Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAT
I’m connecting a piece of red string between Samantha Drummond and Possible money problems? when my phone pings. I ignore it and focus on securing the string with a tiny drawing pin.
It’s Friday night, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed in pyjamas with a green clay mask on my face. The cork board I ordered yesterday sits propped against my pillows like some kind of investigative masterpiece. Ideally, I’d be doing this in the living room, but Robbie’s turned it into a plaster-dusted war zone. My bedroom, which has yet to be plastered, offers a small sanctuary from all the dust and chaos.
When I opened the package this afternoon, Robbie shook his head and muttered “Christ” before resuming his battle with the walls.
He doesn’t know it yet—emphasis on yet —but this cork board is going to blow the case wide open. Admittedly, it’s not exactly teeming with evidence. So far, it’s mainly just a few colour-coded note cards listing stolen items and Samantha Drummond’s name underneath Prime suspect . Not quite Netflix docuseries material, but at least I’m getting organised. I’ll just have to wait for Bannock’s gossip mill to churn out some more clues.
When I decided to move back to Bannock, I pictured spending my weekends hanging out with friends and barhopping in Inverness. Instead, here I am, alone, in a glorified building site, playing detective. But honestly? At the end of a busy week in a new job, where I’ve not only had to make cheery small talk with colleagues but get to know and teach a bunch of judgemental teenagers, the last thing I want to do is go out and socialise.
Plus, staying in isn’t so bad. Despite the “under construction” vibes, Robbie’s making impressive progress, and I can already envision how amazing this place will look when he’s done.
Grabbing a fresh Post-it, I scribble: Seeking vengeance following romantic rebuff?
I attach it to the board and connect it to Samantha’s name with another piece of red string, completing my triangle of suspicion. Does the red string serve any real purpose? Probably not. But does it make me feel like a badass detective? One hundred per cent yes.
Today’s fieldwork, sadly, has been far less gratifying than assembling my conspiracy web. At work I casually dropped Samantha’s name into conversations with a few teachers. Then, wandering through town on my way home, I paused to chat with a few folk and slyly fish for clues. But the only whiff of scandal I picked up was to do with her divorce, which raised a few eyebrows at the time.
Apparently, she and her husband had always presented themselves as the perfect couple—matching Christmas jumpers, coordinated social media posts, the works. Other than that wee blip of gossip, most people just described her as polite, though she keeps herself to herself these days. My sweep of the town yielded precisely zero useful intel. So, aye, looks like I’ll need to dig a wee bit deeper if I want to crack this case.
My phone pings again. This time I check it. It’s the Scottish Sirens group chat.
Maisie
Guess who just walked into the Pheasant looking all broody?
He’s chatting up some tourist with legs up to her eyeballs
I frown at my screen, then another message comes in.
Maisie
Looks like your bad boy is getting lucky tonight
My stomach drops. Robbie? At the pub? Flirting with some tourist?
Maisie
He just touched her arm and she didn’t pull away. Just saying...
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I jump to my feet and hurry to my built-in wardrobe.
The cheek of it! Robbie left shortly after I got home. Had he stuck around, I’d have been very interested in his company. Exhausted from work or not, I’d have shown him a good time. But no, apparently he’d rather spend his Friday night getting chatted up by some tourist .
Well, one thing is for sure: I’m wide awake now. Funny how fast tiredness vanishes when you find out the bad boy you’ve been shamelessly flirting with for days might be going home with someone else.
I yank off my pyjama top and bottoms then reach for my jeans, but freeze when the bedroom mirror reflects a green-faced goblin back at me. Shit! The face mask!
A mad dash to the bathroom follows, where frantic scrubbing turns my face a blotchy pink, water splashing everywhere. Not exactly glamorous, but at least I’m no longer green.
Back in the bedroom, my phone pings again.
Maisie
She’s pretty. Tall, blonde, you know the type.
Oh, hell no.
Tossing my jeans aside, I pull out my pleated tartan mini skirt instead, the one that makes my legs look fantastic. Comfy briefs are swapped for blush-coloured French knickers. No harm in a girl being prepared, eh?
