Chapter 8
Kitt
My heart lurches to my throat. I take another sip of tea, swallowing it back down. It falls to my ribcage, which is beating hard against my chest.
I skim the article as fast as I can for necessary information, knowing my time is limited and I need to get back to my young cod before Fiona sniffs something is up.
Finger hovering over my mouse to close the search window, my eyes rove back up to the header. So that’s his name. Opening a new search page, I plug the name into YouTube to see how it’s pronounced.
KAY-lin
I whisper the name out loud, claiming it, feeling the way it rolls from my tongue. “Cailean. Cailean Bayne.”
Cailean. Catherine.
So similar.
I only let our two names roll around in my mind together for one second. Too long for any sane person, but at least I cut the moment of madness off there.
I don’t need to read much more to get the idea of the article.
He may have been cleared by a jury, but the firebomb on the research center wasn’t his first time being involved in murder.
The jury was hung, indecisive. I’m not. From what I’ve read, the man sounds guilty.
Here the laws are different, and the judge decided that if ten could come to an agreement, she would make a ruling.
Ten jurors found him not guilty that day.
Two were still unconvinced. As I would be. Leading me to believe Bayne has killed before.
A woman. One he supposedly loved.
She was found strangled on the couch of his parent’s home. DNA of several people was found on her, but the results were inconclusive, not a perfect match to Bayne.
It’s how he got off.
If he had no trouble killing someone he cared about in cold blood, then got away with the murder, one of a local woman no less…
What’s stopping him from killing me?
Fiona gets up from her seat. “More tea?”
I click the windows closed, looking up at her with a smile. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“You okay?” she asks. “Your face looks flushed.”
“Too much caffeine,” I laugh. “I haven’t gotten used to all the tea yet. My heart is racing.”
She gives me a nod. “Right. I’ll bring you one of those choccy biccys you like instead.”
The first time they offered me a biscuit, I was expecting a southern style one and was so confused when they pulled out a crackling package of cookies. My mouth waters at the idea of the crunchy sweet. “The chocolate biscuits survived the fire?”
“No. The professor picked up some essentials on the way here this morning. He knows we can’t work without treats.”
“Yum!” I paste on a smile. “Better make it two. Thanks.”
“Be right back.” She flits off.
While Fiona is in the kitchen, I’m tempted to reopen the web browser and do some more investigating, but my cod friends call to me. The weight of responsibility bears down, and I open up my article and get to work. I’ve never been one to put off getting work done and right now with everything that’s happened in the past few days, focusing on the population of fish is exactly what I need.
I sense a change in the room. I look up, expecting Fiona to be back. Instead, my stomach drops into the soles of my boots.
There’s a police car parked right outside the doors of the Chronicle. Our doors. Instantly, I know they’re here for me.
Someone gets out of the parked car, walking around the front of the vehicle to cross the street.
DI Collins.
He looks right at me through the glass, our eyes locking. He knows I’m here. Running out the back is not an option. I quickly scan my mind, my heart, my conscience.
I don’t want to run. Do I? I want to witness, to tell the truth about what happened. I have to learn from the past. I can’t make the same mistake.
I don’t want to withhold information and live to regret it.
Not again.
I rise from my seat.
Fiona returns just as Collins opens the door, stepping inside. She holds a fresh cup of tea for herself, a small white plate with two chocolate covered cookies for me. Fiona’s head snaps from me to him, then back to me again. She turns her back toward the approaching officer. She gives the tiniest shake of her head, her eyes locked on mine.
“No,” she mouths, her eyebrows sky high.
I give her a quick nod of agreement. “Detective Collins.”
I try to smile, pushing my chair back further so I can walk the narrow space between the table and the wall. Brushing past Fiona, I give her forearm a quick squeeze. I take the plate from her, holding it up to the detective. “Choccy biccy?”
“No thanks.” He pats his flat stomach. “Gotta stay in shape in case I’ve got to chase any bad guys down.”
Fiona and I laugh politely.
“Ms. Kitt, can I trouble you to have a word outside? It’ll only take a minute. Then I’ll let you girls get back to saving your puffins.”
“Cod,” Fiona corrects.
“Cod. Right.” He holds a hand out, gesturing for me to go first. “Shall we?”
