adrenaline, and I overcorrect.
The car spins lazily, almost gracefully, before the front wheel catches the verge. The world tilts. My stomach drops as the car tips into the drainage ditch beside the road, coming to rest at an angle that pins my door against the embankment.
Silence. Then the engine coughs and dies.
“No, no, no.” I turn the key. Nothing. Again. The starter motor whirs but won’t catch.
I’m trapped in a dead car in a blizzard on a Highland road that might not see another vehicle until morning. If then.
Think. You’re not helpless. You survived Marcus, you can survive this.
I force myself to take stock. The passenger door should open. I’ve got my winter coat, though it’s not nearly warm enough for this. My emergency bag has water, energy bars, and the cash I’ve been hiding for months. My boots are decent. There might be a house nearby, or at least a bothy.
I grab my bag and fight my way out the passenger side, immediately gasping as the wind steals my breath. Snow drives into my face like tiny needles. Already I can’t feel my fingers.
Through the swirling white, I spot a faint glow up the hillside. Light. Warmth. Safety. It might be quarter of a mile, might be more. Distance is impossible to judge in this.
No choice. I pull my inadequate coat tighter and start walking.
The snow’s already knee-deep off the road. Each step is a battle. Wind howls between the mountains, a sound like grief itself. My jeans are soaked within minutes, the cold burning through to my bones. I stumble over hidden rocks, grab at heather for balance, force myself forward.
Just keep moving.
Twenty steps from the car and I’m already lost. I turn back but can’t see the Honda anymore, swallowed by the white. Panic flares in my chest. I could be walking in circles. Could miss the cottage entirely and wander into the glen until I freeze.
No. Think. The light was uphill. Keep climbing.
I fix my eyes on where I think I saw the glow and push forward. The slope is steeper than it looked, and I have to use my hands to climb in places, grasping at buried rocks and heather stems. Snow finds every gap in my clothing, melting against my skin and refreezing. My fashion boots—so practical for Aberdeen streets—slip and slide on the hidden ice.
A gust of wind knocks me sideways into a drift. I flounder, snow up to my waist now, heavy and wet. For a moment I just lie there, tempted to rest. The cold doesn’t even hurt anymore.
Get up, Sally. Get up or die.
I think of Marcus finding my frozen body. The satisfaction on his face. The way he’d play the grieving boyfriend, probably blame me for running off in a storm. That fury gets me moving again, crawling out of the drift on hands and knees.
The light flickers into view again, closer now but still impossibly far. I fix on it like a prayer and stumble forward. My legs won’t work properly, muscles seizing in the cold. I fall, push up, fall again. Taste blood where I’ve bitten my tongue.
Time becomes strange. I might have been walking for minutes or hours. The world narrows to the next step, the next breath. I’m mumbling something—numbers maybe, counting steps to keep myself focused. Or maybe it’s Gran’s voice in my head, telling me about these mountains. How they don’t suffer fools but sometimes show mercy to the desperate.
Please. Just a little mercy.
I hit a stone wall so suddenly I cry out. Not the cottage—some old boundary marker or sheep shelter. But it’s proof of human hands, and I follow it uphill, using it for support. The stones are ice-slick under my numb fingers, but they lead me true.
The cottage materializes from the storm like something from a fairy tale. Solid stone walls, golden light spilling from windows, smoke torn from the chimney by the wind. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
My legs give out ten feet from the door. I crawl the rest of the way, bag dragging behind me, past caring about dignity. All that matters is reaching that door.
I reach the door and pound on it with numb fists. Nothing. Again, harder, using the last of my strength.
“Please,” I whisper, though my voice is lost in the storm. “Please.”
The door opens so suddenly I’m falling forward. Strong hands catch my arms, and I look up into eyes the colour of winter seas. A face carved from granite, all sharp angles and dark stubble. Shoulders that block out the doorway.
“Christ,” he says, and his voice is deep Highland Scots. “What are you doing out in this?”
I try to answer but my teeth are chattering too hard. My legs give out entirely.
He catches me before I hit the ground, lifting me like I weigh nothing at all. The last thing I register before the darkness takes me is the smell of woodsmoke and wool, and arms that feel strong enough to hold back the storm itself.
