“I thought it was about time everything was made legal. Sorry it took so long, the lawyers were slow with the paperwork.” She hadn’t even realized she owned the trawler until her grandmother died. Sorcha had known immediately that she couldn’t keep it.
Her aunt tore open the envelope and scanned the documents, her lips silently forming the words as she read. Her expression didn’t alter, just the tightening of skin around her eyes that added to her look of perpetual bad humor.
It was now or never.
“I need a favor.” Even though Sorcha had handed over tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of fishing vessel, she faltered uncertainly.
Eileen raised her head, cocked it to one side, her lips pinched with distrust.
“I’m looking for Daddy’s journals.” Sorcha twisted one of the rings on her fingers. “Do you know where they are?”
Eileen Logan shook her head. “I haven’t seen Iain’s books since before he died.”
“Do you know what happened to them?”
The woman turned her back, getting a single cup off a hook. “I told you, I haven’t seen them.” The sharpness of her tone cut to the bone.
“Right.” Sorcha waited thirty seconds for an invite for a drink, or a thank you for the deed. The silence grew awkward, especially when the kettle boiled and Eileen still didn’t offer, just stared at her without speaking, the clock ticking loudly in the background.
“Right.” Sorcha picked up her bag. What did she expect? “Do you know what happened to the rest of his stuff?”
Eileen set her hands on the countertop, her fingernails clawing against the surface. “Your grandmother had most of it. Angus sent you what he thought you’d want to keep.” She looked over her shoulder, her upper lip curling. “Maybe you should have asked your dad before killing him, aye?”
“I didn’t kill him.” Her pulse accelerated so fast she felt the twinge in her chest.
Hatred lit the back of Eileen’s eyes, so visceral it knocked Sorcha back a step.
“You cursed him the day you were born.” Eileen planted bony fingers on her hip and leaned toward her. “The day your mother first set eyes on him.”
Her
mother?
What did her mother have to do with this? And suddenly Sorcha understood. Finally she got it. Her aunt’s dislike wasn’t about her at all. “You were jealous of her, weren’t you?” The look in Eileen’s eyes told her she was right. “And because my father didn’t choose you, you took it out on me.”
“I told him she wouldn’t stay. I told him she was a slut who’d go off with the first man who looked at her. He wouldn’t listen. For all he could see the future, he didn’t see that one coming.” Her voice had risen and there was a fierce brightness glittering in her wide pupils.
“What do you mean, ‘see the future’?” Sorcha asked.
Her aunt’s lips clamped shut.
“You’re a spiteful old woman.” Hurt welled up like blood in a wound. “You were jealous and took it out on an innocent child.”
“I took it out on
you.
” Eileen’s nostrils flared wider with each breath.
“Why?” Hurt morphed into anger, which felt sharp-edged and hot in her stomach. All these years and the unfairness of it enraged her.
“Because even as a bairn you were an evil witch. At least they named you right—
sorceress.
” Eileen’s voice was brittle with spite, her accent growing thicker the more animated she became.
“Sorcha is Irish. It means
bright
or
shining.
”
Eileen’s narrow shoulders tightened and she leaned forward, shaking a finger. “You cursed your daddy and he’s dead. So don’t come around here with bribes, asking about his journals and feeling sorry for yourself, because you’ll not get anything from me. Get out of my house and don’t come back!”
Sorcha turned and stalked out.
God knew how Angus coped with the vicious scold. Sorcha only hoped Eileen got her comeuppance and—though it was petty and mean-spirited—she hoped it bloody hurt.
Edging through the hangar door, Ben studied the shiny midnight-white-and-orange lifeboat with a mixture of loathing and admiration. He walked deeper into the lifeboat station, wondering what made people challenge the power of the sea. Even the thought made him lightheaded. Through the rear door of the slipway the wind whipped up the waves in the harbor. He forced his feet toward the water rather than back where they wanted to go.
“Hello?” The smell of gas hung heavy in the brackish air, but he didn’t see anyone around.
“Can I help you?”
Only years of experience stopped Ben from jumping out of his skin. Turning, he surveyed a middle-aged woman in dirty coveralls wiping her hands on a rag. Bette Midler had gotten the drop on him. Then he recognized her.
“I
sure
hope so.” He’d never had a drawl, but he had one now. “Remember me? I was the green guy on the boat trip a couple of days ago. You saved my life.”
“Aye, I remember you.” Her bouncy curls ruffled in the wind. “I never forget a pretty face.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m looking for someone to pump for information.” He shot her his best grin, knew it worked when her eyes sparkled back at him. Running his hand over the glossy hull of the boat, he savored the smooth glide beneath his fingers. It felt like Sorcha’s skin, but without the heat. He jerked his fingers away.
“She’s a beauty isn’t she?” The woman’s eyes glowed with pride. “A 12-meter Mersey class, all-weather lifeboat. Shifts like shit off a shovel.” She put the rag down and walked around the stern to stand next to him. “What sort of information are you after?”
