Chapter Twelve Inside the Lion’s Den
Chapter Twelve: Inside the Lion’s Den
Finlay
FInlay thanked his lawyer as he walked out of the police station. According to his lawyer, the police had no right to detain him when his prints were not on the murder weapon.
And until the results were out, he was a free man.
For now.
Benjamin had flown in with a lawyer as soon as possible. Finlay only spent a day in the holding cell. The lawyer was in the taxi waiting while Benjamin and Finlay talked.
“So, you didn’t receive any call from any lady?” Finlay asked.
“No, I didn’t. Am I supposed to?” Benjamin asked.
Finlay’s heart sank. Benjamin handed him his phone. “You got yourself a girlfriend?”
“No, but she was more than that…” he murmured, taking his phone from Benjamin. He pressed the power button, waiting for his phone to boot.
“A wife then?” Benjamin joked, giving him a light pat on the arm. “She probably didn’t want to get into trouble.” He shrugged.
That doesn’t sound right. “Maybe,” he muttered, scrolling through his notifications. It felt like someone had pinched the scab off an open wound. He thought they had a connection. His finger froze when he spotted her name among his messages. He clicked on the message and began reading.
“So, the plan is to sneak you out of town and forget about Lochraven. It’s been nothing but trouble.”
No, I can’t leave.
“I can’t. No, I can’t leave. You heard what the police said.”
“Screw the police. In case you don’t know, they are pinning this one on you because you are not one of them,” Benjamin said.
“They are incompetent, and trust me, this is not the best place to be as the number one suspect in a crime you and I know you didn’t commit.
” He chuckled, taking a step back. “What if it’s her?
Didn’t you say she didn’t support our project? That she hated you?” Benjamin pressed.
“It can’t be. She is my alibi. She is…” He trailed off. “I have to go, I’ll call you later.”
“Finlay! You’re not thinking straight, mate!” Benjamin called after him.
Finlay went to the MacLeod’s house. He was unable to reach Isla. He knocked on the door impatiently. The door opened, and Moira smiled when she saw him. “Finlay, laddie, welcome,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “They didn’t let us see you.”
“Is Isla home?” he asked.
Moira’s body went rigid. “I thought ye two were together.”
“What are you saying, Moira? She is not back?” He dialled her number again. Moira rushed inside the house, picking up the house phone. She punched the numbers on the keypad with her fingers. Her face was horror-stricken.
Finlay followed when Isla’s number didn’t go through for the hundredth time. “She sent me a text saying that she was going into the manhole,” he said to Moira.
“What manhole?”
“By Joan’s house. Into the tunnels.”
Shakespeare.
Finlay felt uneasy. He reached into his pocket to check the time, but it was empty. His pocket watch was gone. He exhaled slowly, trying to recall if the police had taken it from him.
They hadn’t. He couldn’t remember ever submitting his watch when he was placed in the cell.
Where is my watch?
A pang of guilt and pain pierced his heart. After this was over, he promised himself to search every pawn shop in town. Place posters for a reward for whoever found it. If this day could get any worse.
Moira was quiet. She placed the phone down after calling Isla repeatedly. “Ye hae to go look for her. While I go to the police.”
Huh? His eyes met hers, and she looked at him as if he were her only hope. He couldn’t fail her. Moira accepted him even when Isla did not.
“I will.” Finlay nodded. He turned toward the door but felt a soft pull on his arms. “Ye will need something,” she said. “Come with me,” She led him to the study. She shuffled through the shelf, searching. Then she pulled out a paper box.
Moira turned the box upside down, spilling the contents over the mahogany table. She began to search through the paper and leaflets.
Finlay peered over at the content.
“Aye.” She pulled out a folded paper. “This is map for the tunnels. Ye will need it if ye are down there,” she said, spreading the map. “Ye follow here, and it will lead you to the bookshop.” She traced a path on the map.
“The bookshop?” Finlay asked.
“Aye, I’ll be waiting.” She paused, staring at him. “I don’t want you to forget this.” Moira rushed to the other side of the table, pulling out one drawer and fetching a pen. She slid the map over to her side and marked the route. “Ye follow this path.”
A photo caught Finlay’s eyes. “Where did you get this?” he asked with wide eyes. His heart thundered in his chest. Finlay felt like he was going to pass out. Moira walked over to his side, taking the photo from him. She placed it on the table.
There were four people in the photo, and Finlay recognized three of them. Two men and two women in their twenties were smiling with their teeth on full display.
“That is me.” Moira pointed to the lady on the left. “That is my late husband, and that is Caitlin Keith… and that is Farlan Fairgrieve.”
Finlay stumbled back. “Did you know him?” He pointed at the last man in the picture.
“Farlan? Yes, he was a construction engineer. He built the tunnels and most of the buildings in town. He left Lochraven for the big city.”
Wrong, Moira, he was my father.
Finlay pressed a hand to his chest as if it could pacify his racing heart. He left Lochraven because he was betrayed.
“I should go before it’s late.” He backed away.
“Don’t forget this.” Moira grabbed the map, handing it to him. Finlay took the map from her and ran out.
“Be careful!” she called after him.
Finlay’s phone chirped as he rushed out of Moira’s house. It was Benjamin. “Hello?”
“Have you made up your mind yet? We leave tonight, Finlay,” Benjamin said.
