Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
But I run anyway.
The boots are a catastrophe. I am galumphing down the slope like a Clydesdale in a hurry, gait askew, every step landing with a wet thud, my basket bouncing on my arm, flowers spilling. I see a splash of yellow as gorse hits the ground. I see the foxgloves go. I don’t stop; I don’t look back. I make it perhaps fifty meters before I lose the basket entirely, tipping off my arm and the rest of the flowers go, scattered across the grass, the wicker bouncing once and rolling into a tussock. But I keep running. By the time I reach the cottage, I’m shaking from head to toe. My breath is sawing in my chest; my right boot has come half off my heel.
I get to the door and hurry inside. I slam it shut and lock it. I stand there panting, my palm against the door, and listen for whatever was pursuing me out there.
I listen for a long time.
But I hear nothing.
Nothing, and then, from a distance, a wren starts singing again, somewhere up in the thicket, and the world resumes.
I sit down on the floor, because my legs are not going to hold me. I pull off the wellies. My right ankle is rubbed raw where the boot came loose. My tights are torn. There are twigs in my hair. The basket and most of the morning’s work are scattered in a long line up the slope behind me.
I’ll go back for the basket later. Probably. Maybe.
I don’t move from the floor for a while, leaning against the solid door.
I am still on the floor when the knock comes.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three even raps on the front door that reverberate against my spine.
A scream strangles in my throat, my fingers curling into my sleeves.
I don’t get up. I don’t think I even can get up at this point. I’m sitting on the floor in a torn pair of tights with my heart hammering and a cold sweat down my back, and I know there’s a man at my front door, and the man at my front door is the man who has just been moving through the thicket behind me. I’m sure of it, as sure as I’ve been of anything.
The man from the castle had been chasing me, he chased me all the way here and—
The knock comes again. Lighter this time.
Then his voice.
“Iris? It’s Alasdair. Your neighbor. Are you all right?”
I close my eyes. Oh god. It really is him.
“I was driving past on the road…I saw you running. I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”
I don’t say anything.
“Iris?” His voice is quieter. “I’ll go if you want me to. I just needed to know you were all right.”
Something tells me not to answer him. I keep my breathing as quiet as I can, I count the seconds in my head. After a long pause, I hear his footsteps move away from the front step, down the stone path, on the gravel.
Then nothing.
I count to a hundred. Slowly. Mississippi style. Then I get up slowly, my hips and shins already screaming at me for attempting to run in wellies, and creep to the front window to look out.
The path is empty. The road beyond it is empty. There’s no car, no man.
I open the door and step outside, just to the threshold, and look at the gravel.
There are no tire tracks.
The road in to my cottage is unpaved for the last quarter-mile. It rained overnight. Anything that drove down it in the last two days would have left tracks. I can see the marks of my car’s tires from yesterday. I can see a single scuff where I walked out to the bins this morning. There’s no sign of anyone ese.
I stand on my doorstep looking at the empty road, and I remember, distinctly, that I never heard a car.
I close the door and lock it, then go back to the kitchen. I sit down at the table and try to think. I’m a single woman new to the area living alone in an isolated cottage. I’m exactly the type of person to go missing in any parts, let alone these parts.
I reach over to the junk drawer and pull out the information pack that the solicitor gave me on the first day and scan through it until I see the number I want: non-emergency police.
Sergeant MacRae arrives in just under an hour, which is impressive given that he had to come from Lochcarron. He’s a big man, fifties, reddish sandy-hair going to grey, the kind of physical solidity that Highland country sergeants seem to be issued at the academy. He drinks the tea I make him and doesn’t complain when I add too much milk. He listens carefully. He doesn’t write anything down at first, just lets me talk. When I’m done, he nods slowly.