A Rip Through Time(108)
Am I valuing my relationship with Gray more than my relationship with Isla? I hope to hell not, but I won’t take that chance. There is no reason to tell him the truth about myself this very moment. I’ll speak to Isla in the morning. I’ll be firm, and if I can’t convince her, then at least I won’t have betrayed her trust. She’ll know that I intend to tell him.
“That is what you wish, is it not, Catriona?” Gray says, cake halfway to his lips, brows knit in concern. “Have I mistaken your interest in the case?”
“Not at all. I am glad to hear you intend to include me more. Thank you.”
“It is only what you deserve, Catriona. We must be open with one another if we are to work together, in my laboratory or on this case.”
I nod and take a bite of my cake, feeling it crumble like ashes in my mouth.
Stop that. You’ll resolve this. It’ll be fine.
“Now,” he says. “Do you have time to discuss the case?”
I feign a yawn. “I wish I did, sir, but…”
“It has been a very long day. I understand. Tomorrow then?”
“Yes.” I look up at him. “I would very much like to talk to you tomorrow. I have a theory that I think you need to hear.”
“Excellent. I shall look forward to hearing it on the morrow.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
I leave Gray in the kitchen, where he’s puttering about, probably looking for more cake. I slip upstairs and out the back door. The biggest risk here is Simon, in his rooms over the stable, but his light is off, as if he’s out for the evening himself. I still take my time and hide in the shadows long enough to be sure he didn’t hear me and come out to see what I’m up to. Then I hurry to the mews and zip down the lane.
I feel bad about leaving Gray behind. I feel even more bad about leaving Isla, especially after she’s the one who got us the address. I need to deal with that. Discuss options and find a compromise that doesn’t endanger her or swaddle her in cotton. Of course, if I’m right about Findlay, we won’t need to worry about that. McCreadie will take over, and Catriona’s killer will be caught, and—fingers and toes crossed—I will have fulfilled my cosmic assignment and be sent hurtling through the universe to my own time.
I haven’t thought much about that lately. There’s the case, of course, consuming my thoughts. And I’ve been finding my footing in this world. Settling in and feeling it settle around me, glittering with possibilities. There are things I’ll miss, but this is not where I belong. My family, my job, my friends—and hopefully my nan—wait on the other side, and I will get back to them, with this past week tucked into memory, a grand adventure for the ages.
I yank my thoughts back as I hurry along. The streetlights are still on, people making their way home after social visits, dawdling on a pleasant Saturday evening as the clock ticks toward midnight.
Findlay lives here in the New Town. That shouldn’t be so shocking. This case just keeps taking us into the Old Town, as if that’s where everyone who isn’t wealthy lives. Not true. The New Town isn’t like Point Grey in Vancouver, where you can’t buy a house for under two million. It’s more like a suburb where you can easily spend two million, but you can also get a condo for a quarter of that, or rent someone’s nice basement apartment for less than you’d pay in Vancouver proper.
The last is what Findlay is renting. A basement apartment a half mile from Gray and Isla’s place. From what I’ve seen, the Gray family town house lands just above the midway point for New Town home value. The one where Findlay rents the basement would land on the other side of that midway point. It’s half the width of the Robert Street town house, with a very subtle ROOM TO LET sign in the front window.
Faint lights glow in the main level, second level, and attic level, with the third dark. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say the owners live on a couple of floors—maybe the first and second—and rent out the rest. A young man on a constable’s salary could afford the basement if he scrimped and really wanted to live in the New Town.
The problem with a basement apartment is that I can’t tell whether Findlay is at home. From the front, the lower level is completely black, with no obvious windows. I round the street to the mews, where I count town houses to find the right one.
These being less affluent homes, they don’t get individual stables. There seems to be a communal one for horses and then a small garden courtyard behind each house. That makes sneaking up tricky. I’m glad I chose to wear former assistant James’s coat, the dark gray color and length blending me into the shadows. I also brought a hat from Catriona’s meager wardrobe. In the daylight, it’s a jaunty navy blue and quite stylish, which makes me suspect it’s a gift she’d tucked away to pawn at the first opportunity. Either way, it does the job, hiding my light hair, with the brim shadowing my face.
There’s an exterior basement door, with steps up to the garden. Beside it, a dark square might be a window. A clock inside one of the town houses strikes midnight, and as if on cue, several of the brighter lights go out, including the one on the main level of Findlay’s building.
I wait a few minutes, giving whoever is inside time to get to bed. Then I creep forward, sticking to shrubs and a low fence, until I’m close enough to see that, yes, that is definitely a window.