“She started rumors the wee mite was a witch. Got her attacked by some of the other kids in town. That’s when her granny sent her away.”
A witch? Just like Sorcha had said, but he’d blown her off.
Sheila took another sip of coffee before she continued. “Everyone knows the Logans are gifted, though it seems to have skipped Angus and Robbie right enough.” She snorted.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, psychic powers, telling the future, mind reading, that sort of stuff.”
Ben shifted uneasily against the hard, unforgiving bench. “How do you know these gifts aren’t tricks?” Gimmicks, hoaxes, scams.
“I didn’t believe it either until I met Iain. But he knew things.” She blinked a few times and gave him a watery smile. “He’s the reason Jordy went to the doctor at all. Without Iain, I wouldn’t even have had that last year with my husband.”
Dishes clanked in the kitchen and Sheila shot a glance over her shoulder. “Eileen told everyone who’d listen that Iain’s daughter had a tantrum right before her daddy left that night and she put a rabbit’s foot in his pocket, without him knowing.”
“I thought that was supposed to be lucky?” Ben didn’t bother to hide his confusion.
“Not to a Fife fisherman.” Sheila’s curls bobbled as she chuckled. She checked her watch again, clearly needing to be elsewhere. “They’re strange folk. If they find a rabbit or a salmon onboard their boats they’d go home without leaving port. Bad omens.” Her eyes flashed to the window as a flare boomed and the glass shook.
Ben reached for a gun he no longer wore. Thankfully Sheila didn’t notice as she stood up and patted him on the shoulder.
“Most superstitious bunch of big girls’ blouses I’ve ever met.” She grinned as a second boom rocked the earth. “Practice run for the lifeboat crew. Gotta dash. Come by the station any time if you’ve more questions. I’m there most days.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, winked before hurrying away.
Eileen Logan stared after Sheila with pitiless eyes, the way a hunter watched his prey.
Ben finished his coffee but lost his appreciation for the taste. He watched Eileen from the corner of his eye, unwilling to let her out of his sight. Instinctively he didn’t trust her. There was a quality about Eileen Logan you didn’t turn your back on. Or if you did, you deserved the big butcher’s knife she stood sharpening in the kitchen thrust squarely between your shoulders.
***
Turning the corner, he saw the American standing outside the Fisheries Museum. His body seized. A vision entered his head. A flash of tropical sunshine, the blast of a gun, red blood dripping onto a marble floor and he knew…he knew the American was a cop involved in the destruction of the Colombian cartel.
Staggering backward out of sight, he collapsed against a whitewashed wall. His brain felt superheated and he pulled off his sweater and flapped his shirt to drive cool air over his skin. He reached out to steady himself as his head whirled with dizziness. Flames surrounded him. The screams of long-dead witches, torched for lesser crimes than his, shrieked in his head and made his teeth ache.
Suddenly aware that people were watching, he stood straight and forced one foot in front of the other, knowing the endgame was near. But where were the journals? He frowned, looking inward. He’d searched but he hadn’t found them. Maybe they’d been lost or destroyed? One thing was clear—with the police this close, it was time to disappear. Time to take his chances and enjoy the life he’d been working so hard toward all these years.
There were still a couple of things to take care of. His fingers curled around the handle of the knife he carried in a leather sheath at his waist. Despite all his efforts, his plotting and manipulations, Sorcha was still alive.
She had to die.
He absorbed the smell of the sea and the bustle of the harbor on a sunny day. Jogged across the road and narrowly avoided being hit by a speeding car. The sharp honk of the horn made him scowl. He forced a smile and raised his hand in apology to the stupid bastard driving.
Crash and burn, asshole.
He’d slaughter the last witch and slip away, get himself a new life. Sorcha would have nothing but pain for eternity. Pain and darkness, like all the other Fife witches.
