He glanced at the other door. Things might have been different if not for Sorcha’s roommate.
Get out now before she finds you in Sorcha’s room.
But at that moment Carolyn Jamieson opened her bedroom door and he smiled at her confused expression.
“What do you want?”
He punched her in the face and she went down hard, falling to her knees. Grabbing her by the collar, he dragged her up until she was standing.
“It’s time to finish what we started.”
He showed her the knife and watched her pale skin turn to ashes.
Sorcha hurried down to the harbor, intending to motor to Pittenweem and sleep aboard her yacht that night. It hurt. Ben’s betrayal hurt, but she refused to be overwhelmed by sadness or shame. She was not weak. She would survive.
She’d phoned Uncle Davy and told him about the photos. He’d promised to go and straighten Ben Foley out about a few things and reclaim her daddy’s journals.
Strong, mysterious Ben Foley. Certifiable but ripped. Crazy but kind.
The perfect man.
The wind was up, the last of the year’s leaves rustling on the trees, litter flying along the pavement, funneled along narrow streets.
Cold, she huddled into her jacket. There was so much misery in her heart, more agony after a week of knowing Ben than from six months with Bruce. She broke into a run, needing to move faster, to escape the nightmarish reality of her life.
Nothing helped.
At the harbor, she ignored the crowds tucking into their fish and chips. Seagulls swooped and screamed. Voices shrilled inside her head. She was fed up of listening to them and closed them out with a cerebral slam.
“Shut up!”
An elderly couple walking their Yorkshire terrier stopped and stared at her with wary eyes.
Did I say that out loud
?
Embarrassed, she sent them an apologetic smile. Then paused, braced her hands on her thighs, leaning forward to get her balance.
The voices were silent.
It was shocking at how demanding they’d become over the last few days. Now, except for the normal external sounds of the world around her, there was silence. Inside her mind there was a peace that nearly made her smile. Nearly, but not quite.
She’d finally discovered a way to make them go away. One good thing to come out of a week that otherwise sucked.
Hugging her tote to her chest, she straightened. Past was past. She had to move on.
The Harbor Master was leaving his office when she strode by. She nodded to him and he smiled and waved, obviously heading home for the night. Must be after five.
Even though it was getting dark she hadn’t realized it was so late. Her little red yacht was moored farther along the outer harbor. Walking along the quay, she noted there was a light shining onboard the
Kilmore.
Angus.
Warmth spread through her. She needed to talk to her uncle, the man who’d held her in her grief, who’d supported her no matter what people said, and who’d always been there for her.
Tomorrow she’d get a locksmith to change her locks again, in case Ben Foley, psycho-Yank, had slipped a spare key into his pocket while fitting the last lot. Then maybe she’d get her life back.
Her solitary life.
The tide was on the turn, and the
Kilmore
rode high against the sea wall. She hooked her leg over the side, hopped aboard without the help of the ladder. A radio chattered in the wheelhouse. She poked her head in and saw Angus bent over the chart cupboard.
“Hiya, Angus.”
He flung a hand to his heart and pretended to stagger. “You scared the life out of me, lass.”
She grinned at him, filled with warmth at the sight of his old weathered form. “Sorry.” She dropped her tote to the deck. “Didn’t mean to.”
Arms outstretched, she gave him a big hug. He squeezed her back, made her feel accepted, part of something bigger than her lonely little existence. His old arms were steel around her waist and, God, she needed his strength. Fishing was hard work, grueling physical labor. It was a young man’s game and Angus was long past youth.
“What are you doing here, lass? Come to pass on your bad luck?”
“You don’t believe that nonsense, do you, Angus?” she teased, though she knew he did. He never said the word
salt
onboard, never whistled against the wind, and women—well, women were good old-fashioned bad luck aboard a boat.
“What’s the matter, lass? You look awful pale.” His eyes were full of concern and he seemed to sense how troubled she was. “Is it the boyfriend again?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Trying to mask the pain, she avoided his gaze by looking at the lights of the town reflected in the inky black harbor. “I guess I’m not good at falling in love.”
“Runs in the family.” Her uncle’s tone was bleak.
