I read the note twice. Then I sink on the bed and read it again. Thursday night. The night Catriona was attacked. Findlay came to the dive bar and waited outside. Catriona was inside, summoned for a meeting with Davina. The two women exit. Davina gets her talking about how she’s using the police intelligence she’s getting from Findlay. Then he…
What did he do next? Follow her? Wait for Davina to leave? Confront Catriona?
I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. He overheard, and he tried to kill her. And Davina knew it. If she didn’t see the attack herself, she at least knew what happened. She had set Catriona up, and Catriona had been strangled less than fifty feet away. She couldn’t help but know why and by whom, and she must have been inwardly laughing her ass off when I came around begging for whatever scraps she might share.
Lost your memory, kitty-cat? What a shame. Pay me, and I’ll jog it for you.
It’s a good thing I didn’t get a chance to meet her tonight and pay for more information. She’d have led me on a wild-goose chase. She sure as hell wouldn’t have admitted she sold Catriona out to Findlay, and he’d tried to kill her for it.
I return the note to where I found it. The imposter has no idea what it is, not without also finding that first note, and even then, he wouldn’t understand the significance. I do, and together with the note from Evans’s pocket, it will put Findlay on McCreadie’s radar as Catriona’s attacker. I just need an excuse for McCreadie to search this apartment and find it.
Will the note from Evans’s room be enough? It’s in Findlay’s handwriting, which I’m sure McCreadie can—
A noise makes me jump. It isn’t my alert, though. This comes from the front of the house. The sound of hooves trotting along the road, which is hardly unusual. What startles me is how loud they are. Far too loud to be coming through a solid wall.
I snuff out my candle, walk to that end of the bedroom, and discover thereisa window. It’s small, just a typical basement window to let in a bit of light or air. It’s doing neither because someone—Findlay or his imposter—has covered it with dark fabric as a makeshift blind.
Footsteps sound on the sidewalk right outside the window. Booted footsteps. I can’t help lifting the edge of the fabric for a peek. If Findlay returns home from hunting in the Old Town, he’ll come this way, passing the town house before circling around to the mews entrance.
It’s not him, though. Just a well-dressed couple wandering home, a little unsteadily, as if they were at a neighbor’s for drinks. Before I drop the corner of the fabric, a movement catches my eye. Someone across the road. Someone in dark clothing, tucked in beside a shrub.
A figure across the road, watching the house. Watchingthishouse. Because I didn’t realize there was a damned window. The jury-rigged blinddoesn’t do a perfect job of blocking all light, and I suspect my candle caught their attention. I’m sure it’s Findlay until the figure shifts, and I catch a glimpse of red hair. My gaze shoots lower to see black skirts. A woman dressed all in black, as if in mourning. She’snotin mourning, though she would likely still have the attire for it.
“Isla,” I mutter as I let the drape drop.
Did she follow me? No, that doesn’t make sense. If she followed, she’d have come around the back. There’s no entrance from the front. She’s here for the same reason I am—because she has the damned address. She’s staking out the town house, possibly trying to determine whether Findlay is home.
I growl under my breath. Isla’s out front, and if Findlay does pass that way, he’ll see her, because she’s not nearly as well hidden as she seems to think.
Damn it. I should have had that talk with her. I really should have.
I keep telling myself that I’m doing fine in this world, waiting to get home but playing it cool. That is a lie. This investigation has been the only thing keeping me from breaking down in panic and fear at the possibility I might nevergethome. I’ve been treading water, keeping my head above the surface.
Things aren’t so bad here. I met Gray and McCreadie, interesting guys doing interesting things, and maybe I can help. Oh, Gray doesn’t trust me after I stole Isla’s necklace? Well, that sucks, but until I can mend that fence, I have another to lean on: Isla herself. She’s as interesting as her brother, and now that I’ve been forced to confess my truth to her, she is a true ally. I needed that. Needed it more than I realized, and when she took offense at my warnings, I backed down. I was afraid of losing her trust as I’d lost Gray’s. I couldn’t afford that. Mentally and emotionally couldn’t afford it, and so I screwed up.
Enough of the self-flagellation. At least I saw her, and I can remedy the oversight before she gets hurt.
I relight my candle. One last look around Findlay’s bedroom to be sure everything is as I found it. I step toward the hall, only to hear the soft clunk of my alert trigger, telling me someone has opened the back door.
I dart soundlessly to peek out the window. Isla is still there. Which means the person who triggered my alert is the apartment dweller: Findlay’s imposter. The killer inhabiting his body.
Two choices. Hide and then flee or confront him. If I were in one of Isla’s penny-dreadful detective tales, there would be no question. I’m the detective. The hero of the story. I can’t creep out and turn him over to the police. What kind of ending is that? A boring one. Also, in reality, the safe one.
Sneaking out and turning over my evidence would be the obvious answer, if I could turn overallmy evidence. If I didn’t need to tap-dance through an explanation that involves time travel and hope it’s enough for McCreadie to arrest his own constable—hisprotégé.
If I fail, the killer will take his next victim. If I fail spectacularly, and the imposter finds out that I fingered him to McCreadie, I will be his next victim. I’m already on his hit list.
I could end this here. I know the man in Findlay’s body is a killer. I know Findlay himself tried to kill Catriona. I could live with myself if I had to kill him. Dowse any regret I might have over whether or not the real Findlay deserves it, because in this world, he’d get the death penalty for killing Catriona.
I can hide. Catch him off guard. Kill him. Escape.
I’ve often wondered—as a purely theoretical exercise—whether I could get away with murder. As a detective with an interest in homicide, I have the advantage. A “crime of passion” where I’m unprepared? No. I’d make a mistake. Everyone does. But premeditated murder? Maybe. Inthisworld, absolutely. They are not ready for my level of expertise, no more than they are for that of the serial killer in Findlay’s body.
Here is my theoretical question put into practice. I can take what I know, kill Findlay, and escape.
It is a solution… and one I don’t seriously consider for more than a heartbeat. If I had to kill him to save others—or save myself—I’d do it. But I still have one ace left here. Isla.
If Gray doesn’t believe me, I will tell McCreadie the truth, and Isla will back me up. He will listen to Isla, possibly even more than Gray does. I’ve seen the way McCreadie looks at her. There’s history there. Unrequited history? Or just a failure to connect? Doesn’t matter. If Isla supports me, McCreadie will come around.