A Rip Through Time(112)

A figure across the road, watching the house. Watching this house. Because I didn’t realize there was a damned window. The jury-rigged blind doesn’t do a perfect job of blocking all light, and I suspect my candle caught their attention. I’m sure it’s Findlay until the figure shifts, and I catch a glimpse of red hair. My gaze shoots lower to see black skirts. A woman dressed all in black, as if in mourning. She’s not in mourning, though she would likely still have the attire for it.

“Isla,” I mutter as I let the drape drop.

Did she follow me? No, that doesn’t make sense. If she followed, she’d have come around the back. There’s no entrance from the front. She’s here for the same reason I am—because she has the damned address. She’s staking out the town house, possibly trying to determine whether Findlay is home.

I growl under my breath. Isla’s out front, and if Findlay does pass that way, he’ll see her, because she’s not nearly as well hidden as she seems to think.

Damn it. I should have had that talk with her. I really should have.

I keep telling myself that I’m doing fine in this world, waiting to get home but playing it cool. That is a lie. This investigation has been the only thing keeping me from breaking down in panic and fear at the possibility I might never get home. I’ve been treading water, keeping my head above the surface.

Things aren’t so bad here. I met Gray and McCreadie, interesting guys doing interesting things, and maybe I can help. Oh, Gray doesn’t trust me after I stole Isla’s necklace? Well, that sucks, but until I can mend that fence, I have another to lean on: Isla herself. She’s as interesting as her brother, and now that I’ve been forced to confess my truth to her, she is a true ally. I needed that. Needed it more than I realized, and when she took offense at my warnings, I backed down. I was afraid of losing her trust as I’d lost Gray’s. I couldn’t afford that. Mentally and emotionally couldn’t afford it, and so I screwed up.

Enough of the self-flagellation. At least I saw her, and I can remedy the oversight before she gets hurt.

I relight my candle. One last look around Findlay’s bedroom to be sure everything is as I found it. I step toward the hall, only to hear the soft clunk of my alert trigger, telling me someone has opened the back door.

I dart soundlessly to peek out the window. Isla is still there. Which means the person who triggered my alert is the apartment dweller: Findlay’s imposter. The killer inhabiting his body.

Two choices. Hide and then flee or confront him. If I were in one of Isla’s penny-dreadful detective tales, there would be no question. I’m the detective. The hero of the story. I can’t creep out and turn him over to the police. What kind of ending is that? A boring one. Also, in reality, the safe one.

Sneaking out and turning over my evidence would be the obvious answer, if I could turn over all my evidence. If I didn’t need to tap-dance through an explanation that involves time travel and hope it’s enough for McCreadie to arrest his own constable—his protégé.

If I fail, the killer will take his next victim. If I fail spectacularly, and the imposter finds out that I fingered him to McCreadie, I will be his next victim. I’m already on his hit list.

I could end this here. I know the man in Findlay’s body is a killer. I know Findlay himself tried to kill Catriona. I could live with myself if I had to kill him. Dowse any regret I might have over whether or not the real Findlay deserves it, because in this world, he’d get the death penalty for killing Catriona.

I can hide. Catch him off guard. Kill him. Escape.

I’ve often wondered—as a purely theoretical exercise—whether I could get away with murder. As a detective with an interest in homicide, I have the advantage. A “crime of passion” where I’m unprepared? No. I’d make a mistake. Everyone does. But premeditated murder? Maybe. In this world, absolutely. They are not ready for my level of expertise, no more than they are for that of the serial killer in Findlay’s body.

Here is my theoretical question put into practice. I can take what I know, kill Findlay, and escape.

It is a solution … and one I don’t seriously consider for more than a heartbeat. If I had to kill him to save others—or save myself—I’d do it. But I still have one ace left here. Isla.

If Gray doesn’t believe me, I will tell McCreadie the truth, and Isla will back me up. He will listen to Isla, possibly even more than Gray does. I’ve seen the way McCreadie looks at her. There’s history there. Unrequited history? Or just a failure to connect? Doesn’t matter. If Isla supports me, McCreadie will come around.

I will hide. I will flee.

Making that choice takes about three seconds. Even during that, I don’t stand gaping at the bedroom door. Either way—confront or flee—I need to start by hiding, and I’ve been doing that as I work it through.

The room contains a bed and a wardrobe. That’s it. No closet—wardrobes fill that function in this world. Getting under the bed would trap me. Even hunkering behind it puts me at a disadvantage. So I plaster myself to the wall beside the wardrobe and listen.

I listen for footsteps that don’t come.

My alert definitely sounded. That door creaked open, too. I thought I caught a footfall or two. Then nothing.

Did the imposter find the trigger? It was a simple setup. Door opens, hinge gap widens, a nail thumps to the floor. If the person hears and finds it, they’ll think it’s just a nail that fell out. Nothing unusual there.