Humming away to Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club”, I pair the skirt with a black vest top and my favourite red cardigan, the one with the zip and cute wee hood.
A quick brush through my auburn hair, some mascara, cherry chapstick, and I’m good to go.
Well, almost.
After some determined rummaging at the back of the wardrobe, I pull out the pièce de résistance, a pair of black knee-high boots with heels sharp enough to do damage. I put them on, enjoying the satisfying zrrrp of the zip.
I check my reflection in the mirror, grin, then tap out a quick message to the group.
Cat
On my way!
No sooner do I hit send than another message pops up.
Iona
Lewis and I have plans tonight
Then there are two more pings.
Iona
But I’ll expect a full debrief later, okay?
You’ve got this, McIntyre
I thumbs-up her message then pocket my phone and head into the kitchen. The makeshift drinks cabinet—a cardboard box with Booze scrawled across it in black marker—holds exactly what I need: Glen Garve Whisky. I twist off the cap and take a generous gulp straight from the bottle. Liquid courage in its rawest form. It burns like fire all the way down but leaves behind something bracingly warm.
I wipe my mouth, replace the cap, and stride to the front door.
Time to stake my claim.
* * *
The Pheasant is buzzing, the cosy stone-walled pub having drawn its usual Friday night mix of locals and tourists. I scan the room, soaking up the warmth and chatter, the scent of wood polish and beer thick in the air.
Then I see him. At a corner table, half-drunk pint in hand, leather jacket hanging on the chair behind him. And aye, he’s got company. Across from him sits a woman with honey-blonde hair that falls in perfect waves around her shoulders. Her skin has that sun-kissed glow that screams, “I live in a place with reliable sunshine.” She’s laughing at something he’s just said, her head tilted back to reveal a slender neck.
Shit. Robbie’s surly quips aren’t that funny. This lassie is seriously keen.
I thread my way towards the bar, ignoring the appreciative glances from a group of male tourists clustered around a table. Any other night, I’d be flattered, but tonight I only have eyes for one man.
And damn, Robbie looks good. Dark jeans and a black henley that clings to his broad shoulders and shows off his muscled forearms, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo. His onyx hair is as shiny as ever, and a single lock has fallen forwards over one eyebrow.
The blonde laughs again, her fingers grazing Robbie’s hand for a fleeting moment. I narrow my eyes.
“Wow,” Maisie says when I reach the bar. She’s wiping it with a cloth but stops and leans over it to give my ensemble a once-over. “Those boots are lethal.”
“That’s the idea.” I nod towards Robbie’s table. “So, who the hell is she?”
The words tumble out sharp and bold, causing a few of the locals perched at the bar, including old Hamish, to eye us curiously. Nothing like a hint of small-town drama to liven up a Friday evening.
“American. Californian, I think. Been here about twenty minutes.” Maisie lowers her voice. “Between you and me, this might be for the best. I wasn’t sure you and Robbie was such a great idea.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Because he’s Robbie MacDonald ,” she says, as if that explains everything. “And your brothers would have a collective aneurysm.”
“My brothers don’t dictate my love life.”
“Oh, love life? Thought this was just Project Bang a Bad Boy.”
“It is,” I insist, watching as the blonde clinks her beer glass against Robbie’s. “But still, I don’t like seeing him with her .”
Maisie sighs. “Cat, I love you, but sometimes?—”
“Sometimes I know exactly what I want,” I finish for her. “And right now, I want that tourist to know she can’t just swan in here and steal my bad boy.” I straighten my shoulders. “Time to show her what a Highland lass in killer heels can do.”
Before Maisie can respond, I’m making my way across the pub. Robbie looks up as I approach, surprise flickering in his eyes before they travel the length of my body in a way that sends a thrill through me. He lingers on my legs—can’t blame him, considering the amount of thigh I’m showing. Only after he’s finished his visual tour does he meet my gaze again, his familiar scowl settling in.
“Sorry I’m late, babe,” I announce loudly. “Got held up at work.” Leaning down, I press a kiss to Robbie’s stubbled cheek. He goes rigid.