How difficult must it be for Angus to be married to Eileen? Sorcha turned back to him and put her hand on his shoulder, rubbed the cable knit of his sweater. “I’m sorry.”
“Aye.” He patted her hand. “Eileen always had a soft spot for your dad, you know? Awful disappointed to have ended up with me.” The look he flashed her was embarrassed and slightly ashamed. “She doesn’t know that I know.” Sadness lingered in the air. “Iain did though.” His smile dropped. “He knew everything.”
“He really was psychic? Why didn’t you tell me?” Sorcha held her breath.
“We were brothers, we grew up together, of course I knew he had the sight.” He laughed. “But we saw no reason to worry you, unless you started having the same kind of premonitions he did?” The look he gave her was squinty-eyed and probing.
“Oh, don’t worry, I can’t see the future.”
Just dead people.
Bending to pick up her bag off the floor, she fingered the handles, avoiding his gaze. “But he’s haunting me, Angus. Daddy is haunting me and he won’t leave me alone and I don’t know why.” She squeezed her eyes shut, relieved to finally admit the truth to her uncle.
“Och, he’s haunting me too, lass.” With a gusty sigh, Angus reached out to hug her, but she took a half step back as a sudden chill swept through her chest. An icy draft moved behind her and a shadow fell across her shoulder.
Evil bombarded her senses. An arm locked around her neck.
Panicked, she tugged at the rigid muscles, strove to release the building pressure. She recognized the essence dissolving on her tongue like brimstone, recognized the punch to her solar plexus. She’d experienced both the night Carolyn had been attacked.
His arm tightened, the blood in her neck pounding against the damming force. Her vision tunneled. The thumping in her temples intensified to a roar. She started to sway. And still he held her, still she could not breathe.
Blackness swept through her and she wanted to scream, she wanted to run, but in the end she just floated away like a feather tossed upon the sea.
***
Forked lightning shot through his temples. Blast upon blast of mind-ripping agony.
What happened? Where was he?
A voice. Reaching out. A light. Shining into his eyes. He grabbed onto it and the blackness started to recede. There was something vital he was supposed to remember. But the more he tried, the more it elusive it became.
“Easy sir, easy now.”
He tried to sit up, except arms pinned him back down when the world spun on a sickening axis. Christ, he was gonna hurl. He threw off the helping hands, rolled to his side and retched.
Jeez.
The world faltered as he wiped his mouth.
“Here now, have a sip of water. Just a sip.” A young woman in a heavy EMT jacket handed him a glass of water and a towel to clean up. He washed the taste of bile from his tongue.
“How are you feeling?” She handed him an icepack, watched him carefully, testing his answers against his body’s telltale reactions.
He pressed the icepack to his forehead, resisted the urge to nod. His throat ached—couldn’t get any words out. Goddamn. What the hell had happened to him? He looked around, searching for something familiar. He focused on the white telescope, frowned.
“Can you tell me your name?” The girl pushed.
He glared at her. He wanted to be left alone, needed to think.
“Can you tell me your name, sir?” Louder now, right in his fucking ear.
Snarling against the volume, he raised his hand. “Give me a minute.” His voice was gruff.
She threw a look to her partner, a tall bald guy who bent his head to avoid the beams.
Ben looked up, careful how he moved his head. Beams. The ceiling. He stroked a hand across the knot on his brow as he fought another bout of nausea. The icepack helped.
“You must have hit your head on one of these.” The male EMT tapped a rough-hewn joist. “Knocked yourself unconscious.” The guy smiled as if it was funny.
Ben growled, too battered to create much of an impact. Questions rolled through his mind. A bank of fog shrouded the answers. “How’d you find me?”
“A police officer called it in.” The paramedic jerked his head over his shoulder toward the open doorway, hopping from one foot to the other, as if physically unable to keep still.
Ben hated people like that. Guys who never stopped moving. They made him antsy and nervous. He pulled his mind back from the runaway thoughts. This was
not
what he needed to think about. He staggered to his feet, urgency pulling him even though the girl tried to restrain him.
He glared at her. “I’m dizzy, not dead.”
“If you were dead, I wouldn’t be worried, would I?”
Smartass. Typical EMT.
He shot her a grin and she released his arm. A note lay on top of the table. He zeroed in on it, frowning.
