Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Leith
Annand has fallen asleep in the armchair with the newspaper on his lap.
My heart gathers speed as I skulk over to the mantel and pick up the heavy clock.
Lugging it over to a spot directly behind my guardian, I lift it as high as I can, then bring it down on top of his head.
The clack of hard wood meeting hard bone echoes through the room.
Annand awakens and looks up, only for me to slam the clock over the front of his head.
I’m not taking any chances. I want him dead.
Blood oozes from the cracks in his head, and for a moment I’m mesmerized by death taking over where there was life seconds ago.
But after a few minutes of staring at my victim, I realize I don’t have much time.
I’ve read enough mystery novels to know I need to make it look like someone broke in and did this after getting caught.
So I drop the clock and start to lay waste to the room.
I knock over chairs, break lamps, toss books from shelves, and tear paintings from the walls.
When I’ve wrecked everything I can, I slip out the back again, climb the fence to Liùsaidh’s back garden, and go to clean up in her kitchen sink.
Jinx, the marmalade cat, slinks up and rubs against my legs. I’m sure he knows I’m a murderer, but he doesn’t judge. Nor do the fish in the tank on the bunker. To distract myself, I feed them a bit more and drag a ball of yarn across the floor for Jinx.
I wait an hour, then return to Annand’s place—it was never my home—through the front door. When I see Annand slumped over in his chair, I scream and pick up the phone to dial 999. I’m shaking, but not from shock. My voice trembles, but not because I’ve lost my guardian.
I killed him, and I plan to get away with it.
* * *
Sucking in a breath, I spring up from my pillow, gasping for air. The same fucking nightmare I have every week, only this time without the details of what I was doing before I killed Annand. This version got right to the point.
Iona stirs and turns, blinking up at me in the near-darkness. “You okay?”
“I’m awright.” I sink back onto the bed on my side, sliding a palm down her bare belly. There’s no point in either of us sleeping with clothes, since I usually take her several times every night.
“What was your nightmare about?”
She always asks this, and I always deflect, not wanting her to worry.
I swirl two fingers about her clit, feeling it swell under my touch. “Nowt important. Just stuff my subconscious fabricates.”
“Was it about recent times or the past?” A whimper escapes her as I brush my fingers along her folds.
“Both, I suppose,” I admit.
After all, these nightmares really only started up again once Irving dredged up the murder.
Feeling how wet she is, I throw the covers aside and crawl over her, pinning her wrists to the pillow above her. “You’re always ready for me, eh, wife?”
“Aye,” she agrees, her voice seductively soft from sleep.
Easing the head of my cock through her slick furrow, I proceed to bury my nightmares in the depths of Iona’s pussy. With each rough stroke I lay another image to rest, until I release the last of them along with my essence.
Now I can sleep soundly for the rest of the night.
* * *
Iona
On Wednesday just after lunch, I’m in the house library when my burner phone lights up with a new text. Sludge crawls through my veins as I reach for it and open it. I feel like the lowest traitor on earth as I read through the text.
“Make up something your mother told you once about your biological father’s whereabouts. Share it with Leith as something you’ve just remembered that might shed light on where Phyfe MacGilson is now. Keep it vague, but make it plausible enough that he looks into it seriously. Tell him tonight.”
I stare at the text for several long moments. How does Galiene—or whoever hired her—know about MacGilson? More importantly, why do they care? And why lead Leith up the primrose path?
My fingers itch to ask any and all of these questions, but I suspect this is a one-way text thread. They give the orders, and I execute them.
I need to find a way to out Galiene to Leith—or to prove my own innocence.
In the meantime, I’ll have to play the game according to her rules. Because Leith would never believe me as things stand.
* * *
Leith
At dinner, Iona remains silent, seeming preoccupied. When she still hasn’t touched her food and I’m halfway through mine, I nudge her hand. “What’s up?”
She knots her brow. “I remembered something this afternoon.”
“About?”
“MacGilson.”
My ears prick up. “Go on.”
“It was something Maw let slip when I was very young—maybe five or six.” She bites her lower lip.
“We were looking at pictures of Canada on a calendar, and she mentioned that our father had a cabin in the woods in New Brunswick. At my curious look, she put a hand to her mouth. I asked, Our father? and she reddened and said, Don’t ask me any more, darling.
Since she seemed uncomfortable, I didn’t prod her for more details. Now I wish I had.”