“Oh!” The blonde’s pretty blue eyes widen and she looks between us. “Are you guys an item? I’d no idea. Robbie, you didn’t mention...” Her accent is definitely American, and aye, between her blonde hair and golden tan, she’s bonny all right.
“No, we’re n?—”
I slide onto Robbie’s lap before he can finish. “Och, you’re such a joker, Robert!” I wrap an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve been together, what, three months now?”
Up this close I can see flecks of silver in Robbie’s blue eyes, which right now are shooting daggers at me. I give him my most innocent smile and tighten my grip on him.
A small voice in my head whispers that this is childish, manipulative even, but I push the thought away. Too late to back out now. I’m in deeper than Nessie in Loch Ness.
Robbie’s hands find my waist—his fingers brushing the sliver of bare skin just above my skirt, sending tingles blooming across my stomach—and for one blissful second I believe he might play along. But then he’s lifting me off his lap and setting me firmly on my feet.
“Sorry about this,” he tells the American, his voice tight with barely contained anger. “I’m doing a bit of work in Cat’s flat. That’s all.” His eyes slide to mine, and wow, he is not happy. “We’re not dating.”
The blonde glances between us, confusion evident on her face. “You know what? I... think I’m going to call it a night. It was nice meeting you, Robbie.” She gathers her jacket and handbag and gestures between us. “Good luck with... whatever this is.”
She walks away and Robbie turns to me, his eyes flashing, his jaw tightening. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” I try for innocence, but it falls flat even to my own ears.
“You had no right to do that. No right at all.”
I slide into the vacated seat. “I’m basically your private investigator. If you’re going to flirt with anyone, it should be the lass working on your case.”
Rather than responding, Robbie drains the rest of his beer then goes back to glaring at me.
“What’s so wrong with me anyway?” The words burst out, fuelled by a mixture of irritation and something that feels uncomfortably like rejection.
Robbie shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong with you. Well, other than the fact you clearly don’t take no for an answer. And that wee performance you just pulled? Downright self-centred. You can’t just waltz in and act like folk belong to you.”
My cheeks warm. Suddenly I don’t feel quite so bold. “I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “That was... immature of me.”
“Aye, it was.” Robbie stands and pulls on his leather jacket. “I’m heading home.” He strides for the door.
“Wait!”
Several patrons glance our way as I hurry after him, nearly tripping over my boots in my rush. By the time I burst out onto the lamplit street, Robbie is almost at his motorcycle.
“Robbie! Please, can’t we talk?”
He doesn’t answer. Not even a glance in my direction as he swings his leg over his bike.
I decide to change tactics. “How much did you drink in there?”
“I’m quite capable of getting myself home.” He still won’t look at me. He grabs his helmet from where it’s secured near the rear of the bike.
I fold my arms and do my version of stern teacher. “I can’t let you drive after imbibing alcohol, I’m afraid. For your own safety and that of others.”
Perhaps I’m being manipulative again, clinging on when I should probably let him go. But I just can’t leave things so sour.
Robbie glowers at me. “Who says ‘imbibing’? Besides, yesterday you were the one offering me a beer from your fridge before I rode home.”
“Aye, well.” I put my hands on my hips. “You wouldn’t want to be reported to the police for drink-driving now, would you?” It’s a low blow, and I know it. With everything else Robbie’s dealing with, the last thing he needs is more trouble with the police. But still, I stand my ground.
Robbie gives me a hard look, then he sighs, secures his helmet back onto the lock by the rear wheel, and snaps it shut with a sharp click.
“Luckily for you,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “I have a perfectly good bed in my flat. You can crash at my place.”
“No chance. If you’re not allowing me to take my motorcycle, then I’ll walk.” He turns and heads up the street, aiming for Bannock Woods and the footpath that leads to his cottage.
“But... that’ll take an hour!”
“I know,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s why I wanted to ride home.”
I stand there, watching him go. I glance down at my heeled boots then back at Robbie’s retreating form.
“Wait up!” I call, breaking into a run despite the impractical footwear.