Finlay let out a frustrated groan. He skidded to a stop, shutting his eyes tightly and wishing circumstances were different. “Benjamin, I have a confession.”
“Come by the hotel, and we can talk about it,” Benjamin insisted, his voice laced with slight impatience.
But Finlay didn’t want to go. Not without finding out the truth. Mrs. Keith had always thought he looked familiar, and that was because she had encountered his father. “My father was conned out of the church,” He choked out.
“What chur—you’ve got to be kidding me!” exclaimed Benjamin. “St. Albert? Oh my God, oh my God.”
“I’m sorry, Benjamin. His friend stole it from him, and I came to Lochraven to reclaim it. I cannot leave without knowing the truth.” He hung up and then dialled Mr. Hamish.
“Finlay?” Mr. Hamish’s voice was laced with disbelief. “I thought, I mean, I heard…”
“Yes, Mr. Hamish. I am still a free man. I need your help.”
Mr. Hamish’s eyes scanned the cryptic letter, his brow furrowed in concentration. Finlay leaned in, curiosity etched on his face, as they sat in The Binding Room.
“Ah-ha!” Mr. Hamish exclaimed, deciphering the final code. “It’s a threat, Finlay.”
Finlay’s eyes widened as Mr. Hamish read the decoded letter:
Ye hae got some nerve, expecting me to keep covering for ye after everything ye hae put me through. I’m still trying to process how ye could be so heartless, setting me up to take the fall for something I didn’t even do.
I helped ye out of a jam out of loyalty, and this is how ye repay me? By threatening me? Ye are a monster. I should have exposed ye. Let the word see ye for who ye really are.
I will leave town, so keep your precious property. But mark my words. One day, the truth will come out, and ye will regret betraying me.
“I believe I deserve to know where ye find these letters,” Mr. Hamish said with a stern look. “Because…”
Finlay’s face paled, his eyes glazing over. He abruptly stood up, knocking over his chair. It was his father. His father had helped bury Buchan in Mrs. Keith’s house.
“Finlay, what’s wrong?” Mr. Hamish called out, concern etched on his face. “Are you okay?”
But Finlay didn’t respond. He stumbled out of the bookshop, leaving Mr. Hamish and Eryn exchanging worried glances.
My own father… oh God. “Excuse me,” he said, walking out of the bookshop. He kept walking and walking without stopping. His father helped cover Buchan’s murder.
That meant he would have to expose his father’s sins if he were to pursue this further.
I shouldn’t have come here. He fought back tears.
The pain in his throat became unbearable.
Finlay sat on the sidewalk with his head buried in his palm.
He could go home in a few hours with Benjamin and forget everything about Lochraven.
Forget about Isla MacLeod and her tiny glasses stuck in the forest on top of her head.
Or he could go to Joan’s house and find her.
And then tell her the truth about himself.
She would hate him. That he knew.
With a heavy sigh, Finlay pulled out his phone, scrolling to Benjamin’s number. His finger hovered over the contact as he contemplated. Everyone would know he was the son of Fairgrieve.
But then the letter was found in Buchan’s house. How did it get there?
Who else has access to Buchan’s house?
He narrowed his eyes, plagued by questions. Who did my father help?
Woof!
Finlay straightened up, his eyes darting in the direction of the bark. Shakespeare raced out of a corner. “Shakes?” he called. “Shakes!” He spread his arms out as Shakes leapt into them.
“Shakes, where is Isla? Where is she?” he asked, rubbing Shakespeare all over.
When they had had enough reunion, Shakes squirmed out of Finlay’s arm and began running down the street.
He stopped a few distances later, noticing that Finlay was not following him.
He barked in the direction of Joan’s house.
Decide.
Finlay looked down at the phone in his hand and then at Shakespeare. What’s it gonna be, the truth or my father’s honour? With a heavy sigh, he slid the phone into his pocket and ran toward Shakespeare.
Shakespeare led Finlay to the side of Joan’s house where the manhole was located. He pawed at the metal cover and then turned to Finlay. She was down there, and he knew it. He rushed over to the manhole, lifted it up, and began climbing down the steps.
“Shakes,” he called, reaching for the dog.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, he switched on his phone light and scanned the area. It was dark and warm.
“Isla?” he called in a whisper, setting Shakespeare down.
A shadow caught his eyes, and he flashed his light in the direction. Silence. Shakespeare barked in the direction of the shadow. And then raced into the darkness. Finlay followed him.
They ran together, coming face to face with the shadow. It was a man. His back was turned, and his hands were raised in surrender. “Callum?” Finlay called.
“Aye, ye got me.” Callum turned around.
“You bastard.” Finlay charged toward him, shoving him into the wall.
“Shhh, he will hear you.”
Finlay tightened his hold around Callum’s shirt. “Who? Who is here with you? You murderer!” he demanded through gritted teeth.
“I dinnae kill anybody. I’m here to help, Finlay,” he said, yanking Finlay’s hands away from his shirt. “It wasn’t me. It was Dugan Stewart. He is the killer. He killed them all. And he will kill us if ye don’t shut up!”
Finlay stumbled back. He waved a hand toward Shakespeare, hushing his barks. “Dugan?”
“Aye,” Callum answered. “I’ll tell ye all I know.”