I feel Fiona’s wide eyes watch me every step I take as I lead the officer onto the sidewalk.
As soon as the door closes, he turns his heavy gaze on me. “Where were you last night? We sent an officer. He asked about you, but your friends said you were out.”
Lies.
Flashes of last night crowd my memory. The thought of ten robust officers breaking into the cottage, finding me tied up and whipped…
It’s all too much.
I’m feeling lightheaded. I reach out, pressing a hand against the cold tan stone wall. “How can I help you, sir?”
“You alright?” He eyes me.
“Yes. Just stood up too fast. Or too much caffeine. You guys drink a whole lotta tea over here.”
He looks mystified. “What about Starbucks? Aren’t you Americans obsessed with your overpriced lattes?”
“Not me.” Another thing that sets me apart from other Angelenos. Not only could I not afford it, but I also don’t like the taste of coffee. “Sorry about the other night. But I’m here now. And I’m so glad you came because like I told you on the phone, I saw everything. And now I know the name of the man driving the getaway?—”
My mouth is still open as my gaze slowly turns to face the west end of the main street as the familiar rumble of an engine overtakes the quietness of the quaint downtown.
DI Collins follows my line of vision to see what’s gotten my tongue. The red truck comes into view, crawling slowly down the main street.
The detective shakes his head. “The Bayne’s boy. That truck needs a new muffler but somehow passes its vehicle inspection every year.”
It’s a Toyota truck, like I told Collins I’d seen the night of the fire. Will he remember this detail? Ask me if this is the truck? This is my moment. All I have to do is tell DI Collins it was this man, driving by us, right now.
Heck—I could probably make this really simple and just point.
I’m just about to confess but Collins speaks first, stopping my words.
He locks eyes with me. “Those boys are dangerous.”
My mouth snaps shut. I wait for him to continue, hanging on to his every word. He narrows his bushy brows at me. “You’d do best to stay away from them. This one driving the truck, he killed his girlfriend.”
My mouth goes dry. “Did he?” I’ve read the details in the article but hearing them said out loud, in person, by a uniformed police officer, the danger surrounding me is palpable, swirling through the air I’m trying to breathe.
“Strangled her with his bare hands. Do you know how long that takes?”
“Um…” My stomach drops. I need a bathroom. Now.
“Over a minute,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “Really count that out. One second…two…three. All while looking the one you love in the eyes while the breath leaves their body.”
“A minute,” I whisper back.
Fear clings to my ribs, travels through my blood, my hands going cold and my face clammy.
The truck is getting closer.
“Broke his father’s heart. Literally. Old Man Bayne died of a heart attack the very next day. Just more evidence that his son was guilty, but not enough to convince a jury.” Collins turns to look at the truck. “Unfortunately, we’ve never been able to get control of that family, so if no one’s warned you off yet, here’s your official warning.”
I watch, wide-eyed, as the truck rolls slowly past us. Bayne is driving with one hand on the wheel, the elbow of his other arm casually perched over the frame of the door, the driver’s window down to give us a full view of his hardened, handsome face.
His blue eyes stare into mine, gripping my soul.
A soul he, the devil, seems set on making his.
Bayne finally passes by, and I take what feels like my first breath in over a minute. Long enough to die by being strangled by someone. I picture his big, strong hands around my throat, the cold metal of the two rings he wears pressing into my skin.
DI Collins drags me back to the present moment.
Slipping a hand into the breast pocket of his shirt, he pulls out a black notebook and pen. He flips the notebook open to a clean sheet of white paper. His serious gaze settles on my face.
“Let’s document your report.” The tip of his pen hovers over the paper. “How do you spell your last name?”
I can still see the red truck. He’s pulled over, and parked, watching me from his side-view mirror. I wrap my arms tighter around my middle.
What about Clive? Doesn’t he deserve someone to stand up for him? Responsibility, my civic duty, and mistakes from my past pull at me to tell him exactly what I saw. The instinct of self-preservation thrumming in my gut tells me to do as the girls say and mind my own business. I don’t know what I should do.
One thing I do know: the last thing I need is him watching me while I’m trying to talk to the police.
“Do you mind if we go inside?” I run my hands over my upper arms. “It’s a bit chilly out here for my California blood.”