A Rip Through Time(121)

His mouth opens, and I don’t hear what he says, as I suddenly realize there’s an answer here. An answer I desperately need.

“Colin?” I say. “Where were you?”

“Gone,” he whispers. “I was gone.”

“Gone to another time? Another world? Were you another person? Where did you—?”

Before I can finish, he exhales, and then he is truly gone, taking my answer with him.





FORTY-THREE


We’re home now. It’s two in the morning. Isla and I are in her quarters sharing a tea tray that Mrs. Wallace dropped off, along with worried glances at Isla and accusing glares at me. She has no idea what has happened, except that her mistress came home with a dirty gown and a shock-slackened face, having endured some ordeal that has me wild-haired and blood-spattered, and Isla insisting that all is fine, that I have saved her life. Maybe so, but Mrs. Wallace is certain Isla’s life wouldn’t have needed saving if she hadn’t been with me.

She isn’t wrong about that.

Gray had insisted we go straight home, leaving Findlay dead and the crime scene unguarded. It’s a testament to my own shock that I let him do that. There wasn’t another option, really. We were bloodied and battered and had to get home before anyone saw us and suspected Gray murdered Findlay. It wasn’t as if he could ring McCreadie and summon him to the scene.

Everyone had been quiet on the walk. Isla and I were in shock, and Gray was still muddled from the blow, occasionally stopping on a corner as if uncertain which way to go. He’d rallied by the time we got to the town house and told us he’d let McCreadie know that Findlay was the raven killer but that he seemed to be “not in his right mind.” He will suggest that McCreadie have him posthumously accused only of kidnapping Isla and attacking us when we came to her rescue.

That means McCreadie is left with two murders he’ll never officially solve. That will be a stain on his career. What would be a worse one? Admitting that his own constable committed the murders he’d been investigating.

There isn’t enough evidence to pin the murders of Archie Evans and Rose Wright on Colin Findlay. McCreadie’s options are a career stain or career obliteration. He deserves better than either, but the first will have to do.

As for Findlay being “not in his right mind,” that’s Gray’s presumption. Earlier, I’d longed to tell him the truth. Now the case has been solved without that. He was unconscious and heard none of the conversation between myself and the imposter.

Do I still tell him about myself? I want to, but I’m not sure if that’s for his benefit or mine. I’ll need to discuss it with Isla.

I didn’t get one answer I wanted—to know where Findlay went, which would tell me whether Catriona was in my body. Did the killer return to his body? Did I kill Findlay only to return the true killer to the other side, where he can continue his work?

I don’t know. I may have gotten another answer, though.

How do I get home? I need to die in this world.

If Catriona dies, I can go home. Or that’s the theory. Unless the killer didn’t return to his body at all. Unless his consciousness is trapped between forms somewhere.

It hurts to think about that. Hurts my head and hurts my soul.

I went to the spot where I crossed into this world, and I am still here.

I found Catriona’s attacker, killed him even, and I am still here.

Now the answer seems to be to kill Catriona so I’m free to leap into my own body, my own time? I can’t do that. I don’t care what she’s done—as I told Findlay, it didn’t justify killing her. I cannot kill her. Does that mean I’m stuck here, never to see my family again?

Please don’t let that be the answer.

Please.

“I must apologize,” Isla says as she sips her tea while I sit, lost in my panic and grief. We haven’t spoken since we got here. She asked me to her room and accepted Mrs. Wallace’s insistence on preparing a tea tray, and then we fell silent.

“You warned me,” she says. “I did not listen.”

I force my thoughts back on track. “I didn’t warn you enough. I was going to, and I chickened out.”

“Chickened out?”

“Turned coward. I told myself that I needed to warn you, for your own safety, but then I put it off. Made excuses. Promised I’d get to it later.” I look over at her. “I understood that everyone is always telling you that you must not, and I didn’t want to be another person putting up walls. I needed to figure out how to explain the danger without alienating you. That’s an explanation, but it’s not an excuse. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “It was an untenable situation. You were pointing out traps on the path, and I was seeing walls. I told myself that I knew it was dangerous and that I was sensible enough to be cautious. After all, I was standing in the open on a respectable street. What could possibly go wrong?”

She shudders, and her voice drops as she says, “It happened so fast. I should have done something, and I am ashamed that I did not.”

“Stop. Seriously. You have no reason to be ashamed. I’m the cop who was strangled by a serial killer. Same thing. I knew what I was doing, but it happened so fast.”

“You still stopped him.”

I make a face. “After he murdered two people, then kidnapped and tortured you.”