Page 44 of Bonetide

Sinclair’s face does not change.

“You haven’t spoken with him?”

“Not really.” His brow raises and my jaw becomes unclamped. “In passing. Hello. Good morning. You know, not what I’d call speaking, speaking. Just…noises coming out of my mouth, really.”

Oh god, Iris, shut up. So much for that.

“And he hasn’t been to the cottage since the night MacRae has on record?”

“No. He’s not been in here.”

It’s not a lie lie.

“Can you describe him for me?” he asks as he takes out a notepad.

I describe a man. I describe a man who is several inches shorter than Alasdair, with short brown hair instead of black, and with hazel eyes. The description I give would fit a hundred men on this coast.

The real question is, of course…just why the fuck am I lying for him, a supposed, possible serial killer?

Because you know, deep down, he’s not, I tell myself.

I’m choosing to believe that for now.

“Mm,” Sinclair rumbles.

He takes a long sip of his tea. His eyes go to the salt line at the back window again. They stay there for a beat, then they come back to me.

“Iris. There’s something you should know, and I don’t know that the people in these parts will ever come around to telling you.”

I set my mug down. Jesus. He has my full attention now.

“There have been four incidents this summer between Lochcarron and Ullapool. Women, on the shore, alone. I’m not going to give you details because the details won’t help you. What I will tell you is that the last witness we had described a man on the shore with the victim, and the description was specific enough to be useful, and the description matched what MacRae has on file about your visitor.”

He says it flatly, letting it sit in the air between us. Meaning, he knows the description I just gave him is a load of shit.

“I’m not here to tell you who that man is,” he adds. “I’m here to tell you that if he comes to your cottage again, or if you see him on your property, or if he speaks to you in passing, I would like to know about it. Here is my card.”

He slides it across the table. I don’t pick it up.

“You think he’s the one? This Alasdair?” I wonder.

“I think he is a man we’d like to talk to. I think you are a woman living alone in an area of the Highlands where four women have either been killed or gone missing this summer. I think your great-aunt kept her doors locked her whole life and the salt on her sills for a reason, and I think I wouldn’t be doing my job if I sat here and pretended I didn’t see that salt.”

“Did you know my aunt?”

“I knew of her.”

But there’s something else, I can tell it’s on the tip of his tongue. I do the thing where I wait, trying to be comfortable with the silence instead of yammering my way through it.

It’s hard but it works.

He clears his throat and slowly spins the teacup around. “There was a case in 1962. A young woman, Catriona Carmichael, went missing from this coast. Your great-aunt was the last person to see her alive. She was a person of interest. She was never charged, obviously. The case is still open. Inactive, but open.”

He’s watching me carefully, though I think he knows I have no idea what he’s talking about, nor how the hell my aunt got wrapped up in anything to do with a missing person.

“I’m telling you this because the cottage is yours now. And because, if anything turns up on this property, I’d want to know about it before I read it in a report.”

“And what does that mean?”