***
Sorcha ran, her mind blank except for the beauty of the landscape and the rhythm of her body. The sand was packed hard beneath her feet as she pounded the beach. Her breath was hot in her lungs. The muscles of her chest felt sore. Each expansion pushed her harder, faster, further, desperately trying to get into the zone. She tasted the sea upon her lips, felt the wind scrape her cheeks, the burn of exhaustion pushing her to the limit.
She sensed his presence before she saw him.
Caught a flash of black running gear and hair that glistened like wet onyx in the sunshine. She glanced sideways and quickly looked away. She wasn’t surprised he was there, and that bothered her.
Am I really this easy?
Something about Ben Foley breached every defense she’d ever raised. Left her all too aware of the potential for heartbreak.
The mile-long beach curved around a headland where the River Eden cut past the golf courses and poured into the sea. Her footsteps slowed to a steady jog near the end. Ben easily kept pace.
Stopping abruptly, she bent over, drew in harsh gasps of clean air into her tortured lungs. This was her third lap of the beach and even now she couldn’t get the cruelty of her aunt, the cacophony of voices, or the damned Yank out of her head. And here he was to torment her in person and ruin what was left of an unseasonably warm autumn day.
She propped her hands on her knees, tilted her head to look up at him. He wasn’t even breathing hard, had his hands on hips, watching her with a guarded expression. The line of moisture running down his temple had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the proximity of the waves. His gaze flicked nervously to the water and, from the ashen tone of his skin, she realized he was making a huge effort to talk to her.
She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Didn’t want the heightened awareness, the tingling in places that had no right to tingle. And it was the deeper connection that really troubled her. The empathy she’d felt when he’d told her about being bullied as a kid, the gentleness when he’d handled Carolyn after her attack, and the strength with which he’d saved her from Duncan last night.
He drew her in a way no other man ever had. Or maybe it was loneliness, the terrible feeling of rejection and humiliation tearing away a lifetime’s façade of trying to fit in—and failing.
Perspiration grew clammy on her skin, and the heat in her cheeks meant they’d be glowing red. She hoped the combination was enough to put him off, because despite everything she was going to need help.
St. Andrews shone brilliantly in the distance, a beautiful medieval town. She didn’t even see it. All her senses were focused on him as she watched him from the corner of her eye.
She should thank him for rescuing her last night but couldn’t find the words.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay, after last night.” His voice was deep and sent a dark thrill along her nerves. “And to apologize, properly, for the other day.”
He took a step closer.
“I’m a bastard.” The flush riding his cheekbones suggested that explaining wasn’t easy for him. He scrubbed a hand across his face. “I’m talking literal as well as metaphorical, okay?”
She blinked.
“I’m illegitimate.” He spelled it out.
“Oh.” Her eyes stretched wide as she finally got it. “The condom thing.”
“Yeah.” He raised his face to the sky as if trying to rein in his temper. “The condom thing.”
“That was stupid. Not using a condom.” She wasn’t a dumb person. Or careless. If anything, she worried about every little detail. “I’m sorry you worried, but I really am on the pill.”
She wasn’t looking for a marriage proposal or even promises of tomorrow, and
she didn’t want to get pregnant, not yet anyway. She’d pushed thoughts of a husband and family to the back of her mind. Maybe one day, assuming she wasn’t incarcerated in some lunatic asylum. But she was hardly in a position to have a normal life. Not when she burned to death every night in her dreams and saw her deceased father on a daily basis.
The look in his eyes was shielded, though she caught a glimpse of vulnerability in his face, and it struck her that maybe he hadn’t been wanted. Maybe that’s what it was about him that attracted her. Because she could relate. Her mother had taken off when she was eight and hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms when her father died. The sense of rejection when a parent abandoned you was all-consuming, and even the death of a parent felt like proof there really was something wrong with you.
Except her father had loved her and wanted her, right up until the day he’d died. She believed that. Then he’d forsaken her.
But maybe he hadn’t wanted to.
Maybe that was what he was trying to tell her from the grave.
“Do you ever see your dad?” she asked.
