Nicola Ridd !exclusive! Guide

It wasn’t just loose. The latch wasn’t missing. It had been unscrewed . Deliberately. And tucked behind the hinge plate, folded into a tight square, was a piece of oilcloth.

Nicola Ridd had never believed in ghosts. She believed in rock pools, the grit of sand in her trainers, and the cold shock of diving into the North Sea on New Year’s Day. She believed in the weight of wet wool and the burn of a good, strong tea. nicola ridd

Nicola spun around. No one.

Inside the oilcloth: a photograph. Black and white. A woman in a long coat, standing in front of a stone circle Nicola had never seen. On the back, in her grandmother’s jagged handwriting: It wasn’t just loose

She was washing the mud off her boots when she heard a voice. Not a whisper. Not a memory. A real, clear voice, like someone standing just behind her left shoulder. Deliberately

But the moor believed in her.