When he’d cleared away enough of the surrounding dirt, he pulled out a coil of iron chain made up of thick interlocking rings about twice the length of his forearm. At either end, he found manacles—oblong and thick, each of the bands close to eight centimeters wide.
Clark tugged the artifact carefully from the ground. The manacles were unlocked, and he made sure not to press them closed in his inspection. He’d never encountered a pair this old. The ironwork was masterful, like the dagger they’d found but much less ornate, designed for service rather than aesthetics. His hands tingled where he held the artifact, excitement shooting up his spine like an electric current.
How strange, that a pair of manacles could offer him his escape. For surely Clark could go now. Take these directly to the HES for lab testing and analysis. He wouldn’t have to stay here, with Riley. He could abandon the memory of her, his foolish fantasies.
A sick sort of euphoria settled over him instead of the usual sense of pride that came after a find. He documented the scene, collected soil samples, and snapped photographs, all with shaking hands. When Clark finally packed up to leave, he took the manacles with him. Since Riley had joint jurisdiction over the dagger, he’d get Martin to deliver it to the lab at some point in the future. Whenever she left.
He hurried up the steps on his way out. He was so close, almost in the clear when—there she was. In the entrance hall, backlit by the setting sun.
All evidence that Clark had ever touched her was neatly obscured by dark jeans and a long-sleeved crewneck. The hair he’d had his hands in last night flowed loose, freshly washed, over her shoulders.
After a lingering beat between them, she opened her mouth, then closed it as her eyes fell to the dirty manacles in his hands.
“What are you—”
“I’m going,” he said, cutting her off. “Leaving Torridon.”
Who cared if he hadn’t finished surveying the entire blueprint of the castle? A man had limits. Plus, both Martin and the HES wanted this assignment done ages ago. They’d all be relieved to hear he’d finally agreed to leave.
Riley nodded, tightly, her face unusually pale. “And you’re leaving because of me?”
He could have lied. But what was the point of being kind? She didn’t even like it. “Yeah. You win.”
The announcement didn’t seem to please her.
“I suppose”—she wrapped her arms around her stomach—“nothing I could say would change your mind?”
He frowned. She must have woken up guilty, to even offer.
Clark thought about it—Riley asking for forgiveness. Riley saying she wanted him. Riley begging him to stay. While the images conjured brief flashes of emotion, none of it moved him enough to change his mind.
“That’s right.” He’d learned his lesson. He wanted an end to this and had grabbed the first meager opening he found. “One artifact isn’t much to show for six weeks on-site.” As he held up the manacles, Clark could hear his father’s voice in his ear. “But perhaps I’ve always been more cut out for desk work.”
He stepped forward, past her. Was almost at the door when she said—
“Clark, wait.”
He paused but didn’t turn. “If you’re going to take back what you said last night, don’t bother.”
“I’m not.” The signature defiance that had been missing in her so far this morning crept into the statement. “I was just going to say that even if it’s true—everything I said—about your brother, your dad—you’re wrong about what makes someone worthy.”
“I’m wrong?” He had to laugh. If this was her attempt at an apology, it was as awful as her pillow talk. “Those are the last words you had to have?”
“Yes.”
He did turn then to sneer at her. Of all the wretched games . . .
“I’m trying to say—I want you to know . . .” She ran a hand through her hair, making it wilder than it already was. “You’re good. A good person. And you’ll be good—the same amount—whether you’re a famous archaeologist or a disgraced layabout or god forbid you join a band.” She pulled a truly appalling face at the last.
Clark, like most people, couldn’t properly hear praise, but Riley hadn’t delivered it that way. You’re wrong, comforting in its familiarity, had ensured her other words came in at normal volume instead of muted. You’re good.
He didn’t know if this was her attempt at an apology. If her conscience demanded she balance the scales a little before he left. But Clark heard the conviction in her tone. Strong, steady. Aimed like an arrow straight for his soft, smushy insides. She meant it.
This time, when he played back the accusations she’d hurled at him last night, he heard them slightly differently.
They were still a blatant attempt to wound him. A callout of his selfish desire to be seen, to be loved, to make his father proud even if it came at Patrick’s expense.
Clark had carried that rotten thought as long as he could remember. He’d tried to bury it, to shrink and ignore it. But it was part of him. Like a small, dark spot on his heart. The subject of constant shame.
He’d spent thirty-odd years trying to hide this . . . this failing. Before today, he couldn’t imagine anything worse than having someone, practically a stranger, see.
But now, if Riley thought—like she’d said—that somehow despite his moral deficiency, he was good . . .
Not that he could be, if he atoned. He was, she’d said, already.
In ways that transcended what he could accomplish.
Clark didn’t like her in that moment any more than he had this morning. But it was true that she’d already gotten what she wanted—he was leaving. She had no reason to lie.
Even if she had only handed him a parting consolation prize, Clark thought he’d like to keep it.
He held her gaze, allowing himself one final indulgence after a hard week, a hard month, a hard year. “Joining a band is the worst occupation you can imagine?”
Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “There is literally nothing more awful than having someone sit in front of you with an acoustic guitar and play a song they just wrote. It should be illegal. Where am I supposed to look? Your hands? Your mouth? What if it sounds terrible? I don’t wanna tell you.”
There was something painful in the way she uttered the hypothetical. Though she obviously meant your in a general way, the words left too much ambiguity for his fragile ego. Your hands. Your mouth.
Darkness descended upon them. The last sliver of sun must have slipped beyond the horizon. A strange fluttering noise drew their attention upward, to where all of a sudden the ceiling seemed to be shifting, breathing. Undulating, almost as if . . .
“Are those . . .”
“Bats,” Riley said a few seconds before him.
When the wave of tiny black animals crested and crashed, nothing stood between him and their shining eyes and minute fangs. Dropping the manacles, he dove to his belly on the ground at the last possible second.
The colony’s airstream ruffled his hair as they escaped out into the evening.
“Quite the farewell.” Riley got to her feet gingerly.
Clark stayed on the ground, trying to wrestle back control of his breathing.
“Here.” She offered him a hand up.