FORTY-TWO
This is the moment. This is where the imposter will falter in shock, and Gray will save the day by the sheer virtue of being a big looming shape in the darkness. It seems to happen exactly like that. The imposter falls back, eyes widening. Gray grabs him by the shirtfront and hauls him off his feet… and the imposter flinches, head ducking as if to ward off a blow. Then the imposter swings. I see the glint of metal at the last second. A hammer swinging straight for Gray’s temple. Before I can open my mouth, it smashes into his forehead.
Gray crumples. And what do I do? Nothing. I stay exactly where I am, and that is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
The attack happened so fast that I didn’t have time to burst from the shadows. I’m right where I started, backed up into the darkness, knife in hand, and when Gray goes down, I brace myself to fly out and attack. But I don’t get that chance. Gray collapses, and in the next heartbeat, the imposter is behind the open door, shielded from me.
I could still rush forward. That’s the hard part—that I choose not to. The imposter hasn’t seen me. I’m not invisible. Compared to Gray, though, I am. That’s all he saw—Gray lunging at him—and between the shock of that and the relief and delight of outsmarting him, he never thought to look for anyone else.
Now the imposter is behind the door, and he has Gray by the shoulders, and I stay in the shadows as he drags Gray into the room.
“Look who came to your rescue,” Findlay calls to Isla. “It’s your lucky day. I don’t need to tortureyouafter all. Let’s see if you’ll talk when your brother is the one in pain.”
The door is closing slowly. So slowly that I have time to dart to the other side and catch it with my boot toe. I wait for Findlay to notice.
Come on, asshole. You already missed a second person in the hall. You can’t also miss the fact that this door isn’t shutting.
I want him to see it. I have my knife ready. He’ll walk over to check the door, and I’ll give him an even bigger shock than Gray did.
He doesn’t check the door. If he notices it didn’t quite shut, he doesn’t care. He’s riding high on his success and chortling at having leverage over Isla, leverage that may mean he doesn’t need to resort to torture, which really isn’t his thing. I don’t want to know what he’d planned to do with that hammer, but he must have left looking for something to use it for—maybe splints under the fingernails again.
Now he’s talking to Isla about how he’s going to torture Gray and make her watch, and the glee in his voice could be mistaken for sadism, but I know better. His glee comes from knowing he’s going to get what he wantswithouttorture. Describing it will be enough for her to cave.
“Where should I start?” he says. “For a doctor, the hands are the obvious choice, but I get the feeling Dr. Gray values his brain more. That was quite a blow to his head. What if…?”
“Stop,” Isla says. “Please.”
She overdoes her sniffles, but Findlay buys it. After all, she’s a poor Victorian widow. It’s a wonder she hasn’t fainted by now.
I crack the door open. Then I angle myself until I can see inside. The sliver of a view is enough. Gray is unconscious on the floor. Findlay is on one knee beside him, hammer lifted to hit Gray in the head again. I can only see Isla’s skirts—she seems to be on a chair just out of sight.
“Tell me what happened at tea today,” Findlay says. “What does McCreadie know? What did that little cow tell him?”
Little cow? Is thatme? Huh.
“Catriona knows nothing,” Isla says.
Findlay lifts the hammer. My breath catches, but he only holds it above Gray’s head.
“You seem to be doubting whether I’ll go through with this,” he says. “That’s unfortunate. See, the thing about repeated blows to the head isthat they’re unpredictable. Your brother would tell you that, if he could. If I hit him in the same spot again, it will certainly cause brain damage. It could also kill him. And I don’t care. Is that clear, Isla? I don’t care if he dies. Just another body to add to my count.”
“Detective McCreadie has a lead on Archie Evans,” Isla blurts. “On why he may have been tortured.”
“Tortured? Who said he was tortured?”
Isla stops. Shit. How little did McCreadie share with his constable?
“I-I do not know,” Isla says. “There must have been some evidence—”
“It was her, wasn’t it? Catriona?”
“Ourhousemaid?” Isla voice rises in convincing incredulity.
“She’s been helping him. I know he escorted her as she played detective.”
“Perhaps, but as I said, Catriona has nothing to do with any of this.”
The hammer swings down. I see it swinging, too fast to be a feigned blow, and I throw open the door and charge at Findlay. He falls back. He might be faking it again. I don’t really care. All that matters is that his hammer is no longer on a collision course with Gray’s skull.