Page 132 of Bonetide

“What was her name?” I hear myself say because it feels like the thing to ask.

“Becca Rhys. Thirty-four. You’ll not know her, I shouldn’t think, she’s not from the immediate⁠—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I don’t know her.”

I don’t really know anyone, except Mhairi and MacLeod, the bartender at the aforementioned Torridon, and, of course Sinclair and MacRae. Not sure if it’s a good thing that half the people I know here are cops.

“Have you seen anyone, Miss Galloway? On your road, the shore? You’re fairly isolated out there. Anyone in the bay, anyone about at odd hours?”

I look at the silver water.

“No, No one. It’s just me out here.”

Behind me, the room has gone a particular kind of still, and, if I didn’t know better, I’d think Alasdair disappeared into thin air.

“Right,” he goes on. “Well, the thing is, I do wonder about you and your neighbor. Alasdair MacCoinnich? I had a talk with him a few weeks ago, and he mentioned that the two of you knew each other.”

“Ah, well we do. Know each other.”

“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word. “So you can vouch for his whereabouts?”

Oh, fuck. What do I say to that?

I turn around to look at Alasdair, as if he’ll give me some guidance, but when I meet his eyes, they’ve gone jet black. It’s enough that I breathe in sharply, the sight of him freaking me the fuck out.

Then his eyes go back to normal, and he gives his head a single shake.

What the fuck is happening?

“Ms. Galloway?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi. Sorry. His whereabouts? Well sir, he’s been with me, and he was with me two nights ago.”

Alasdair frowns, looking normal again, and opens his mouth to protest, but I put a finger to my lips. The thing is, I have to tell the truth. If I tell Sinclair I haven’t seen Alasdair, then he’s going to go straight over to his place again and paint him as a suspect.

But isn’t he a suspect? a voice pipes up inside me. I immediately shush it.

“Right. Well. You’ve my number if anything comes to you. And…Miss Galloway? I’d keep your doors locked out there. Till we know what this is. Maybe don’t…” he trails off. “Just stay safe.”

“I always do.” I hang up.

I lock eyes with Alasdair again and I can’t read a word on his face.

“Two nights ago,” I begin slowly, “he was calling about a woman who went missing two nights ago. Becca Rhys.”

“Iris…”

“You got up, two nights ago.” I try to keep my voice level and calm. “Three in the morning, out the window. I saw you go. I always see you go. I let myself think it was the loch. I tell myself it’s only ever the loch and your little late-night skinny dipping. But that night, two nights ago and every night since, you got dressed before you went out…why did you get dressed? What were you doing? Where were you going?”

“Iris.” He sets the mug down, careful, soundless. “I have not been unfaithful to you. I want you to hear me say that. I didn’t touch her in the way you’re afraid of. Whatever you’re holding in your head right now, it isn’t that. I’ve not so much as looked at another woman the way I look at you since the day you opened that door. On that, foxglove, I am clean.”

I stare at him, gobsmacked. That’s what he thinks this is about? He thinks…he thinks I’m accusing him of sneaking out and being unfaithful, of cheating?

“Alasdair.” My voice has gone very quiet. “What are you talking about? I’m not talking about you being intimate with another woman, I’m talking about you killing another woman. You killed her, didn’t you! You went out and you killed this Becca Rhys!”

He doesn’t flinch or look away.

“Aye,” he admits.