Okay. That meant something.
“Listen sir, you might have a concussion,” the girl said. “You have to take it easy.”
He rolled his eyes. God, she was a pain in the ass.
She was blond and slender. Reminded him of…someone. He frowned, knew he had work to do. Knew something important was happening. Frustration made his teeth lock as the details drifted just out of reach.
“Can you tell me your name, sir?”
Christ.
He jammed his hands into his hair. “Just leave me the hell alone!” If they’d stop asking these stupid questions, maybe he could think, maybe he could—
“Tell us your name and we’ll be on our way, otherwise we’ll have to take you in for a checkup.” The fidgety guy stepped forward, his expression serious as a snakebite.
He wanted to sneer but panic suddenly squeezed his chest and he couldn’t breathe.
What the hell was his name?
***
Sorcha’s brain throbbed and she couldn’t think. Even trying left her weak and exhausted. Her limbs were stiff and aching. The voices were back, compounded by screeching energy that blasted her nerves to shreds, slicing through her in waves of distress. She writhed and twisted on the floor. And evil, like sulfurous smoke, filled the spaces in between, backdropping the wailing of the spirits. Making her soul want to back up tight into a corner and never come out.
“Wake up.”
“Wake up.”
Why wouldn’t they leave her alone?
“We mean you no harm.”
Okay. Now she wasn’t just hearing voices, she was having a conversation with them. But had they ever harmed her? No. They’d tried to warn her.
“You wouldn’t hear us. You never hear us.”
“Who are you?”
The voices stopped talking, giving her enough silence for agony to pierce her skull again.
“We mean no harm.”
They began chattering again.
“Wake up. Don’t sleep. Wake. Up. Wake! Up!”
She forced her eyelids apart. A crappy bulb illuminated the bowels of the trawler, which creaked and heaved with the rhythm of the sea. The space was damp, dank, smelling of fish and fear. Suddenly she remembered what had happened and she rolled onto her side and braced herself on her forearm as the world wobbled. Uncle Angus? Had he been hurt too?
The smell of diesel made her already-unstable tummy turbulent. Fighting dizziness, she tried to make out more of the gloomy interior. The surroundings slowed down and backed up on themselves, finally settled.
Who’d tried to strangle her?
Another person lay against the side of the boat, bundled in the fetal position, ankles and wrists bound. Not Angus though. Sorcha blinked, disbelieving.
What was going on? Sorcha frowned, flexed her wrists and ankles. She wasn’t tied up. Who was the other person and why were they bound? Maybe they thought she was dead? The thought brought dread sharply into focus. Whatever was going on was serious. No one was playing games this time.
The vision in one eye was bleary, and a twinge shot into her skull whenever she blinked. Had she banged her head? She sat up gingerly, then began to crawl toward the other person.
The boat lurched and she fell, banging her elbow. She curled up in a ball of misery until she caught her breath. The engine hummed in the background, too loud for her ringing ears. They were motoring fast. She tried again, got all the way to the person’s side before she collapsed again.
Dear lord.
“Carolyn?” she whispered.
The girl’s shoulders were flaccid, and she turned her easily.
Jesus.
Sorcha sucked in a breath. Carolyn had been beaten again, one side of her face purple and swollen over the faded bruises. What in God’s name was happening? Who’d done this?
A trapdoor banged against the deck and Angus’s solid bulk descended the ladder.
Angus wasn’t hurt.
As soon as he turned to face her, she knew she’d been deceived. The expression on his face was harsh and determined. His short legs braced against the swell, bushy eyebrows gathered over eyes that held regret. But regret meant he’d done something to be sorry for.
“I don’t understand,” she said quietly.
“Och, lass, why did you have to come back?” He balanced effortlessly as the boat pitched.
All her life this man had shown her nothing but love. Why force her into the hold of his boat? Why attack Carolyn and bring her here?
“Uncle Angus? What have you done?” A deep feeling of betrayal mixed with the rising sense of dread. She tried to climb to her feet to get to him, but the boat swayed and she fell again.
“Where’s Robbie?” she asked, lying flat on her back, looking up at him as he did nothing to help her.
Angus shook his head and climbed back up the ladder. “You should never have come home, lass.”