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)
“And this man…” he says. “The same one who came to the door last night?”
“Same one. Or, I think same one. I haven’t seen his face. He said his name was Alasdair. He said he was staying at the castle.”
MacRae frowns slightly. “Across the bay on that spit right there, that castle you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Aye. Right.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He gets up. I follow him outside. He walks the property, from the slope behind the cottage, all the way up to the thicket, and into it for a few minutes. I stay at the front door, arms crossed against the afternoon breeze, holding my breath until suddenly I’m gasping, hoping he’ll walk right out of it soon. What if he doesn’t? What if I’ve led him right into the arms of the serial killer?
But he comes back down the slope eventually, my basket in one large hand and a few of the dropped flowers gathered into it. He hands the basket to me. That was kind of him.
“Anything?” I ask, taking it and giving the flowers a quick glance. Only a few foxgloves are bruised, but those are a dime a dozen here.
“Nothing fresh. Not that I can see. The ground in the thicket’s churned up, but that could be by deer as much as anything. There’s a deer track runs through there. Some of them get to be pretty big out here.”
“There were bones.”
“Aye. Saw them.”
“Yeah, but they were placed there.”
He looks at me for a long second. “Lass, bones get moved by everything that moves through these woods. Foxes. Pine martens. Bairns sometimes.”
“What the hell is a bairn?”
He frowns like I’m stupid. “Bairns!” He emphasizes, as if saying it louder will help me understand. “A babe. A child. Such as one belonging to a hiker or hill-walker. Tourists who don’t let the whole “free use” philosophy go to waste. I wouldn’t read too much into the bones.”
I nod, though I don’t believe him. I don’t think he believes himself, entirely, but I let it go. Last thing I need is for him to start using other Scottish words I don’t understand.
He comes back into the kitchen with me and we stand there, and he looks at the windowsill behind the sink, where the salt is in its thin neat line.
“This your work,” he begins, nodding at the salt, “or your aunt’s?”
“My aunt’s.”
“I thought so. I’d keep it up, if I were you. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
A small, dry, crooked smile that does not reach his eyes. “Well. You don’t want the old woman’s ghost to haunt you, do you?”
I don’t know. Frankly I have a lot of questions for Aunt Effie at the moment.
He gives me his card and tells me to call him directly if anything else happens, day or night. He tells me he’ll have a quiet word at the village shop and ask Mhairi if she’s seen any strangers lingering around longer than usual. He tells me to lock the doors at night. He tells me, almost as an afterthought, that there’s no record of anyone living at the castle across the bay since 1987, but he’s heard talk over the years, and wouldn’t be surprised if someone had been “kipping there” off and on. Old places attract that sort. History has a hold on people.
I stand in the doorway and watch his car go down the road disappearing around the forested bend toward the A896. The track he leaves is clear and obvious in the soft ground.
I close the door, lock it, then sit down at the kitchen table with the basket of recovered flowers in front of me. I begin sorting them, because my hands need something to do. Some have wilted, but most are usable. I’ll press what I can. Tomorrow is another day, after all, and the season still has more blooms to give.
And lord knows what else.
Later that afternoon, I’m at the front window with a cup of tea when I see him.
He is on the red sandstone rocks of his spit across the bay, fully dressed in black pants and a white shirt. His hair is dark and shiny, probably wet. He just stands there, staring at my cottage. His face seems even more obscure than ever, but like before, I can feel his eyes.
Eventually I close the curtain. For some reason it takes effort, like there’s a part of me—that wild and reckless and untrustworthy part—that wants me to keep it open, wants him to keep watching me all night. In some ways I recognize that part, it’s that barbed wire of impulsiveness that runs through me, the very same that caused me to uproot my life on a whim. But on the other hand, it feels like something else, something more, like I’m not in control of my own mind, as ridiculous as that sounds.