A Rip Through Time(118)

As we move, Findlay’s voice comes clearer.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Isla,” he says. “What is your maid up to?”

Isla’s voice is weak but firm. “And I will say, one more time, that I have no idea. You know her better than I do. She is always up to something, is she not?”

“Who sent you to my rooms? Detective McCreadie? Your brother?”

“Neither. I found the address in Catriona’s room. I was concerned. As you know, she is a former thief, and I feared the address might indicate a future target.”

Silence. In that silence, though, I catch a small intake of breath, and my gut clenches. She isn’t volunteering these answers. He’s torturing her. Each time she doesn’t give him what he wants, he does something, and she’s stifling her cries.

The imposter continues, “McCreadie went to your house for tea. You discussed the case. He said it was only tea, but I know better. He brings Gray into his confidence. Uses him and takes the credit and keeps me out of it.”

“I am certain you could have joined us if you asked.”

“I did ask. He made excuses.”

To protect Findlay. Yes, McCreadie uses Gray’s help, but he’s not doing it to take credit. He’s doing it to avail himself of whatever resources will help solve a crime.

I remember that first night, when he’d been quick to send Findlay off with a coin for a pint. Giving him plausible deniability, should anyone in the department take issue with McCreadie bringing Gray into his investigation.

Did the real Findlay know he was being sidelined? Did he care? The imposter certainly does, because it meant he was kept out of the center of the investigation … into the crimes he was committing.

Findlay continues, “What did he talk about at tea?”

“The investigation.”

A sharp intake of breath then. Her sarcasm earned her a stronger punishment, and this time Gray hears it. His chin shoots up, eyes riveted to the door. As Isla catches her breath inside, Gray starts forward.

I grab his jacket, but he jerks free. I lunge and grab it and wrench him back. He wheels on me, face contorting in a snarl.

“Do you want to get your sister killed?” I whisper as I drag him farther from the door.

The look on his face is enough to make me tense for a blow. It’s a murderous look, as if I’m the one holding his sister hostage, threatening her life.

“I’m sorry, Duncan,” I whisper, abandoning my Catriona voice. “I’m sorry I can’t let you go to your sister. Findlay didn’t just try to strangle me. He murdered Archie Evans. Murdered Rose Wright. Tortured Evans. Mutilated Wright. If you throw open that door, he will hurt her. I will not let you throw open that door. Understand?”

He stares at me, the fury draining from his face, replaced by … Oh, hell, I’m not even sure what replaces it. I only know that in that moment, I am seeing not Catriona’s boss but the man within. I see him, and he sees me, and he blinks and then shakes his head, as if throwing it off.

“Please listen to me, Duncan,” I whisper. “Whatever you do after this—fire me for insubordination or kick my ass to the curb—I don’t care. I care that your sister is in that room, with a guy who will kill her if we startle him.”

He holds my gaze. Holds it so fast it’s hard to keep from looking away. His chin dips, just a little. Then he glances at the door.

“We need a distraction,” I whisper. “Get Findlay away from her without making him think someone’s in the apartment. I can do that. When he opens the door, you’ll be waiting—”

I stop. My gaze swings to the door. A moment ago, the imposter had been interrogating Isla. But now he’s stopped.

I take one cautious step toward the door, holding my breath as I listen, tensed for the muffled sound of pain. Instead, the knob turns.

I backpedal, my arms going out to shield Gray. He’s a layperson, and it’s like one of those video games where cops have to take out the shooters without killing any bystanders. The principle is hammered into my brain. Protect the bystander.

This works much better if the bystander is willing to be protected. I fall back, arms going up, knife in hand, and suddenly there is no one behind me. For a guy of Gray’s size, he moves like a damned ghost. That knob turns and somehow, he’s in front of me, and I’m backpedaling into shadow like a helpless maiden.

Findlay steps out. He’s heard a noise, right? Our whispering must have been louder than I thought. That’s the obvious answer. But no, Findlay strolls out, the door opening to block the big guy lunging toward him, and there’s a near-comical moment where I think it’s going to smack Gray in the face. It doesn’t. Because that’s when Findlay hears or senses something. He glances over, almost nonchalantly. And he sees Gray.





FORTY-TWO


This is the moment. This is where the imposter will falter in shock, and Gray will save the day by the sheer virtue of being a big looming shape in the darkness. It seems to happen exactly like that. The imposter falls back, eyes widening. Gray grabs him by the shirtfront and hauls him off his feet … and the imposter flinches, head ducking as if to ward off a blow. Then the imposter swings. I see the glint of metal at the last second. A hammer swinging straight for Gray’s temple. Before I can open my mouth, it smashes into his forehead.