“Don’t even know his name.” Ben sank to his haunches, and the muscles in his thighs bunched. “Not sure my mom did either. We lived with her parents, but I didn’t get along with my grandparents.” He picked up a shell and stabbed it into the sand. “If it wasn’t for a neighborhood cop, I’d have probably ended up in juvie.”
“You turned out all right.” They shared a smile that shouldn’t have meant anything. But did. “Your apology is accepted.” She grinned, then stammered, “And I’m sorry too, for, ah, misreading the situation.” And jumping your bones. God, how mortifying.
Ben snorted. “Yeah. Right. I think I gave you a little help with that and then treated you like crap. You should punch me on the nose for being an asshole.”
A spaniel yapped and a toddler splashed in the surf a hundred yards away, shrieking at her mother.
“Soo.” Blood still heated Sorcha’s cheeks, and the hot skin burned as she pressed her fingers to her face. They’d found a dead body together, shared a drink, secrets and sex. She’d saved him from drowning, he’d saved her from Duncan. They hadn’t even kissed.
Where could they possibly go from here?
***
Working undercover for the DEA, Ben was used to breaking rules, but just how far he could go without completely fucking up his career he didn’t know. He tucked a chisel under his arm and picked up a hammer. It had taken awhile, but he’d installed deadbolts, and window locks were next.
This case was giving him an ulcer. The details of Sorcha’s story checked out. The childhood attack, her father’s suspicious death, that she’d left town and only returned three months ago. He laid the chisel in the toolbox. But the phone call to Santayana’s mansion had been traced to this house when she was living here, Sorcha did have big money in a Swiss bank account, and her boat had been in the right place at the right time for several major drug transfers. Not to mention someone was trying to kill her. Innocent people didn’t usually need to worry about car bombs.
His cell phone rang. “Foley,” he murmured.
“I’ve got some information for you.” It was Ewan McKnight.
“Go on.” Ben kept his voice low. His feelings for Sorcha weren’t strictly professional, but he wasn’t going to jeopardize the investigation because his cojones fancied some action. Jacob deserved justice. Ben intended to deliver.
“Kevin Cassidy, the flat-mate’s boyfriend. Unofficially, we got his sealed records unsealed. He was charged with possession twelve years ago.”
Sonofabitch. Ben leaned against the back of the couch. “Details?”
“Kevin was a weekday boarder at an exclusive private school in Edinburgh.” Ewan’s voice rumbled through the receiver. “Went home every weekend, lifted a portion of Daddy’s stash and shared it with his mates on a Monday morning.”
So Kevin was supplying even back then. Ben stared out at the vast stretch of water. Had Kevin turned a personal habit into a profitable business?
“One of the other parents found out about it and went ballistic. Got Kevin kicked out faster than you can say trust-fund baby.”
“Great work.” It wasn’t easy getting sealed records opened. Ewan must have called in plenty of favors.
“I’d love to take credit, but it was Nick who used his connections.”
Ben made a mental note to send the guy a serious bottle of scotch when this was over. “Anything on Duncan Mackenzie?”
“Other than the fact he’s disappeared?”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Mackenzie had bail posted for him by his mother this morning and hasn’t been seen since.” Ewan sounded pissed, but not as pissed as Ben was feeling.
Ben glanced up the stairs as a muffled bump came from the attic. Sorcha might not be an innocent, but she was in danger and it worried him. He wasn’t in a position to be a full-time bodyguard. “Did you check his finances?”
Ewan paused. “Something funny about that.”
“What?” Ben held his breath, anticipation zinging through his nerves.
“He doesn’t have a bank account.”
Ben’s brain blanked for a moment. “He what?” What the hell did that mean? It was the twenty-first century. Who the hell didn’t have a bank account? And who the hell didn’t own a car for that matter? He ground his teeth. These people were weird.