“Anything and everything. Name’s Ben Foley and I’m a writer doing some research.” He offered his hand. “Maybe I can buy you a drink?”
Chuckling, the woman stuck out her hand and shook his. “You can. On one condition.” Her humor was infectious.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t tell anybody you’re a writer. Just be the strong silent type. Handsome and enigmatic.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just like that, love.” She patted his arm. “It’ll drive the old biddy in the café across the road insane.”
Dipping his chin, he laughed. “Deal.”
Five minutes later, Sheila Morgan blew the top of her steaming coffee and leaned back in the wooden booth in the Scottish Fisheries Museum café. Her skin was spotted with age, hands pink from a fresh scrubbing.
“What exactly is it that you do, Shelia?”
“I’m the mechanic on the lifeboat.” She held his gaze for a moment as if searching for skepticism.
“Impressive.”
She nodded and threw a look over her shoulders to the woman who was serving a bunch of schoolgirls from behind a high counter. She smirked as the woman glanced their way.
“You have a problem with that lady?” Ben asked, leaning closer.
“That ain’t no lady.” Sheila turned to face him, her words edged with bitterness. “That’s Eileen Logan, a mean-spirited old besom.”
Sorcha’s aunt. Ben studied the woman behind the counter with a keen eye. Tall, thin, sour-lipped. “Something tells me you don’t like her very much.”
“She’s a nasty old hag.” Sheila stared into her coffee, her expression sober. “When I first moved here twenty-five years ago with my husband, Jordy—” she glanced up and met his gaze, “—Eileen Logan spread a rumor that I was messing around with other men.” She spooned sugar into her cup and stirred furiously. Then she shrugged. “I soon fixed her, and she’s never gotten over it. Now I’m too old to give a hoot.”
“What did you do?” Ben was intrigued.
Sheila snuck him a glance, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “I punched her lights out.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side.” He took a sip of coffee, enjoying the smooth, rich taste. Eileen Logan might not be well liked, but she made damn good coffee. “What did your husband say?” It had nothing to do with the case, but Ben was curious.
“He didn’t believe her, but he died not long after and I’ve never forgiven her for trying to break us up.” She stroked her wedding band.
Ben’s mouth tightened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded and gave a little sniff as if holding back tears. “He was diagnosed with testicular cancer. He lasted a year, but it got him in the end.” Pain scored her words. Even after all this time, it still hurt to have lost her husband.
Ben shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t been sure this sort of love existed. His grandparents’ marriage had been a bleak life-sentence of misery and servitude. His mother’s doomed teenage affair, some romanticized one night stand, or worse. His own relationships were sex mixed with the occasional need to eat.
True love, the urban myth, sat in front of him with big curls and plump cheeks. He reached out and squeezed her cold hand. She blinked, her cheeks blossoming with embarrassment, before she wiped her eyes on a napkin.
“Why didn’t you move back home?” Curiosity tugged at him.
“I had a good job on the lifeboats.” She withdrew her hand, picked at her cake. “And no home to go back to in Newcastle.”
No home. No family. No one to care. The subtext was loud and clear. He understood that kind of isolation.
“Hey,” he asked suddenly, “I thought the lifeboat was run by volunteers?”
“Yes, that’s true.” Sheila nodded, wiping crumbs from her lips. “But the mechanic’s a salaried position.”
“And you’ve worked here, at this lifeboat station, for the past twenty-five years?”
“Give or take.” Sheila licked her fingers, sat back in her seat. “So what do you want to know? What are you writing about?”
Sheila seemed like a woman who’d appreciate the direct approach and he didn’t feel like conning her. Ben kept his voice low. “What can you tell me about the night Iain Logan died?”
Sheila’s gaze flew to his, her mouth opening and closing in surprise. For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer.
“One of the worst days of my life, second only to the day my Jordy died.”
Excitement stirred his blood. “What happened?”
She bent forward. “No one really knows. Angus, poor soul, and Alan Mackenzie were manning the safety line on the boat.”
“Alan Mackenzie? Any relation to Duncan Mackenzie?”
“Aye, his dad.” She took another bite of shortbread and muttered something through the mouthful that Ben didn’t catch, then carried on with her story. “Angus said the line just snapped.” She leaned even closer, her fingers playing with the sugar wrappers. “Iain Logan was swept away before anyone could rescue him. A tragedy, that’s what it was.”
Ben mulled it over. Had one of the men holding the line cut it? A convenient way to pull off a murder during a storm. Or had Iain Logan cut the line himself, committing suicide the way the police file suggested? Somehow Ben doubted it was an accident.
“What was he like?” he asked.
“Iain?” Sheila leaned back, checked her watch as if she had an appointment. “He was a doll, always a good word to say about folk. And he loved his wee lassie more than anything in the world.” She threw another glare over at Eileen Logan. “Another thing that battle-ax should be horse-whipped for is what she did to that child.”
“What do you mean?” Ben sat still and gave nothing away while inside he hummed with excitement.
“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.