A Rip Through Time(66)

When thirty seconds of silence pass, I say, “Do I get to gather my belongings before you kick me out?”

Her gaze falls to mine. “What you’re saying is that you’re from the future.”

I make a face. “I was trying not to use those exact words. Seriously clichéd B-movie dialogue.”

She doesn’t react. It’s as if I’m not speaking. Or as if she can’t hear me over her own mental dialogue, screaming at her to run while she still can, before the madwoman attacks.

“Look,” I say. “I don’t expect you to believe me. Obviously. That was just my last-ditch effort. Nothing to lose, right?”

“You’re a police detective. From Canada. In the year…”

“Two thousand and nineteen. One hundred and fifty years from now, which I figure must have some significance. I was attacked where Catriona was attacked exactly a hundred and fifty years earlier. Two women strangled in the same spot. Do not ask what happened or how or why. I’d love to figure that out, but I don’t think I’m going to solve that particular mystery, detective or not.”

“Your name is?”

“Mallory Elizabeth Atkinson. Elizabeth after my nan, the one who is—was—will be—dying of cancer.”

I take a moment there, finding my voice before I continue, “Mom was born in Scotland and came to Canada after university. She went to the University of Edinburgh for law. Dad’s family is originally from Scotland, but they emigrated … well, it’d be around now, actually. Mom and Dad met at a Burns Night supper in Vancouver. It’s a thing, celebrating Robbie Burns, wearing kilts, eating haggis, drinking scotch to burn away the taste of the haggis.”

“Your mother studied law,” she says, as if that’s where her mind stopped.

“She’s a defense attorney. Partner in a law firm. Dad’s an English prof at UBC, teaching English classic literature. Dickens, Bront?, Hardy…”

“Charles Dickens is literature?”

“Hey, he’s one of my favorites.”

She’s quiet. I sip more tea.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“I turned thirty in March.”

Her brows rise, and I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, thirty in my world is a little less dignified. Hey, when the average life span is over seventy years, you get extra time before you need to grow up.”

“Are you married, then? Children?”

I shake my head. “I can say my career got in the way, which is partly true, but if I’d met the right guy, I’d have made it work. I’m sure I’ll get married someday. Kids are another thing altogether. Women can go to college, get advanced degrees, and take on amazing jobs, but that doesn’t change biology. The baby clock is ticking and…” I shrug. “I try not to think about it too much. There are options if it’s what I want later, married or not.”

When she goes quiet again, I lean forward. “If you want to test me, feel free, but if you’re just seeing how deep my delusion goes, can we skip it? Please? Tell me I’m full of shit, and we go our separate ways. Just do me a favor. When I do find a way home and Catriona comes back, kick her ass to the curb.”

“Kick her…?”

“Sorry. Let me try that again. Please, ma’am, heed my words well and dinnae allow the wee lassie to tarry in your abode.”

Her lips twitch. “We don’t actually speak like that.”

“Would you prefer ‘kick her ass to the curb’?”

“It is much more picturesque.”

“Yet, alas, not permitted here, particularly for women. Feels like being at my dad’s parents’ place, them threatening to wash my mouth out with soap for a ‘hell’ or a ‘damn.’ I need to learn Victorian curse words.” I channel Gray with “What the devil is going on here?” I shake my head again. “Nope, not the same.”

I sober and meet Isla’s gaze. “My point is not to let the real Catriona come back. If I show up on your doorstep acting like her, presume it is her and send her packing. She was stealing from you. I found her stash of money. Also found a box of candies some guy sent you and a letter Lady Something-or-other sent your brother, which by the way, you do not want to read.”

“A letter?”

“Of a most scandalous nature,” I say, affecting an upper-crust accent.

At her frown, I only say, “The point, again, is that you’ve done enough for Catriona.” I push back my seat. “Speaking of which, you have done enough for me, too. Thank you for breakfast, but I can tell I’ve outstayed my welcome. May I get my stuff?” I clear my throat. “Sorry. May I collect my things, ma’am?”

She doesn’t answer. I swear I hear someone’s distant pocket watch ticking off the seconds of silence.

Finally, Isla says, “If you are not Catriona, how did you retrieve my locket?”

I tell her, and her face gives away nothing. Then she says, “And the attack last night? Was that connected to my necklace?”

I go quiet. Then I say, slowly, “I heard a child crying. Obviously, that made me think of how I was attacked in my time, but I still went to investigate, in case it was another rip through time, one that might send me home. It was a trap. A guy tried to strangle me, just like before. I fought, and this time I was better prepared. Catriona had a switchblade, and I’d brought it along. I stabbed my attacker, and I fought, and eventually, two guys showed up and rescued him.”