He hung up, things no clearer now than before. In fact, the case was getting more complicated. His list of potential suspects kept growing. Duncan Mackenzie was a possibility. Peter Hughes, the bird warden, who lived on the island where he’d found the stash. Kevin too, with his juvenile record. But would the guy attack Carolyn when he was already sleeping with her?
Although any good law-enforcement officer knew rape had little to do with sex and everything to do with power.
Kevin had been a kid fifteen years ago, when that Swiss bank account was opened in Sorcha’s name. But Edinburgh was only a hop across the River Forth, so maybe the guy’s father was somehow connected to Iain Logan? Sorcha’s uncles Angus and Davy Logan had been around, as had Duncan Mackenzie’s father. Ben rubbed his forehead, forced his jaw to relax. There were too many possible suspects, including the woman upstairs.
Until he figured it out, he had to keep Sorcha safe and that meant staying right here next to her. And that spelled disaster.
***
Sorcha squatted in the narrow space, wiped dirty hands on her jeans and sneezed.
“Bloody hell.”
Shafts of sunlight filtered through the tiny skylight and slanted across boxes layered thick with dust. It didn’t look as though anybody had been up here since the Viking raids.
Ben was downstairs fitting the new locks she’d bought. She’d tried to make him leave, but he’d just given her a look and demanded her toolbox.
Despite that awful morning-after-the-night-before, he made her feel safe. He exuded a solidness that beckoned her and a strength she craved, though something indefinable about him seemed even more isolated than she was. She toed dust bunnies.
After their disastrous sexual encounter, followed so closely by Duncan’s attack, she thought she wouldn’t want any man touching her again.
She was wrong.
She wanted Ben. She wanted him with an intensity that burned low in her belly and wouldn’t let up. And that scared the crap out of her. Hence being in the attic looking for her father’s diaries while Ben was downstairs fitting new locks. She scanned the dim space and tried to decide where to start, wondering what she was going to do about the man downstairs. Being near him was like being near an electric fence. The temptation to touch him, just to see what it felt like, was overwhelming.
The first time had been shocking enough. What would happen once he found out she saw ghosts and heard imaginary voices? He’d leave. And break her heart. But then he’d leave anyway, so what did she really have to lose?
She huffed out a big sigh, sneezed as her b
reath disturbed more dust. “Achoo!”
Searching the attic was going to be a much bigger job than she’d anticipated. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck and began moving boxes.
At least she’d made one person happy today. Robbie had phoned her earlier, his voice gruff over getting the deed to the boat. How thoughtless that she’d left it for so long. Ownership of the trawler had never crossed her mind. Her granny never mentioned the boat on her occasional visits to Cornwall, visits that always coincided with her mother’s vacations. And her mother hadn’t mentioned the boat either.
The desiccated corpse of a spider fell on her knee. She swatted it away violently. Biologist or not, she hated arachnids.
An old hatbox she vaguely recognized sat on the floor. She paused before wiping the dust from the lid. When she opened it, hundreds of bone-bright shells lay nestled together. The quiet was suddenly filled with her heartbeat, comforting in the warm silence. Happiness sifted through her mind. She picked up a razor shell longer than her hand. It felt brittle—a dried-out carcass of a long-dead creature. She cradled it gently in her palm and was bombarded by the sounds of laughter, the heat of the sun, and the image of her favorite red bucket.
Perfect memories.
“Oh, Daddy. What happened?”
No one answered and she half-expected him to, and wasn’t that scary?
There was no denying it any longer…she was going insane, pretending to be normal when dead people spoke to her.
Sleep was getting more difficult, every stolen nap a much-needed blessing. Butterflies danced in her stomach, reminding her she needed to eat. She’d lost weight. The stress and strain of recent months had corroded her health. She needed to look after herself because no one else was going to. Carefully, she placed the shells back inside their box, replaced the lid and moved on.
The next box contained papers. Bank letters, utility bills, hospital appointments, report cards from primary school. Her family obviously didn’t believe in throwing anything away. So where were the damn journals? Her skin rippled as if she’d walked through a cobweb.
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