“How is it you never remembered before now?” I lay a hand over hers, stroking her thumb with mine.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was the act of looking at a map of Canada today that jogged my memory.” She shrugs. “But I very distinctly recall her saying that.”
“If he still has that cabin to escape to, it’s a good lead.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “If I can find a way to get in touch with MacGilson, I have a plan to lure him out of hiding.”
“How?” She carves a bite of stuffed eggplant.
“I’m going to pretend I told Aaron’s friends and relatives I’d avenge him by going after Kirkaldy, the man who stabbed him.
According to my story, the Syndicate will punish anyone who tries to beat me to the punch in my revenge.
I’ll tell MacGilson he needs to come forward to substantiate my claim that MacGilson kept your assailants from full-on raping you.
He needn’t fear being hurt by me or the Syndicate, because if we targeted him, it would call general attention to the assault that did happen.
That would trigger outrage among Aaron’s loved ones, and they’d take out the person who raked up Aaron’s charges all over again—namely, me.
Further, if anything happens to MacGilson, the public will look to me, one of Aaron’s closest associates, and I’ll be prevented from carrying out my revenge with impunity.
In this way, if anything happens to MacGilson, worse happens to me.
So it’s in my best interests to shield him from both the Syndicate and those close to Aaron.
And it’s in MacGilson’s best interests to surface in order to appease the latter. ”
Iona’s mouth slacks. “So you’re claiming you and MacGilson have in common the desire to placate Aaron’s loved ones? That’s brilliant.”
I cock a crooked smile. “Now what I’ll actually do once I have MacGilson out in the open is a different story.”
“How can you get the message to him?”
“While looking for his cabin in the woods, I’ll start the message circulating among his colleagues. A man like him doesn’t completely abandon all contact with his work, even when he goes into hiding.” I take a sip of wine. “After that, it’s up to him to contact me, which won’t be hard.”
“So you’ll pretend to show your hand first, so he lays his cards down.” Iona swallows. “Won’t you catch heat for going after Kirkaldy?”
“They can’t do anything till the crime is committed.” I pour more wine in her glass before refilling mine. “Though Kirkaldy is next on my list.”
* * *
Declan and I are in Declan’s cellar, subjecting Stennis to a thorough questioning. Jessie?2 that he is, he can barely take the waterboarding we’ve treated him to before he starts giving up information.
“One more time,” I rap out. “Who put you up to that article?”
“He—he called himself Beau French,” he gasps. “He was my anonymous source.”
“Describe him.”
Stennis coughs out water. “Tall, muscular, with dark scruff and a hawk nose. I think he had brown eyes. Black hair. He wore cargo trousers and a henley.”
I startle, since the description perfectly fits Aaron, right down to his style of dress.
“How did he get in touch with you?”
“He stopped by Horizons,” Stennis chokes. “Said you sent him to give me the inside story on some of the details in your memoir.”
“And you believed him.”
Stennis glares at me. “After all, you are with the Syndicate. Things are done differently with your . . . organization.”
“Why did you hang up on me on Monday when I asked for your anonymous source?” I grill.
“I panicked!” he sputters. “I realized you didn’t know about Beau French, and I was afraid of what you’d do.”
I saunter over and get in his face. “What have you learned from this?”
“To—to cross-check with you before publishing anything?” he hazards.
I pat his cheek. “And what are you going to do if we let you go?”
“Keep quiet,” he rushes out.
I nod to the soldier who brought Stennis in. “Untie him.”
When Stennis huddles at the door, shivering and bedraggled, I step into him. “Stay away from my wife. Clear?”
He nods hurriedly. “Aye.”
“Good. Now get lost.”
As Declan’s soldier shows Stennis to the cellar exit, Declan turns to me. “Where are you off to?”
“The police called me in for questioning. Jason’s meeting me at the station.” I wish I could get back to hunting for MacGilson’s cabin in the woods, as I’ve been doing since last night, when Iona told me about it.
“How’s the Lowing case going?”
“It’s not,” I admit. “I got tied up with other things.”
He slaps me on the back. “Let me know if you need anything. You’re overextended, mate.”
“Ta.” I appreciate his offer, since Declan always has a lot on his own plate.
In front of the station, Jason falls in step with me as we approach the door. “Stick with the questions we’ve gone over. Leave the rest alone.”
“Aye.” I’m grateful for his counsel, which squares with what I’d advise a client to do.